The Mayberry Preacher

SO WHAT'S REALLY IN A NAME?

Steve Lindsley — 2013-05-12T09:08:06-07:00

Hosea 1: 2-11
Steve Lindsley
May 12, 2013

So what’s really in a name? It’s the kind of thing Moms and Dads spend a lot of time thinking about when there’s a child on the way, isn’t it? A few weeks ago, Shasta sent me a weblink to an article titled, “8 Unusual Baby Names That Are Getting Popular in 2013.” Check out the first one! she urged. It was “Bentley” – which is my middle name; a name I acquired from my mother, as it was her maiden name. I’ve never gone by Bentley. I don’t really have anything against it – although whenever my parents did call me that name it was usually preceded by “Stephen” and followed by “Lindsley” and meant that I was in some serious, serious trouble.

So that’s one of the eight unusual baby names that are getting popular in 2013. You want to know the other seven? There’s Khloe with a “K,” there’s Mila and Olive, there’s Kellan and Jax, spelled “J-A-X,” and there’s Aria and Gemma. That last one, I think, would take some getting used to. I guess it’s like “Emma” – but with a “G.” Apparently it’s been all the rage in the UK and is slowly starting to make its way across the pond. I honestly can’t imagine naming my child Gemma, but my wife and I are well beyond the naming years so that’s not something we have to worry about. We’ll leave it up to the next generation of parents. (http://www.disneybaby.com/blog/8-unusual-baby-names-that-are-getting-popular-in-2013/?cmp=SMC%7Cdbaby%7Csoc%7CFB%7CMain%7CInHouse%7C032713%7CLink%7C%7CfamE%7CSocial%7C%7C&utm_campaign=disbabyeditors&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=referral#slide2, visited on 4.15.2013)

Let me tell you, though, about three names that would certainly never find their way to the top of this list, in this generation or any generation. Three names that no sane person would ever burden their children with. They’re the three names we find in our scripture today: Jezreel, Lo-ruhamah; and Lo-ammi. They’re Hebrew names; so they sound a bit strange to our Western ears. But it’s not how they sound that has them ranking low on the desirable-name list. It’s what the names mean.

Let’s set some context here: Old Testament times, the Israelites living in the Promised Land, but not always living into the promise. The perpetual struggle of remaining faithful to the God who brought them there when other nations and other Gods compelled them otherwise. We know what that feels like, don’t we? We know how easy it is to fail to reciprocate God’s faithfulness to us with faithfulness of our own back to God?

Enter Hosea, a man whom we know little about other than that he was a prophet; a spokesperson for God. The thing is, though, Hosea’s prophetic work wasn’t initially about what he said as much as what he did. And believe me, if prophetic acts are meant to grab your attention, Hosea didn’t disappoint.

That’s because the book of Hosea begins with God telling him to go marry Gomer, a known prostitute, as a way of demonstrating how God’s people had treated God. They had cheated on God, lied to God, been unfaithful to God. So Hosea is to embody this message in his very marriage. And as if that wasn’t enough, Hosea is given strict instructions on what to name their three children: Jezreel, the name of a city where much blood had been spilled in God’s name; Lo-ruhamah, which in Hebrew means “You are not pitied,” and Lo-ammi, which means “You are not my people.”

Wow. City of bloody war. Not pitied. Not my people. Suddenly, “Gemma” doesn’t sound all that bad, now does it?

Go ahead and say it, cause I know you’re thinking it. I hope you’re thinking it. It seems like a bit much to lay on the poor guy, doesn’t it? Marry a woman he knows will be unfaithful, and then shouldering their children with names that will forever serve as an agonizing reminder of God’s wrath and judgment – not to mention making them the butt of every joke on the school playground. I mean, can you imagine the first day of school, the teacher standing up front with the attendance book? “City-of-bloody-war,” is “City-of-bloody-war” present? How about “Not-pitied” – is “Not-pitied” here today? And how about “Not-my-people?” Go ahead and raise your hand, now, don’t be shy, “Not-my-people,” are you here?

It’s funny, but it’s not, right? It begs the obvious question of why in the world God would burden someone – especially a faithful servant like Hosea – with a family tree doomed from the get-go. In a society like ours, where divorce rates are at 50%; in a world where children are already behind the eight-ball as they grow out of dysfunctional families into an even more dysfunctional world, it’s no surprise if we find ourselves reading such a passage and slamming our Bible shut in disgust.

It’s one of those unsettling, beautiful “vertigo” moments of scripture where we’re not sure if what we’re getting is history or metaphor. Maybe it’s one or other; maybe it’s a little bit of both. And to be honest, for our purposes at least, it’s not really about whether this actually happened or not. That’s not the reason it’s in the Bible. What’s most important in these first few verses of Hosea is the metaphor that’s being played out – a metaphor of the heavily strained relationship between God and God’s people.

Which is why, strange as it may sound, this story is not really about Hosea’s struggle, or the people’s struggle. It’s about God’s struggle! I know, crazy, isn’t it? It’s about God’s continued struggle with the people God had chosen; the people God unequivocally loves, and yet the people who frustrate God to no end. It had been that way forever, really. Its history is as old as the earth itself.

Create a perfect world for a fine young couple in Eden and watch them ruin it all by doing the one thing – the only thing – they had kindly been asked not to do. Bestow these people with great leaders like Noah and Moses and Aaron and Miriam and Joshua – only to watch them struggle mightily to keep it all together. Hear a nation cry for deliverance and raise up for them powerful judges to fight off the enemy, only to have those people fall back into their old ways over and over and over again. Give in to the peoples’ desire and grant them their wish – a king – and watch as those kings become corrupt with power, greed, and the negative influence of surrounding nations. It is any wonder, really, that when we take a bird’s eye view of the history of God’s people up to this point, that God might have been a bit perturbed by it all?

All of which makes the rest of Hosea’s story so amazing. Because God’s anger with the peoples’ unfaithfulness and God’s instinct to disown them is not all that we find in the heart of God. For in the midst of this frustration lies a true and abounding love; a love which God himself recounts to the prophet when he says this:

Yet the number of the people of Israel shall be like the sand of the sea, which can be neither measured nor numbered; and in the place where it was said to them, "You are not my people," it shall be said to them, "Children of the living God.”

Did you catch that last part? We’ve got a renaming, folks! A reclaiming, if you will. And if it sounds a bit like divine whiplash here, that’s not too far from the truth. At least as Hosea tells it, even God experiences feelings fully; even God is not immune to the back-and-forth emotional roller-coaster that comes when you care so deeply for someone. In fact, God’s anger and frustration with us comes because of God’s intense and abiding love.

Sounds kind of familiar, doesn’t it? It’s the emotional roller-coaster of any intimate relationship; how deeply you can care for someone and how frustrated and angry you can with that same person. Perhaps you’ve heard me share the story that comedian Bill Cosby loves to tell. It’s about a cookie jar his family had on their kitchen counter; the very one that both he and his wife had told their five-year old daughter time and time again not to touch. One day while in the living room, Cosby heard a ruckus going on in the kitchen and got up to check it out; only to find his precious little daughter standing on top of a kitchen chair, pushed over beside the counter; one hand holding the cookie jar top and the other reaching in to grab a most delicious chocolate chip cookie.

Cosby recalls the “no cookie jar” conversation he’d had with his just that morning. Obviously disappointed and angry, he bellows out, “What are you doing?”

The child calmly responds, “I was just getting a cookie for you, Daddy.”

Caught off-guard by this response, and even more agitated, Cosby blurts out, “I don’t want a cookie!”

To which his sweet daughter replies, “Well then, can I have it?”

Now you don’t have to be a parent to put yourself in Cosby’s shoes and understand the irritation, the anger, the “pull-your-hair out” kind of frustration he surely had at that moment. But I think it’d be safe to say that, in spite of all this, his love for his daughter never went away – momentarily relegated to the back burner, perhaps, but still very much there – and that it wouldn’t be too long before he was holding her in his lap, cuddling her as she fell asleep and wondering how he ever really lived before she came along.

If you and I can picture that, then I think we have a glimpse of precisely the kind of relationship God has with God’s people. And because of that, I wonder if what we have in the opening words of Hosea is a beautiful message, despite its harsh appearance; a powerful truth that escapes us unless we are tuned in to its simplicity – that God’s love for us always comes out on top. Even though there is frustration after frustration, unfaithfulness after unfaithfulness, anger after anger, nothing ever causes God to “un-choose” God’s people, to not rename them. God is always there, like a jilted lover, waiting at the doorstep for us to come home. And when we do come home, as we inevitably do, the names that God once gave us – “Not pitied” and “Not my people,” fade into the distant past. And we are given a new name, one that God shared with Hosea, and in all truth the one that matters most: “Children of the living God.”

And I would dare say that it is this name that demonstrates the incredible and awesome love God has for us. Us – US! We who make a habit of unfaithfulness, we who thoughtlessly follow our own whims and desires on the path most frequently taken. It is a name that says it all: children, because ultimately God relates to us not as lord or master but as parent; and living God, because our God is an active and vibrant part of this world.

The name God gives us is a name that speaks to a promise – a promise of a relationship that will never die, never expire, regardless of how often we fail to be the kind of people God calls us to be. It is a name that readily admits from the get-go that there is nothing, nothing at all that we can do to earn or deserve this amazing love. And that is both the beauty and the scandal of it – to be fully loved and accepted and chosen, even when there is no reason at all that you and I should be any of those things.

The thing is, this new name God gives us calls us to accountability, and to the very faithfulness we often find difficult. And while God will never forsake us, while the names “Not pitied” and “Not my people” are no longer ours to be burdened with, we must live into our new name: “Children of the Living God.” It’s not that we’re held to a higher standard than everyone else. It’s that we have a completely different calling in life. To love our neighbor, even when that neighbor is an enemy. To avoid the sin of idolatry, where we put anything – material or ideological – above God. To seek not charity, but justice – repairing broken relationships with people and with the structures and systems of our day.

So whether we are in the process of choosing a child’s name, or trying to remember the name of the person sitting in the pew next to us, or thinking about the names of those most special people in our lives, let us always remember that our real name is rooted in the undying and eternal love of our living God. May God grant us what we need to live up to and into our God-given name, this day and for always. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God. AMEN.
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ALL THE DOORS, SWINGING LOOSE ON THEIR HINGES

Steve Lindsley — 2013-05-05T13:20:53-07:00

Acts 16: 16-34
Steve Lindsley
May 5, 2013

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Today’s scripture is one of those wonderful instances in the Bible where multiple lives and their multiple stories collide. Like winding roads meeting fast and furious at an already overcrowded intersection. A slave girl. Her owners. A jailer. Paul and Silas. The day before, their lives separate and distinct. But on this day, in this moment, they would become intertwined; and like dominos falling and setting in motion a chain reaction, there’d be no way to go back.

Today’s scripture is about imprisonment – being held captive against your will. The question, though, for us this morning, is not who is in prison, but who is imprisoned. Who of these four is bound and shackled in the worst kind of chains. Who is not at all free.

Today’s scripture has already been read, but let us now hear it again with fresh, new ears. Once again, listen to the word of the Lord:

********************

One day, on our way to the place of prayer, a slave girl ran into us. She was a psychic and, with her fortunetelling, made a lot of money for the people who owned her. She started following Paul around, calling everyone’s attention to us by yelling out, “These men are working for the Most High God. They’re laying out the road of salvation for you!” She did this for a number of days until Paul, finally fed up with her, turned and commanded the spirit that possessed her, “Out! In the name of Jesus Christ, get out of her!” And it was gone, just like that.

Gone, it says. Gone was her “spirit of diviniation,” as the New Revised Standard Version calls it, or her “demon possession,” per the New Living Translation, or the “Spirit of Python,” if you want to get literal Greek with it. Whatever it was, somehow “it” enabled this young woman to see the future – or, at the very least, to see beyond the face of the person in front of her and see deep into their souls, like spiritual x-ray glasses. Sometimes she liked what she saw. Most of the time, she didn’t. Imagine the raw, unfiltered secrets of a person, opening up right before your eyes. More often than not, this gift was a burden.

And so when she saw Paul and Silas, met them for the very first time, she saw that they were slaves like her but not at all like her – slaves to “the Most High God.” And she delighted in telling everyone what she saw in them – day after day after day. So much, in fact, that it grew tiresome for the two travelers. So much that, with mere words spoken out of frustration and fatigue, Paul drove that spirit, that possession, that burden away. And it was gone. Just like that. And for the first time in a very, very long time, the young woman was free.

Free not just from the burden of seeing the messiness of people’s secrets. Free from those who had exploited that gift, exploited her, all for their own profit. The same way that women and men in our day exploit children in sweat shops, or down dark alleys, or on drug trails with automatic weapons in hand. This slave girl had been enslaved by the power structure of the day that said a child had no rights of their own; enslaved by twisting and perverting the gift implanted in her by the living God, all so they could make a quick buck.

********************

When her owners saw that their lucrative little business was suddenly bankrupt, they went after Paul and Silas, roughed them up and dragged them into the market square. Then the police arrested them and pulled them into a court with the accusation, “These men are disturbing the peace—dangerous Jewish agitators subverting our Roman law and order.” By this time the crowd had turned into a restless mob out for blood.

The judges went along with the mob, had Paul and Silas’s clothes ripped off and ordered a public beating. After beating them black-and-blue, they threw them into jail, telling the jailkeeper to put them under heavy guard so there would be no chance of escape. He did just that—threw them into the maximum security cell in the jail and clamped leg irons on them.

Someone would have to pay for this. Nothing personal, of course. Just business. Someone would have to suffer for their losses. Because when the bottom line is the onlly thing that matters, when human lives lose their God-given value, someone has to pay when things don’t go according to plan. Their little charade was over and done; the gig was up. So they took out their anger on the two strangers; those who had disrupted the balance of things with nothing more than spoken words. And now the young girl didn’t have to bear her burden for their gain anymore. She was free.

But they – they were more imprisoned than ever before. Imprisoned by the rabid greed that had festered deep inside them like an unchecked cancer, driving them to do to the many what they had done to her for so long. They could barely remember the last time that they looked at someone not as a commodity to be exploited, but a human being to be cherished.

So they were red-hot with anger – because unlike the young lady who was free, they were still very much enslaved. Enslaved to the seduction and irresistible intoxication of not money, but Power. Domination. Control. And since they had lost all of that over the one, they would now lord it over another. So they roughed up Paul and Silas. Beat them up good, and made sure there was a crowd to see it. Made up lies about them, and enticed the crowd to join them in their anger. Because anger can never stand to be by itself. Anger, like misery, loves company. And with that company, they threw Paul and Silas into prison.

********************

Along about midnight, Paul and Silas were at prayer and singing a robust hymn to God. The other prisoners couldn’t believe their ears. Then, without warning, a huge earthquake! The jailhouse tottered, every door flew open, all the prisoners were loose.

Startled from sleep, the jailer saw all the doors swinging loose on their hinges. Assuming that all the prisoners had escaped, he pulled out his sword and was about to do himself in, figuring he was as good as dead anyway, when Paul stopped him: “Don’t do that! We’re all still here! Nobody’s run away!”

His job was fairly simple: keep the prisoners in prison. Don’t ask questions, don’t think too much, do not pass GO and collect $200. Keep them in their cells. Feed them only enough to keep them alive, because a dead prisoner is not imprisoned anymore. Let the metal bars and rock and stone do their job, as you do yours.

Unless, of course, the unthinkable happens; and with no warning whatsoever those rock and stone walls suddenly crumble to the ground, and the metal bars fall like toothpicks standing on end. When there is nothing to keep the prisoners in; nothing standing in between these unnamed souls and their freedom, which they rush into joyfully.

Because if that happens, then your job becomes crystal clear: kill yourself. Take your own life. For if there are no prisoners for the jailer to keep imprisoned, what is his life worth? It doesn’t matter that it’s not your fault. It doesn’t matter that you have no control over the earth shaking at its foundations. Someone must pay. And why give the Romans the pleasure of doing it for you – the Romans you fear deeply, the Romans everyone fears. So beat them to your own death. In a weird sort of way, victory in defeat.

This is the way an imprisoned man thinks, even if that imprisoned man happens to be the jailer.

Until those thoughts are interrupted by voices, screaming at you as you prepare to fall on your sword. Voices of almost urgent joy: “We’re here! We’re still here!” In other words, “Don’t do it! Your ‘prisoners’ haven’t left. Although we were never really prisoners, were we? We have and always will be free men, free with a freedom the likes of which the Romans could never provide for you. But we can help you be free. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

********************

The jailer got a torch and ran inside. Badly shaken, he collapsed in front of Paul and Silas. He led them out of the jail and asked, “Sirs, what do I have to do to be saved, to really live?” They said, “Put your entire trust in the Master Jesus. Then you’ll live as you were meant to live—and everyone in your house included!”

They went on to spell out in detail the story of the Master—the entire family got in on this part. They never did get to bed that night. The jailer made them feel at home, dressed their wounds, and then—he couldn’t wait till morning!—was baptized, he and everyone in his family. There in his home, he had food set out for a festive meal. It was a night to remember: He and his entire family had put their trust in God; everyone in the house was in on the celebration.

All of this, from Paul and Silas. In prison. This, from two men who had simply spoken the truth and freed a young woman from her burden. This, after being falsely accused, beaten and dragged through the streets with the crowd hurling insults and hurling stones. This, from Paul and Silas, who witnessed the stones of their prison walls crumbling around them, so that they were staring at an open night sky and breathing the fresh clean air. This, from two men who chose to stay put.

The question begs to be answered: Why? Why did they not do what you and I would’ve surely done – get up and leave? Why did they not think to themselves: “It’s a miracle! A sign that we are not meant to be here one moment longer. The prison walls have fallen down! It’s time to go!”

Could it be that Paul and Silas understood the great paradoxical truth of the gospel: that they had been and always would be free! For freedom in Christ is not about the absence of pain or suffering, or even prison walls or metal bars. Freedom in Christ is about going deeper into one’s self, so that one can then go deeper into the world. Let me say that again: freedom in Christ is about going deeper into one’s self, so that one can then go deeper into the world! An inner and outer joy that can never be contained – not by hate and lies, not by anger and fear, and certainly not by stone and metal. All the doors, swinging loose on their hinges.

And therein lies perhaps the greatest of ironies in this scriptural collision, and in the gospel we give our lives to: that the ones outside that prison were in fact the most imprisoned, and the ones inside were the freest of them all. Think about that. Think about that and ask yourself: what things am I enslaved to, right now – greed? Power and control over another? Anger and fear? A vengeful heart? Perpetual shame? What keeps us “locked up” and unable to experience the fulness of the joy of God’s freedom?

You and I, we are called – we are created – to be free in Christ. But we don’t stop there, because we are created for something else, too. Like Paul and Silas, we are called to then go out into the world and help swing loose the doors for others! Just like Jesus did. When a hated tax collector waited for Jesus in the trees because nobody else wanted him near, Jesus took him out to dinner. When the woman was in the process of being executed, Jesus implored those without sin to cast the first stone. When his closest friend denied three times that he even knew him in his hour of greatest need, he ate lunch with him on the beach and told him how much he loved him. We set people free by being agents of God’s grace and love.

And so along with Paul and Silas, you and I are engaged in a new kind of “prison break.” Let’s be freed from those things that seek to enslave us. And let’s work to free others from the same, revealing to them the blinding light of God’s image within. All the doors, swinging loose on their hinges. All the doors! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God. AMEN.

(Many thanks to Sara Bailey and Jack McCluskey for reading scripture during the sermon. The scripture was from The Message translation.)

WHEN GOD SENDS A REALLY LONG TEXT

Steve Lindsley — 2013-04-28T10:24:12-07:00

Romans 5: 1-8
Steve Lindsley
Confirmation Sunday
April 28, 2013

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A minister friend of mine told me a story he used to share with his church's confirmation class. A man was hiking in the mountains; and as he negotiated the precipice of a steep mountain peak, he slipped and fell off the cliff. Thankfully, though, he managed to grab a tree limb on the way down to stop his fall – at least for the moment.

Now this man had never really believed in God all that much, but as he hung there precariously with his life literally hanging in the balance, he figured it sure wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot. So he looked up to the heavens and called out, "Is there anyone up there?"

To both his surprise and relief, he got an answer: "Yes, I'm here,” the voice said. “I am the Lord. Do you believe in me?" Well, no time like the present! the man thought. "Yes, yes, Lord; I believe. I really, really believe. But I gotta tell you, Lord, I don’t know that I can hang on much longer."

"That's all right,” replied the voice. “If you really believe in me, you have nothing to worry about. Just let go of the branch and I’ll take care of everything."

The man thought about this for a moment; then he looked back up at the sky and said, “Umm, is there anyone else up there?”

Faith can be a lot like that story, don’t you think? Faith can feel like hanging over a cliff, holding onto a branch for dear life. Faith is about taking risks, about letting go of control and handing our very lives over to God. No time like the present. On this wonderful day, six of our young people have made a profession of faith in Jesus Christ and have been confirmed as members of this church and of the church universal. They’ve done this with the help of an adult mentor, who now is more of an adult friend, really. Because as these adults will tell you, and every other adult mentor from the past ten years, the learning and growing is mutual. Together, youth and adult have journeyed over the past four months and have shared in a wonderful experience. As a congregational family, you should be extremely proud of these young people.

Which brings me to my little dilemma. And the truth is, it’s the same dilemma I face every year on Confirmation Sunday – that there's really nothing else for me to say. Because honestly, you have been the sermon for the past four months. I mean, to listen to your faith statements in last week’s session meeting; to witness you kneeling this morning and being confirmed – well, there just doesn’t seem to be anything I could ever add to that.

So I made an executive decision this past week; that I would not bother preparing a sermon. There’s no point, really. I figure I'd let it slide and no one would notice – after all, this is your Sunday, right? I'd just skip a week. I didn’t think you’d mind……

(phone rings…..look embarassed, ignore……phone rings again……)

Gosh, I’m sorry, folks – I usually leave this in my office….. (looks at phone) Oh….wait, what….. oh. I didn’t know I had God in my Contacts. I probably should take this. Do you mind?

[(off to side). Umm, God? Yes, this is me. How did you get my number…… right, dumb question…….. Yes, I decided not to prepare a sermon because they are the sermon……..No, I didn’t suffer from a case of writer’s block, I was just trying to be “cutting edge,” you know…….Yes, I agree, there is a fine line between cutting edge and stupidity. Okay, well, then what would you suggest………Have I ever heard of “DesperatePreacher.com? Yes, I have, actually, but I’ve never felt desperate…….Yes, I see them all looking at me. I get your point…….Okay…….you’re going to take care of it…..okay……um, okay. Well thanks, God, I owe you one. No, I won’t do this again. Okay, bye. Or, Amen!]

Okay, well, apparently we will have a sermon today, although I’m not quite sure how…. (text sound) Oh. Well, here it is. Wow. Long text! I think you guys ought to come sit up here with me. Let’s check this out:

****************

Dear Samuel, Kelsey, Maggie, Alex, Megan and Philip:

I don’t usually make a habit of giving ministers their sermons without some work on their part. But this yahoo left me with no choice. Although, in his defense, I can see where he’s coming from. I mean, if I wasn’t all-knowing and all-powerful, I’d probably struggle with what to say to a group of young people as fine as you, too.

You’ve been part of a great journey these past four months, what your church calls “confirmation.” There have been three of us involved: you, your mentor, and me. Last week you met with your session and shared your statements of faith. Today you’ve answered some questions that Presbyterians require of you, and you are now a member of my church. Which, for the record, is pretty awesome.

But if you think your journey is finish, if you think this day marks the conclusion of your “faith travels,” think again! In fact, the REAL journey is only beginning. Seriously. It starts the minute you walk out the doors of my house here, and into the great big wide world. A new journey awaits you, and this one will last the rest of your life.

It's a journey you and I will take together – not that we haven't been hanging out already, mind you. This next one is just.....well, it's different. It's a little more “involved. I'm not just some story you read about in Bible school, or some creed you memorize. I'm someone who walks with you, before you, behind you, beside you. This is the way it's going to be – you and me, forever.

Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s always going to be an easy journey. But most journeys aren’t, are they? There will be a few bumps in the road, no doubt. There will be a few times when you’ll struggle a bit. But never ever forget this: I’ll always be with you. That’s a promise. As will your church. You can count on them, trust me. You can count on them to be there for you, even if “being there” is nothing more than being a familiar, comfortable place when everything else in your life is out of control. When everything else changes, know that I don’t. I love you, and I always will.

If Steve is still reading this to you – which he better be – then I’d like to take a moment if I could and thank you for believing in me. I really mean that. There are a whole mess of people out there who don’t – and I have to confess, when I look at the world and the sorry state it’s in, I might be a little jaded about God stuff too. But trust me, there’s nothing more frustrating than giving your life for people – literally – and having folks not seem to care. You know that guy or girls in your math class that you think is so awesome, but you’re pretty sure they don’t know you even exist? That’s what it’s like for me sometimes, without the math.

And as you believe in me, know that those beliefs will change and grow over the years. Like Steve and Shasta have told you, those awesome Statements of Faith you wrote are hopefully Word documents on your computer – which means you can edit and grow them over the years as you grow in me. In fact, here’s an idea: mark April 28th on your calendar, and like a birthday, go back every year on this day and look at your Statement of Faith. See what things still ring true and what need updating, and then make those updates. Never stop growing in me.

So thanks for believing in me. But thanks for doing something else also, that is as equally important as believing – and that is following. Oh man, I can’t tell you how important following me is! This may sound crazy, but being a Christian is not just about beleving in something. It’s about following too. You remember when my boy Jesus was there and was going around finding people to be his disciples? You remember what he said to them when he first met them? It wasn’t, “Believe in me,” was it? No, it was “Follow me.” That’s the very first thing he said to them! And that’s what I want you to do, too - Follow me! Go where I go. Do what my Jesus did.

Because you know what? Here's the thing: I've got millions of people all over the planet who believe in me – and that's great, that’s wonderful. But I don't have as many followers – people who are willing to put their faith into action, you know? I guess they're comfortable with just keeping it in their heads and their hearts, like they’re part of some social club. Like it’s some kind of membership card they can whip out when they need to. They’re apparently okay with that. The thing is, I need you to know that I'm not okay with that. And I don't want you to be okay with it, either.

I want you to live your life as a follower of my boy Jesus. I want you to look for places in this world that need me, and then help me get there. It can be helping a homeless man on the street getting a place to stay for the night. It can be that kid who always sits by himself in the lunchroom and joining him one day so he doesn’t eat his lunch alone. It can be the hug you give someone when they’re going through a tough time. It can be that card you make for a homebound church member. Trust me, once you get started, you’ll never stop discovering new ways to follow me.

Now this doesn’t mean, by the way, that don’t need to work on understanding your faith any more. Sorry, but you're not off the hook! Keep reading your Bible. Keep going to Beacons and Bible studies. Put yourself smack-dab in the middle of a community of Christians – and not so you’ll be just like them (which drives me nuts, by the way – I don’t know where some Christians get the idea that I want everyone to be exactly alike and that differences and diversity are somehow bad things. That’s crazy). No, stay invested in this community of faith so that your common bond in me and in others will help you find your own unique calling. Be involved in First Presbyterian – and not just because it's a pretty neat place, but because, from the looks of it, they like you all. They like you a lot.

And I guess the main thing I want to ask you on this special day is to promise that you'll stick with me no matter what life throws at you. Believe me, I've seen it all. I know how hard life can get. And that’s why I promise to never, ever, ever, ever leave you. I’ll be right there during the great times and the bad times. You and me, we’re going to make a great team together.

So congratulations. Congratulations, not only for who you are and what you've already done, but for who you're becoming and what you will do. This church is proud of you. I'm proud of you! The real journey begins now. And I can't wait to get started!

Love eternally, God

****************

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, AMEN.

AS THE TREMORS SHIFT MOUNTAINS

Steve Lindsley — 2013-04-21T09:43:34-07:00

Psalm 46: 1-11; Philippians 4: 4-7
Steve Lindsley
April 21, 2013

Listen to Sermon

I’m going to level with you this morning, folks: today’s sermon just may be the most honest sermon I’ve ever preached from this pulpit. And that’s not to say that all my other sermons have been “dishonest” or that I haven’t been truthful. What I mean is that I’m coming at today’s sermon from a different place than I usually do. I had a seminary professor who told us that we should write sermons with a balance between the head and the heart – not too intellectual, but not overly emotional either. And so for the past sixteen years I’ve pretty much taken that advice and have tried to be balanced in my preaching.

But I need to let you know this morning that you are going to get an unbalanced sermon today, because this one is coming almost exclusively from the heart – from my gut, really. That’s where I feel I’ve been for most of the past week, since Monday afternoon. I was actually working on one of those nice balanced sermons, one you’ll eventually get to hear, I’m sure.

And then I heard the news. It popped up in my Twitter feed first: the Boston Marathon. An explosion. No wait, two. Right at the finish line. I went online and watched the video footage once, twice, three, four, more times. So many times that, within an hour, I was able to play it out in my mind without looking at the screen: the runners running along, the finish line in sight, a gorgeous Monday afternoon in a great American downtown city. And then BOOM, and runners instinctively veering in the opposite direction; one runner crumpling to the ground under the shockwave. Smoke billowing up in the air. Sirens and screams.

I went to Ridgecrest that night for my monthly dinner with the Presbyterian saints there – we talked about it some, but details were still scarce. When I got home, there was more coming from the TV. Scores had been injured, my wife told me, and two were dead – one of which was an eight-year old boy. I looked over to the couch at my eight-year old boy, and you know what I felt? Anger. I was angry. Still am.

And it’s not just the senseless death of innocent people, and our children, that I’m angry about. It’s the foreboding familiarity of it all. I’m tired of this ritual our society seems to be engaging in more and more these days: the sudden, out-of-nowhere "breaking news," the multi-tasking of watching cable news and scanning websites, trying to piece together a puzzle whose final picture we already know we will not want to see; the increasing injury and death counts, the names and pictures and faces and personal stories of lives ended, the revelation of the perpetrators’ identity and how quickly their story overshadows the others; the conclusion-jumping some engage in when that person’s name is hard to pronounce or when they subscribe to a different religion than ours (as if no one in the history of Christianity has ever done anything horrible), and the inevitable movie/music star benefit concert televised live on a Friday night with the 888 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

I'm tired of the ritual of having one more location stripped of its innocence, a mental checklist we keep and remember: elementary schools, movie theaters, houses of worship, college campuses, summer youth camps, and now marathon finish lines. I'm tired of the thought that eventually settles in my head, after the initial shock wears off when I momentarily pull my thoughts away from the television screen and the websites: the thought, Here we go again. It is a ritual I hate and despise; and because it’s feeling more and more familiar, I hate it even more.

What can I say – I told you this sermon was coming from the gut.

So here we are yet again, First Presbyterian: proclaimers of the “Good News,” slapped in the face with “Breaking News.” Here we are, yet again – people of Easter’s new life facing horrific tragedy and death. Here we are, yet again – awash in a sea of anger and fear and vulnerability that always gets stirred up by random and senseless acts of violence.

And I so wish I could share with you some magic formula that takes the world’s chaos and strings it all together in a way that makes perfect sense. But that magic formula does not exist. I wish I could tell you with 100% certainty that everything will be okay and a tragedy like this will never happen again. But I care too much about you as your pastor to give you that false sense of hope. If being authentic in our Christian faith means being authentic in how we live our lives, we have to face the fact that, first and foremost, there is no easy answer to this kind of madness, and that asking the “why” questions will get us nowhere fast.

No, our job as followers of Jesus is to lift our collective voices to the God who never stops hearing us, no matter how loud the bombs blast. And if there’s any place in our ritual of faith where the people’s voice is lifted to God the most, it is in the Psalms. All voices of the people – sometimes sung, sometimes whispered, sometimes cried, sometimes screamed. All voices. We look here, and the scripture that Nelson read earlier:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult.

Right off the bat, we get the sense that this is the voice of someone in distress, do we not? Someone awash in uncertainty and fear, clinging to God amidst the chaos. Someone like us. I actually prefer the way The Message translation renders those last two verses. Listen:

We stand fearless at the cliff-edge of doom,
courageous in seastorm and earthquake,
Before the rush and roar of oceans,
the tremors that shift mountains.

Isn’t that what this past week has felt like – “the tremors that shift mountains?” Tremors that shake us much deeper than bomb blasts and shockwaves ever could. Tremors that shake our very soul, and remind us that we live in a world of both light and darkness; and that every now and then the darkness rears its ugly head in such grotesque fashion that, if we’re not careful, it consumes us through our fears and our vulnerability and our anger. That same anger I was feeling so acutely Monday night.

Paul Rauschenbusch, a religious writer and blogger, had something interesting to say about that anger, by the way. He said that being angry in light of the Boston Marathon bombings is not necessarily a bad thing, as long as it’s the right kind of anger. There is what he calls “demonic anger,” which he describes as “…a fury that takes over or possesses us; demanding a clear target no matter how blunt or unrelated, and compels a fulfillment of our anger.” The problem with demonic anger, Rauschenbusch says, is that it never can be fulfilled. There is no end to it. When demonic anger has conquered our heart, it has completed its mission.

But there is another anger we can choose – what he calls “holy anger.” As he puts it,

(Holy anger) means taking time to stop, to pray, to meditate, to ask for wisdom and to not let my anger take over my heart, head and spirit. (Holy anger means) supporting the first responders and those investigating the crime; praying for those who suffer and if necessary offer financial support. And when we know more, supporting the effort to bring justice for those who perpetrated this horrible crime. (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/paul-raushenbush/responding-to-boston anger_b_3092758.html?utm_hp_ref=religion&ncid=edlinkusaolp00000008, visited on 4.16.2013)

So when the tremors shift mountains, when we are rocked to our core with the worst kind of tragedy – yet again – we as people of faith can respond faithfully with holy anger.

We can also respond with something else, according to the apostle Paul – a man who penned words we heard earlier; words penned while he was incarcerated in prison:

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!
Let your gentleness be known to everyone.
And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Now how was it, that during that darkest time of his life, Paul was still able to say “rejoice”? How does someone do that?

I remember something a pastor friend of mine shared in a sermon she preached the Sunday after the Newtown shootings; about a member of her former church. His name was Wassim. She described Wassim as “one of those irritatingly happy people, kind of like a human smurf.” She talked about he would go around saying to people, Rejoice in the Lord, always! - even when the circumstances didn’t always merit it. “To be completely honest,” she said, “it kind of annoyed me.” (from “Rejoice In The Lord. Always?”, a sermon by Meghan Davis)

Over time, though she learned about Wassim’s story – how as a Lebanese man he had lived in Beirut during the years of brutal civil war and the Israeli invasion. She found out that Wassim was a hostage survivor and had seen some of the worst that human beings could do to one another, when the darkness is at its darkest. And it was then she realized that “Rejoice in the Lord always” was not a pithy catch-phrase for Wassim. It was his statement of faith! It was his life’s mantra! It was rejoicing that got Wassim through all those horrible years; and it was rejoicing that helped him understand for the rest of his life the crucial difference between happiness and joy. Happiness, my pastor friend said, is something outside of ourselves that, as our Declaration of Independence reminds us, we pursue. Happiness is circumstantial. Lots of things can make us happy: chocolate, a pedicure, a sunny Saturday on the golf course. And lots of things can take that happiness away, too.

But joy – the joy that Paul speaks about to those Philippian Christians and to us – joy runs much, much deeper. Joy is not “out there” – it resides here, in the heart and in the soul. And it is not circumstantial. Joy cannot be imprisoned or held captive or blown up or shot to death.

You know how we respond as people of faith to the Boston bombings and the Newtown shootings and every other tragedy that has happened and has yet to happen? We respond with heartfelt prayer. We respond with holy anger. We respond with assistance, if the situation merits. And we respond by countering the ritual of our fear-based “Breaking News” culture with the rituals of daily, joy-filled living. So we go to work and school. We run marathons. We fly in airplanes. We live on college campuses. We gather in churches. We never succumb to fear and we live in joy! Because no matter how dark the world may get, there is always light shining in it. Shining in and revealing the darkness for what it is: powerless over us, cowardly in the face of truth, weak in the presence of God’s mighty and everlasting love.

This is a giant planet, someone wrote this past Monday, and we're lucky to live on it, but there’s a price we pay for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is that, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness.

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evildoers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak.

So when you see violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, “The good outnumber you, and we always will.” (http://www.wxii12.com/news/project-economy/technology/Patton-Oswalt-s-post-about-Boston-attacks-goes-viral/-/9677548/19769514/-/12lh00kz/-/index.html#ixzz2Qdu8kLeJ, visited 4.16.2013)

Beautiful, isn’t it? Who do you think penned those awesome words – a noted theologian? A great statesman? No, it was Patton Oswalt, a Bostonian comedian and actor, best known perhaps as the voice of “Remy the Rat” in the animated movie Ratatouille.

The heart of the gospel message in trying times, from the voice of a rat – how about that! How about that indeed. My dear, dear friends, never forget that you are the light of Jesus’ love, shining in the darkness. You are the light. And the darkness – no matter how dark it may get – the darkness will never overcome you. So do not fear. Rejoice and live in the light. Live in joy! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God. AMEN.

Special music & a special sermon this Sunday

Steve Lindsley — 2013-04-14T12:32:28-07:00

Today I happily shared the pulpit with Rev. Bailey Edwards Nelson, who preached a whale of a sermon titled, "Inside Out." This freed me up to play with H20 N2 Wine (our worship acoustic group) on the hymns, sing a Civil Wars Tune, "From This Valley" with one of our youth for the offertory, and even conduct the choir when our director's wife came down ill. Just another great day of worship at First Presbyterian!

No sermon manuscript, but please feel free to listen to the audio of the worship service by clicking on the picture below and then on the play button. I'll be back in the pulpit next week!

When the congregation writes the sermon's ending

Steve Lindsley — 2013-04-10T14:25:00-07:00

One other non-sermon post and then I'll stop. Although to be honest, this really is more of a "sermon sequel."

Back in February, I preached a sermon called Raise The Roof! It was the beginning of our capital campaign to raise $100,000 to tend to some significant facility needs of our beautiful but aging church facility. You can read about the project and watch an awesome video at: raisetheroof.fpcma.com.

Today, the sequel of that sermon is being boldly proclaimed through the loud banging and knocking of a dozen roofers right above my church office, tearing off the old roof and putting on a new one. It's been non-stop all day, and believe me when I say it's the most wonderful loud noise I've ever heard! There will be many other noises in the weeks and months ahead - noises of a courtyard area being repaired and parking lots being repaved. But we are well on our way to enjoying the fruits of our labor.

Click HERE for the official announcment at The Online Grapevine, our church newsletter. And look below for a quick video on what's being done and how it makes me feel.

It's nice when the pastor finishes his or her sermon for Sunday. But it's especially sweet when the church writes the real ending and puts the exclamation point on it by owning into the vision and answering the call. Congratulations, First Presbyterian - you did it. Thanks be to God!

"Thirty Seconds of Gratitude" from Thoughts & Musings

Steve Lindsley — 2013-04-09T18:31:16-07:00

I don't usually cross-polinate between my sermon blog and "other" blog. But since it's going to be a few weeks between sermons (the family was on vacation this past Sunday and we're welcoming a guest preacher this Sunday while I share some music in worship) I thought I'd direct you to a blog post I made today at Thoughts and Musings on comic book Bibles, kind notes left on restaurant napkins, and the power we have to express gratitude to another. Just click on the picture below. Enjoy, and if you like what you see, feel free to subscribe via email or RSS feed. Thanks for taking the time to read!

FINDING EVERYTHING IN AN EMPTY TOMB

Steve Lindsley — 2013-03-31T10:10:04-07:00

Luke 24: 1-12
Steve Lindsley
March 31, 2013
Easter Sunday

Listen to Sermon

There is a place out in the vast expanse of our universe that has within it, quite literally, nothing. A massive void, nearly a billion light-years in diameter. Inside this void you will find no stars, no planets, no galaxies, no gases. One scientist, realizing the limits of the human brain to comprehend such things, simply described it as “a big bubble in the cosmic pancake batter. ” If that image doesn’t describe this void any better, at least it makes it sound more tasty. (http://homileticsonline.com/subscriber/btl_display.asp?installment_id=93040449&item_id=93051428&keywords=massive%20void, visited on 3.29.2010)

So for the record, one light year is the distance light travels in a year; roughly six trillion miles. You and I have church members who run marathons, and 26 miles seems like a long distance to me. Try six trillion miles, and then multiply that by a billion. That's how large this void in our universe is.

I don’t know about you, but It’s hard for me to comprehend something that massive. But you know what’s even harder? Comprehending something that massive with nothing in it. I mean, surely the scientists have missed a lone planet or a renegade star, right? It's got to have something in there. And yet, all the data is conclusive: there is nothing there. This billion-light year void way out there in space is 100% empty.

How do you think something like that feels? It’s an odd question, I know – we’re not accustomed to thinking about something like space having feelings. But humor me for a minute: what does a billion light year void in our universe feel like? What kind of words come to mind - Cold? Alone? Hopeless? Isolated? What would it feel like to be right in the middle of a cosmic heap of nothing?

Empty space. An empty place. An empty tomb. A universe of nothing. A tomb of nothing.

“Perplexed” is the word Luke uses to describe how they felt when they entered that nothingness on Easter morning. Perplexed. Because it was not at all what they expected to find there. They fully anticipated a body there, because that is what you find in tombs. A tomb without a body in it is....well, it’s empty space, isn’t it? They fully expected to find the body of Jesus there, and as was their custom, they would anoint that body with the spices they brought. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body.

How do you think Mary Magdalene felt in the midst of all that emptiness – the agonizing pain one feels when the space their best friend used to occupy is now empty? She was in the midst of the week-long period of mourning, as was their custom. They all were. And now, just three days removed, she has come to the tomb, armed with those spices; the ritual of her faith being the only thing filling up the emptiness. She expected to find Jesus’ body there. And what did she find? Nothing. An empty tomb.

We all have “massive voids” in our life, of one kind or another; and we know what they feel like: the empty space that exists when things that used to be there, or should be there, are not. It happens when we give our heart to someone who doesn't give theirs back. It happens when we practice and practice and practice, and still don't make the team. It happens when we wake up the day after being let go from our job with nothing to do. It happens when we try to do the right thing but somehow keep screwing it up over and over again. It happens when everything changes, and yet nothing seems to change.

We try, of course, to pretend the emptiness isn’t there; that we have our fill. Because the society you and I live in doesn’t look kindly upon empty things. So we tell ourselves, and tell others, Everything is fine. We’re managing real well since the funeral. Oh, we have plenty in the bank account. No, no, we’re not depressed. My mom and Dad – they’re getting along great. We’re not anxious one bit about life after graduation. We’re just fine. We’re fine.

And yet even our most well-crafted and well-intentioned rituals cannot fill up the empty space. These are huge cold spots; massive voids. Coming to the tomb and finding no body there. How does that make you feel?

They were perplexed, scripture tells us. Do ya think?! This is not what happens! From the time they were tiny children, from that moment when they first understood the fleeting nature of life and inevitability of death, they understood the harsh and iron-clad truth: tombs have bodies in them that never leave. So they were perplexed, and certainly other things too. Confused. Frightened. Discombobulated. When the gospel of Matthew talks about an “earthquake” at the tomb on Easter morning, it very well could have been the earthquate going on inside of Mary's mind!

Two men in dazzling clothes suddenly appear next to them. More perplexing; more confusion! Don't you see? From the minute the women set foot on that sacred ground, from the minute they peered inside the tomb, all bets were off! The two men – not angels, as other gospels suggest, but two men. In dazzling clothes, it says – sequins, maybe? Is it their clothes that were dazzling, or what they said that made them all bright and shiny? The question they asked; posed in the context of billions of light years of questions that surely were running through the minds of those women still trying to make sense of an empty tomb. The question they asked:

Why do you look for the living among the dead?

Why were they looking for the living among the dead? Better yet, was it even the living they were looking for? They had come to the tomb that morning to anoint a body, three days dead. And yet the bright and shiny men had asked them why they were looking for the living. Is it possible that those women didn’t fully understand what they were looking for on that Easter morning? Is it possible that we don’t, either?

Every year, on this day, we follow in the footsteps of those women. We come before this cross – a symbol of death, the worst kind of death – and we cover it with flowers. Front and back, top to bottom. A cross. It’s almost as if we know that those dazzling men weren’t just speaking to the women. They are still speaking, and they are asking us that same question today.

So why, my friends? Why? Why do WE come to this place, on this day, looking for the living among the dead?

Is it because we feel we have to, because it’s Easter? Or could it be because we, like Mary and the others, want so much to fill that massive void with something? We do not like empty things! We much prefer to find life in places where there was once death. We are creatures of beginnings, not endings. Around 350 years ago, the French mathematician Blaise Pascal surmised that the human heart is like an “infinite abyss.” Perhaps a billion light years big. He said that we try in vain to fill our hearts with everything around us — education, jobs, homes, money, friends, family. But none of these can fill the void completely. And so as Pascal so aptly puts it:

This infinite abyss can only be filled with an infinite and immutable object;
in other words, God.

Do you see what this means? Do you see the astounding paradox of it all? In finding nothing in the tomb, those women found everything. In confronting the cold dark abyss of death, they were surprised to find new life. That is what Mary and the other women came to understand as they ran back to find the others and tell them of all they had not seen and all they’d seen. Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he is risen!

You know, every Easter Sunday we gather in this sanctuary and celebrate the resurrection to the nth degree. We do Easter pretty well, I gotta say! We wear our lovely Easter outfits and ties; we bring our flowers to the cross. We sing rousing hymns like “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” and “Christ is Alive!” and fill this empty space with joyful sound. We gather before the Lord's table and share once again this holy meal. There’s an extra spirit in the air – handshakes become hugs, smiles smile a bit wider, and the joy of the day rests upon each of our hearts.

Have you noticed how it never gets old, no matter how many Easter services we attend in our life; no matter how many times we bring our flowers and sing our hymns and share in our meal? Have you noticed that the joy is always there? You know why that is? It’s because what fills the empty, hollow spaces on this glorious day is more than we can possibly imagine; more than we could ever hope for. You and I plunge head-first into the scandalous, outrageous reality of this day – that death does not have the last word. That death has been transformed into new life. That you and I are transformed in it.

In fact, that's why I love the way the gospel of Mark ends the Easter story. It’s similar to Luke's – the women come to the tomb, they find it empty, they’re met by a stranger who tells them to go tell the world. And you know what happens after that in Mark? You know what happens? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Unlike the other gospels, there are no resurrection appearances, there’s no road to Emmaus or doubting Thomas, there’s no eating grilled fish on the beach with Jesus. Nothing but empty space.

Except it’s not really empty. Because you and I get to fill that space up! You and I get to write our own ending to the Easter story! Those women have come to us, to tell us the Good News: that Jesus Christ is risen from the dead. And you and I get to fill up that space and write our own ending and respond with our lives – by living as Easter people. By being a transformed people. By following the resurrected Jesus in loving our enemies and caring for the least of these and healing the broken and infusing new life in billion light-year voids.

So we leave the tomb behind – because, as the shiny guys said, he’s not there anymore. Jesus is out there, waiting for us to meet him and tell the world that they need not look for the living among the dead one moment longer.

So what are we waiting for, my friends? What are we waiting for?! Let's go find the risen Jesus! Let’s go find him and invite him to live in us forever, so we can embody him in this world. So empty tombs are no longer an ending but a beginning. Let's go find Jesus - because he is alive. He is alive!! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God! AMEN!

WASHING FEET

Steve Lindsley — 2013-03-28T17:11:42-07:00

Maundy Thursday
John 13: 1-20
Steve Lindsley
March 28, 2013

Tonight’s Maundy Thursday service includes, among other things, a footwashing. Let me emphasize that it is optional. I want to emphasize this because apparently some of you are grossed out by the idea of any footwashing that is anything other than you washing your own feet. I know this because, at our session meeting earlier this month, when I asked for volunteers to help me wash feet at the service tonight, I was greeted with blank stares.

And I do get the whole hesitancy toward footwashing; I do. Feet can be, if not properly cared for, pretty gross parts of the human anatomy. There’s toenail fungus and athlete’s foot, which may or may not be the same thing, but does it really matter? There are planter’s warts, which don’t exactly scream, “Hey, someone else, wash me!” And then there is the foot odor. Nothing can be more unpleasant than smelling that foot odor smell, particularly if it’s being generated by your own feet. Because you know if you’re smelling your own feet, it’s got to be pretty bad!

I realize this is a weird way to start a Maundy Thursday meditation, but I just want to lay it out all there, because let’s be honest – that’s what Jesus did. This little meal and little gathering in the upper room was not a simple Seder meal and observing the ritual. Stuff went down at this meal! Bread broken and wine poured; my body and my blood, Jesus said. That kind of cuts through the pretense, doesn’t it? One of you will betray me – nothing like laying that one out on the table! Judas, getting up and running out without as much as a “goodbye.” Whoa. And then that moment, according to John’s gospel, when Jesus grabbed a basin of water and a towel, and walked over to Peter. That wasn’t what rocked Peter’s world, I don’t think. It’s when Jesus kneeled down in front of him, lowering his whole body beneath Peter’s when it hit him: this man is going to wash my feet. Jesus is going to wash my feet!

We know what Peter’s response was. Maybe it’s not too different from our own. No, no, not my feet. You want to wash my hands? That’s cool. Even my hair – I’m okay with that. But not my feet, Jesus. Not my feet. That’s……well, that’s just kind of weird. They’re dirty and they probably don’t smell all that good. You don’t need to wash my feet. But the more Jesus persisted, the more uncomfortable Peter became – until Peter relented, because he realized Jesus was going to do it no matter how he felt.

So what was it exactly that freaked Peter out? Here’s what I’m thinking: Peter wasn’t freaked out because of foot fungus or planters warts or unpleasant odor. He was freaked out because you don’t wash the feet of a subordinate. Peter was freaked out because Jesus washing his feet changed the relationship between the two. There is no way to wash someone’s feet without lowering yourself before them. The master becomes the servant, and that makes the servant uncomfortable. Out of place. Vulnerable. And Peter didn’t like being made vulnerable. And you know what? None of us do.

So that’s what I think it is – that’s why I think we have a problem with getting our feet washed. Same as it was back then. We don’t like being exposed, being made vulnerable. Which is what the Good News of the Gospel does to us, if you think about it – the idea that Jesus was about so much more than simply being a wise teacher and healer. You are the Son of God, Peter once said. And because he recognized that the Son of God came “not to be served but to serve,” the act of washing feet was yet another example of how Jesus, whom he dearly loved, continued down that path of risky, radical service – a path that Peter surely knew would lead to his death.

We, too, have a sense of what that vulnerability feels like – don’t we? It’s why these last few days of Jesus’ life can be such a hard pill to swallow - the Last Supper in the Upper Room, and the footwashing, and a broken Jesus crying out to God in the Garden of Gethsemane, and the cross, and the silence after. Look at us – we try to live good lives and honor God in everything we do. We give to the church and we engage in study and mission together. We gather around the table, as we will do here in just a minute; because we desire to serve our God and live lives pleasing to God and do all of that in communion with each another.

And yet whatever we do, wherever we are, we keep coming face-to-face with a grieving yet determined Jesus, kneeling before our uncovered feet. He lovingly takes them in his hands and places them in the cool refreshing water; and with great care scoops the water over our feet as it drips back into the basin. Then he places them in a warm towel and wraps them up, massaging them back and forth until they are dry and refreshed.

And somehow, in the midst of our greatest vulnerability, we emerge from this footwashing renewed – even in scandal of such an act. We are embraced by the never-ending love of God because we know that what will happen on Friday morning – and what will take place three days later. And it’s then we know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that there is victory in defeat, that there is light that shines through darkness, and that there is life even in the midst of death. We know that Jesus serves us just as much as we long to serve him.

So here’s the deal: I’m not going to pressure you to participate in the footwashing if you don’t want to. I will say that the technique I’ll be using employs good hygiene! If you really don’t think this will mean anything to you, that’s okay. But if your hesitancy is about me – or anyone – kneeling before you and lowering themselves underneath you, and you making yourself vulnerable, then know this: thanks be to God that this is precisely what Jesus does for us. Not just in washing feet, but with his very life. Thanks be to God that we celebrate this holy meal together as an act of Jesus giving his very self to us, his body and his blood, his life. Thanks be to God that our God is a God of turning tables and servanthood and blessing the meek. And washing feet. No matter how bad they smell. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, AMEN.

GROWING SPIRITUALLY AS A CHURCH: EXTRAVAGANT GENEROSITY

Steve Lindsley — 2013-03-24T10:18:12-07:00

Exodus 35: 4-29, 36:2-7; 2 Corinthians 9: 1-15
Steve Lindsley
March 24, 2013

Listen to Sermon

Perhaps you’ve been lucky enough in your life to know someone like Oseola McCarty. Mrs. McCarty was a Mississippi washerwoman, born in the early 1900’s. She had to drop out of school in 6th grade to help take care of the family. Oseola began doing laundry and ironing people’s clothes for money – anywhere between $2 and $10 a bundle. She would always put the money in a savings account at the First Mississippi National Bank and never took anything out.

After almost 75 years of washing people’s clothes, the balance in her account stood at a whopping $150,000 – which at the age of 87, she promptly gave in its entirety to the University of Southern Mississippi for scholarships for needy students. When she was asked why she gave money to a school she had no ties to, Oseola responded that she wanted others to have an opportunity she never had herself. And when she was asked why she didn’t spend some of the money on herself, her answer was always the same: as far as she was concerned, she did. (Guideposts, Sept. 1995:5, pgs. 88-89. Also http://www.usm.edu/pr/oola1.htm, visited on 9.27.2004)

Or maybe you’ve heard stories like the one Bishop McCabe used to tell. At the time, the bishop was leading a rather large congregation in the throes of a huge capital campaign – the goal of which was to raise a million dollars for a huge missions initiative. All the plans had been made and carried out: the information had been sent, the sermons preached, and now it was time to wait for the response.

Each day Bishop McCabe received dozens of letters, some from disgruntled members who scoffed at the lofty, unattainable goal. One day, he came upon a letter from a 7-year old boy in his church. As he opened it, out rolled a badly battered nickel. The letter, scribbled in handwriting only a child could appreciate, read: “Dear Bishop McCabe, I am so glad you are going to get a million dollars for missions. I’m going to help you get it, too! Here’s a nickel! It's all I've got now, but when you need any more, call me!'(http://www.homileticsonline.com/subscriber/illustration_search.asp?keywords= stewardship&imageField2.x=0&imageField2.y=0, visited on 9.27.2004)

Or maybe you’ve heard stories like that guy we hear about on this Palm Sunday. We don’t know his name, because we’re not told one, but let’s just call him Jonathan. Scripture tells us that some strange men came to Jonathan on the streets of Jerusalem. We need to borrow your donkey, they said. And when he asked them what for, the only reason they gave was that “The Lord needs it.” And so Jonathan let the strange men take his donkey, like you and I would let a stranger take our only family car. He had no idea that the next time he saw his donkey, it would have Jesus on its back; the crowd surrounding him singing praises and laying palm branches at its feet, just like our children laid their palm branches before the cross today.

So what is it about people like Oseola McCarty and the 7-year old nickel boy and “Jonathan?” What is it about people who give, and give for all the right reasons – not for notoriety or to earn “brownie points?” What kind of people give of their time and talents and treasure in such selfless and amazing ways?
Now if it sounds like I’m prepping you for a Stewardship/Discipleship sermon, I sort of am! Sort of.

Today is the final day of our Spring Discipleship, where Tom McCluskey and Hampton Hatcher, co-moderators of our Discipleship Ministry Team, have posed the question to you: What Can I Do? What can I do for this church and its mission of helping build God’s kingdom on earth? Today is also the fifth and final chapter of the book we’ve been studying this Lent, Five Practices of Fruitful Congregations. We’ve talked about radical hospitality and worshipping passionately and being intentional in our faith development and taking risks in mission and in service.

And today, we come to EXTRAVAGANT GENEROSITY. Being generous with our time and our talent and our treasure. And not just token generosity. Extravagant generosity! You know what that word “extravagant” means? It can mean two things, according to Merriam Webster’s. It can mean, “lacking restraint in spending money or using resources.” Which can be a good thing, but can also be a bad thing, too.

I’m personally more drawn to the second definition: “exceeding what is reasonable or appropriate; or absurd.” How’s that for a stewardship slogan: Absurd Generosity! Don’t laugh – because that’s not too far removed from what the apostle Paul lays before the Corinthian church in our scripture today. If it sounds like Paul was also giving a Stewardship/Discipleship sermon, it’s because he was!

Each of you must give as you have made up your mind,
not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.
And God is able to provide you with every blessing in abundance,
so that by always having enough of everything
you may share abundantly in every good work.

Keep in mind that Paul is writing to a congregation that is not too far removed from ours. People of all different means, coming together as one body of Christ to join in one mission. And that’s why the beauty of Paul’s words to the Corinthian church – and to us – is that it paints a much larger scope of responsibility than the traditional understanding of church giving. Extravagant, absurd generosity, Paul seems to say, cannot be reduced to a simple math equation. Rather, our giving should be a response to the wonderful things Christ has done in our lives – not as some kind of repayment, but as a joy-filled reaction. We don’t really have to think all that hard about it. We just do it.

I wonder if that’s what’s behind those extravagant generous folks I mentioned earlier. I wonder if that’s what led Mrs. McCarty to donate her entire life savings to a single school, or a little boy to give a simple nickel out of his piggy bank toward a million dollar campaign, or that unnamed guy on this day long ago to say to those strangers, “Sure, you can have my donkey.”

I wonder if that’s what happened here, in this church, on December 24, when you all gave over $1200 for our new Saturday Sandwich ministry in a single offering. I wonder if that’s what happened right after that service, when I was accosted by half a dozen folks who wanted to help Dennis – a man none of you knew – to get home to Texas to his family. I wonder if that’s what is happening with our “Raise The Roof” campaign, where all signs indicate that we will, in fact, meet and possibly exceed our $100,000 goal? I wonder if that’s what happens every time a Friends Feeding Friends list fills up the Sunday it’s posted, or when one of our elderly gets a phone call or visit from a member of this church every day of the week, or when good church folk show up on your doorstep after your knee surgery with chicken pies and lasagnas?

Is that what Extravagant Generosity looks like? Is it like what happened with the Israelites in our other scripture today? I mean, it’s pretty amazing if you think about it, right? Pretty absurd. And the thing is, there was no strategic plan, no capital campaign. Just Moses saying to the people: Look, do this for me, would you? Gather an offering together for God. We’ll take whatever: gold, silver, bronze, fine linen, goats’ hair (yes, goats’ hair), acacia wood, lamp oil, spices and incense. We’ll even take your skills, because it’s not all about money and possessions. It’s about your time and talent, too. We need to build a tabernacle, a church, to worship God during our journey into the Wilderness. We need you to be generous and to give extravagantly!

And scripture says everyone left the presence of Moses; and when they came back, they brought all kinds of things, whatever they had, whatever was needed. Women and men, young and old – all of them brought something to the Lord. So much of it, in fact, so much of it that Moses actually had to put the skids on it. Did you hear me? Moses had to tell the people to stop giving their money, stop giving their gifts, stop giving their time, because it was too much, because it was absurd. Stop it, he told them. Cut it out! It’s too much. Too much!

Can you imagine a Sunday morning in this church, around the end of the year, when someone has to come up here and give “that talk;” and so after the announcements are done I say something like, “And now, I’d like to call Mike Beal up for a special announcement:”

Good morning. Friends, I come before you this morning to share some difficult news. And I know this kind of talk rubs some people the wrong way, but it needs to be said. My friends, your church needs you to stop giving so much! Alright? It’s too much! If we had line items in our budget that we were going over on; if we had bank accounts that were close to bottoming out, we might need more funds. But we don’t, we’re nowhere near that; which is why Discipleship is respectfully requesting that you consider a percentage decrease in your pledged giving for next year. If you could do that, that’d be great.

And I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but we also need you to stop giving so freely of your time and your talents. The sign-up lists are already full, and we don’t know who put the waiting lists up there – it wasn’t us. I mean, your enthusiasm for being SPARK teachers for our children is admirable, but honestly, a 6-to-1 teacher-to-child ratio is a little overkill, don’t you think? And it doesn’t matter how many times you ask them, or in what ways you try to cozy to a member of the Mills family, there simply aren’t any more spots for the summer Mexico mission trip. I’m just shooting straight with you all; I don’t like telling you this anymore than you like hearing it. The hard truth is that your extravagant generosity is…well, frankly, it’s absurd! So, on behalf of the session, we are asking you – begging you – please, cut it out! Thank you very much.

I’m not going to lie, y’all, I’d love to hear that announcement made someday! Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?

What is it?? What is the magical potion, the silver bullet that can turn churches into Exodus chapter 35 and 36 kind of churches? How can we catch, like lightning in a bottle, those beautiful instances where First Presbyterian Church has given with extravagant generosity, so we can open that bottle and replicate it when we’re trying to meet an operating budget, or trying to find folks to instill the story of our faith in our children?

I’ll tell you how. In a few minutes, you’re going to be given an opportunity to be like one of those Israelites and to bring your gifts to Moses and to God. Today is Dedication Sunday for Spring Discipleship, where we focus on giving our time and our talents to God in service to the church. You’ll notice an insert in your bulletin; it’s been in there for a few weeks already. And hopefully you’ve notice that, unlike in years past, there’s not an exhaustive list of every single role and responsibility for you to check as you see fit. That’s because Tom and Hampton wanted you to focus not on what the church thinks we need, but what you think the church needs. Sure, there are the standard tasks of ministry, as our sign-up boards out there remind us; and we need your time and talents there for sure. But we also need you to prayerfully think on your own what you have to give to God’s church, and what you feel called to do for God’s church. So at the end of the sermon, Ellen will play some soft organ music and you’ll be invited to fill yours out – children, youth and adults. And then, like our children who laid their palm branches at the foot of the cross this morning, you can lay your commitment in this basket during the offering, after the offering plate has made its way down your pew. This, my friends, is time for you to think outside the box, and to dream big, and to be a people who embrace extravagant generosity. Just do it!

Because I’ll tell you this – dear old Osceola McCarty didn’t wait until someone else gave first – she just did it. That nickel-kid didn’t wait until the giving “felt right” – he just did it. Jonathon, or whatever his name was, didn’t wait to see if a better use of his donkey came along – he just did it. Those Israelites didn’t think about whether Moses and their religious leaders had “earned” their giving – they just did it.

So at the risk of sounding like a Nike commercial, maybe all we need to do to be extravagant givers is to JUST DO IT. Don’t wait for God’s extravagant generosity to come to you – just do it! Don’t wait for the giving to “feel right” – just do it! Don’t wait to see if something better comes along – just do it! Because the extravagant generosity of our God that we long for so much, it’s already in us. It’s in this church. And it’s absurd! May we never be afraid, as the body of Christ, to be absurd! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God. AMEN.