Broken and Exposed

Down in the back corner of our yard there has been a big box elder tree.  It's been there since we moved in, and for a long time before that. 

But in the last week or so one of its twin trunks fell to the windstorms we've had here in Lodi recently.  We didn't notice it until today, but we were impressed with the damage.  Not like the tornado damage in the Southeast states, to be sure, but that the wind could do this to what seemed like such a strong tree - we were impressed!

Until we saw that the inner core of the trunk was rotten to the point of emptiness.  We had not noticed this before because the weak part of the trunk faced away from the yard - it fooled us all these years, as we thought of it as the image of strength!  And yet the windstorm broke it at its weak point and exposed the emptiness within.

Just like the Holy Spirit does sometimes, I think.  I like to think of the Holy Spirit as the gentle Breath of God, bringing peace like Jesus did when He breathed on His disciples that Easter Sunday evening. 

But there are times when the Holy Spirit blows like a windstorm and "strips the trees bare," as the Psalm says.  Times when He blows hard enough to break us at our weak spots and expose the emptiness within our hearts. 

I think, though, that the wind that broke our tree was just a force of nature, with no intent or understanding of what it might do to our tree.  But the Holy Spirit knows what He's doing when He breaks us at our weak spots and exposes our emptiness.  He knows that we need to see and admit our weakness and emptiness so that He can heal and strengthen and fill us with the grace and peace that only He can give.  He breaks and exposes not to destroy, but to give us true life. 

Now, do I invite His breaking and exposing so that I can have that life, or do I try to stand in my own strength against the power of His loving breath?

Thorns

Notes from a sermon on Good Friday 2011

One of the aspects of Jesus' suffering and death that we always seem to gloss over in our hurry to the cross is the crown of thorns.  We can probably make several assumptions about this crown of thorns right away:

These were not branches from rose bushes, with their tiny thorns.  More likely, they were from some other bush or tree with longer thorns (a bush in my back yard has thorns about an inch long).

The longer thorns would have been better and stronger and so, in the eyes of the Roman soldiers, more suitable for torture.

The soldiers probably did not place the thorn gently on Jesus' head, but pushed it into His scalp so that it wouldn't come off when they crucified Him.

I've been poked and scratched by the thorns in my back yard, and it's not a pleasant experience.  I can't imagine what kind of torture it must have been for Jesus to have the thorns pressed into His scalp so that the blood ran down over His face, around His ears, and down the back of His neck.

One implication of this is the realization that, even if I can congratulate myself that my hand did not hold the nail or the mallet of huge sins that nailed Jesus to the cross, I'm not off the hook.  All the little sins that I cover up with my denials and dismissals and defensiveness and redefinitions are like so many thorns pressing into the scalp of Jesus for torture and pain and blood.  He forgives us, yes, but our freedom from sin does not come with our denial of sins but with our confession of them. 

So on Good Friday the worshipers were given twigs from the thorn bush; asked to contemplate the "small" sins that they hang on to for whatever reason; confessed and renounced those sins, and then went forward to the cross and placed the twigs at the foot of the cross as a sign of their rejection of their small sins.

Another implication of Jesus' crown of thorns goes back to the "surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows" - the big ones, to be sure - the huge griefs and losses and sorrows and tragedies - but also the smaller ones.  He has borne the griefs and sorrows alongside us when others have said, "Oh, that's not such a big deal" or "It can't hurt that much" or "Stop crying - you're a big boy now" or any such thing. 

You know how much it hurt - and so does Jesus. 

And if there were times when you remember yourself saying "You don't understand" to others who tried to comfort or console or even control your sorrow and frustration, then please know that Jesus did and does understand.  Every thorn is proof of His suffering, His understanding, His presence with you in every sorrow.

Royal Wedding: the Address of the Bishop of London

posted by Archbishop Cranmer at 12:55 PM Permalink  April 29, 2011

"Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire."

So said St Catherine of Siena whose festival day this is. Marriage is intended to be a way in which man and woman help each other to become what God meant each one to be, their deepest and truest selves.

Many people are fearful for the future of today’s world but the message of the celebrations in this country and far beyond its shores is the right one – this is a joyful day! It is good that people in every continent are able to share in these celebrations because this is, as every wedding day should be, a day of hope.

In a sense every wedding is a royal wedding with the bride and groom as king and queen of creation, making a new life together so that life can flow through them into the future.

William and Catherine, you have chosen to be married in the sight of a generous God who so loved the world that he gave himself to us in the person of Jesus Christ.

In the Spirit of this generous God, husband and wife are to give themselves to each other.

The spiritual life grows as love finds its centre beyond ourselves. Faithful and committed relationships offer a door into the mystery of spiritual life in which we discover this: the more we give of self, the richer we become in soul; the more we go beyond ourselves in love, the more we become our true selves and our spiritual beauty is more fully revealed. In marriage we are seeking to bring one another into fuller life.

It is of course very hard to wean ourselves away from self-centredness. People can dream of such a thing but that hope should not be fulfilled without a solemn decision that, whatever the difficulties, we are committed to the way of generous love.

You have both made your decision today – “I will” – and by making this new relationship, you have aligned yourselves with what we believe is the way in which life is spiritually evolving, and which will lead to a creative future for the human race.

We stand looking forward to a century which is full of promise and full of peril. Human beings are confronting the question of how to use wisely the power that has been given to us through the discoveries of the last century. We shall not be converted to the promise of the future by more knowledge, but rather by an increase of loving wisdom and reverence, for life, for the earth and for one another.

Marriage should transform, as husband and wife make one another their work of art. It is possible to transform so long as we do not harbour ambitions to reform our partner. There must be no coercion if the Spirit is to flow; each must give the other space and freedom. Chaucer, the London poet, sums it up in a pithy phrase:

"Whan maistrie [mastery] comth, the God of Love anon,
Beteth his wynges, and farewell, he is gon."

As the reality of God has faded from so many lives in the West, there has been a corresponding inflation of expectations that personal relations alone will supply meaning and happiness in life. This is to load our partner with too great a burden. We are all incomplete: we all need the love which is secure, rather than oppressive. We need mutual forgiveness in order to thrive.

As we move towards our partner in love, following the example of Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit is quickened within us and can increasingly fill our lives with light. This leads on to a family life which offers the best conditions in which the next generation can receive and exchange those gifts which can overcome fear and division and incubate the coming world of the Spirit, whose fruits are love and joy and peace.

I pray that all of us present and the many millions watching this ceremony and sharing in your joy today will do everything in their power to support and uphold you in your new life. I pray that God will bless you in the way of life you have chosen. That way which is expressed in the prayer that you have composed together in preparation for this day:

God our Father, we thank you for our families; for the love that we share and for the joy of our marriage.
In the busyness of each day keep our eyes fixed on what is real and important in life and help us to be generous with our time and love and energy.
Strengthened by our union help us to serve and comfort those who suffer.
We ask this in the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Amen.

The kind of King Jesus is

Notes from a sermon preached at Resurrection Lutheran Church in Malvern, Ohio, Sunday, April 17, 2011

When Jesus rode into Jerusalem that first Palm Sunday the people shouted "Hosanna to the Son of David!  Blessed is He who comes in the Name of the Lord!", just as they did when the kings of Israel rode into Jerusalem in days of old.  But what kind of King is Jesus?

He is a humble king.  He rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and its foal.  Not on a majestic, snorting warhorse like a Roman king would, but on a donkey - tiny, meek - humble.  A working-man's animal.  A blue-collar beast.  There were no preparations - no mounted guards, no marching band to practice, no red carpet to clean and roll out, no flower girls.  Just cloaks, dusty with road dirt, and palms snapped impromtu from branches along the road.  A humble king - one you might get close to - one you might not fear.

He is a caring king.  Once He got to the temple, the blind and lame came to Him and He healed them.  He didn't send them away or turn His back - He healed them.  Gone were the blindness and the cataracts and the styes; gone were the limps and the sciatica and the turned ankles; gone was every big and little infirmity that the people came to Him with.  Nothing was too small, too insignificant for Him to care about.  Nothing still is.  He cares about the pain a sliver in your finger causes you just as much as He cares about the suffering of the people of Japan.  You don't need to hesitate to come to Him because your need seems less important than another's - it's you He loves, and you can bring Him anything for healing.

He is a child's king.  He didn't stop the children from running around in the temple area, shouting "Hosanna to the Son of David!"  He welcomed them into His arms and onto His lap.  He blessed the ones that were brought to Him.  He didn't go down to their level, but raised them up to Himself.  And He has done that for us, too, and called us the "children of God." 

He might be a dangerous king.  Dangerous if you think "church" has to be a certain way.  Dangerous if you think "praise" has to take a certain form.  Dangerous if you think some people are more important than others.  Dangerous if you think "behaving" is something of value.  Watch out!  He might overturn something you value and send your treasure scattering in the wind.

But He is, finally, a loving king.  Loving those who know they are in need of His love, and those who think they aren't.  Loving those who are hurt and wounded, and those who are hale and hearty.  Loving the mature and the immature; the powerful and the powerless; the children and the adults.  Loving the world so much that He came not to rule it, but to die for it, to give Himself for it and for us, from His unimaginable love. 

And because of that love and that gift, "God has therefore also highly exalted Him and given Him the Name that is above every name.  That at the Name of JESUS every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father." 

That's the kind of king Jesus is.

It's not that easy being brown

Not long ago I was walking along on the campus of Ashland Theological Seminary on a lightly foggy, misty morning.  The buildings and trees were cloaked just enough by the fog that they were all a little gray, a little out of focus, a little washed out.

Except for an oak tree that stood out in sharp relief against the gray and the fog.  It still had all its leaves, now brown, from last summer, and although I had walked past that same tree many times before, this day it stood out in particularly sharp relief.

But I should correct myself.  The leaves were not just brown.  They were brown and sepia and umber and auburn and on and on an on.  Not just one shade of brown, but many shades and tints and tones of brown all gathered in one awesome little oak tree. 

These variations of a color that nobody seems to give a second thought were just wondrous, and stood out so sharply on that tree, that I was just taken aback by them.  Even all these different browns were evidence of the hand of our loving God - clues He left that said "I am here, even when you are tired of winter!  I'm here, even when everyone wants spring to come!  I'm here - and the brown leaves that seemed to you to signal fall and fading and approaching winter five months ago are now reminding you that I was there then, that I've been here all along, that I'll always be here.  Take a good look!"

I never would have noticed these browns if the rest of the world had not been a little fogged over that morning.  Today, though, and at many times since this sighting on the way, I've gone back in my mind to that oak tree and thanked God that He was there so clearly.

Lazarus, Part 3 - "He stinketh" John 11:39

Notes from Sunday's Sermon April 10 2011

When Jesus ordered the bystanders to roll away the stone from Lazarus' tomb, Martha tried to stop them, saying "Lord, he's been in there four days - by now, there's a stench!"  But Jesus insisted - they rolled away the stone - He called Lazarus to come out - and when he came out alive, they unwrapped him to let him go.

I suspect that each of us has a place somewhere in the heart or spirit that's like the tomb of Lazarus - some place where, truth be told, something smells of death and rot.  It's a place we keep sealed up - one we don't even tell our closest friends about - because we'd be embarassed or ashamed if they ever found out.  We don't even want Jesus to get close to it, so we seal it up ever tighter like a tomb.

But it was in the opening of Lazarus' tomb that Jesus met him and gave him life again.  It was in reaching into the depths of darkness with His voice of power and love that He called Lazarus out of the dark stink of death.  It was in bringing him out of the tomb that Jesus could say to the others, "unbind him and let him go."

And you or I, with our rotting body of who knows what sealed into the tomb of our heart, sealed securely so that no one will ever know - could it be that Jesus is waiting for us to open that tomb so that He can breathe life into that dead place? 

Could it be that, once that tomb is open, He'll call forth life and joy rather than death and shame? 

Could it be that, like Lazarus, there are people all around us who are waiting to help unwrap us and let us walk free in the light of Jesus' love?

Could it be that, like Lazarus, we'll see the power of the glory of God in the opening of the tomb that we think we'd rather keep closed?

So maybe in the presence of Jesus it would be good to say, "Lord, open the tomb - give me new life - show me the people who are ready to help me - and let us all praise You for Your love."

Lazarus, part 2 - "Jesus wept" John 11:35

Notes from Sunday's Sermon April 10 2011

When Jesus got near the tomb of His friend Lazarus, He wept.  The Jews said, "See how He loved him!"

In some parts of our culture we tend to want to keep the tears inside.  "Big girls don't cry," we're told; boys are told "shake it off" when they feel like crying.  Sometimes as people leave a funeral home you can hear them say about a widow, "She's holding up pretty well" - meaning she's not crying much.

But at the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus wept.  He wept with grief and sorrow at the death of a friend, as any of us would.  Yes, He knew that He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, but that didn't prevent His weeping anymore than a tragic loss of a friend keeps us from weeping, who know and believe the promise that Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life.

And besides that, as Isaiah said about Jesus "surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows."  Perhaps when Jesus wept for Lazarus it's because of His heartbreak at the death of His friend.  But I can't help but think that His heartbreak included your heartbreak, too. 

The heartbreak that caused all those times of deep grief and sorrow and weeping that you've had in your life - here at Lazarus' tomb, Jesus' tears join yours.
 
The heartbreak that went unanswered because you were supposed to "be strong" in the face of grief - here at Lazarus' tomb, Jesus' tears join yours. 

The heartbreak that you were told to keep under control because it was too embarassing for someone else to see.  Here at Lazarus' tomb, Jesus' tears join yours.

The heartbreak from those times when you were cheated out of your grief because the rest of the world had better things to do.  Here at Lazarus' tomb, Jesus' tears join yours.  

When Jesus wept for Lazarus, in His tears that day He carried all our tears for all our griefs and all our sorrows.  He wept with us, and in the presence of His weeping we receive comfort.                                                                                                                                  

Lazarus, part 1 - "Our friend Lazarus is sleeping" John 11:11

Notes from Sunday's Sermon April 10 2011

Did you notice how many people in the Bible are called "friend" to God?  Abraham and Moses, I guess, and possibly also David and maybe Elijah.  Not too many of them in the Old Testament, really.


And there aren't many in the New Testament, either.  John is called "the disciple whom Jesus loved" so that would count, I guess.  but before the Last Supper, when Jesus told the disciples "I no longer call you servants, but friends" there's only one person He refers to as a friend - Lazarus of Bethany.


Lazarus and his sisters Martha and Mary opened their home to Jesus and the disciples whenever they were in town.  In fact, it seems as though He stayed there quite often.  He must have found it a quiet place of refuge - a place to relax and kick back in the company of friends, and let the cares and worries of His ministry go by for a while.


We make a great deal about Jesus being our Friend.  We sing "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" and praise Him for His willingness to receive all our cares and sorrows.  But who of us is Jesus' friend?  Is there a place in your life (or mine) where Jesus is just welcome to come in, to relax, to kick back and enjoy being in your company?  Or is it that every time you (or I) run into Jesus you're asking for some favor or some blessing?  Is Jesus as welcomed and comfortable in your life (or mine) as He was in the home of Mary and Martha and Lazarus?  Or would we be just as happy if He would update us on Facebook rather than show up unannounced?


Jesus not only called the disciples "friends," but because we are their children in faith we are His "friends", too.  So how do I treat my other friends?  How can I treat Jesus like He's one of them, too?