Child Of God

In my sermon this morning I told a story (it happens to be a true story) about a family I knew growing up.  They were friends of ours from church, really good friends of my parents, maybe almost their best friends, actually.  I didn't say that, though.  The family had two children, a daughter and a son, both adopted.  They were younger than I was, and I got to babysit them on occasion.  Okay, I think I babysat them a lot.  I babysat them so much that I really got to know some of the books that I read to them at bedtime.

There were a couple of books about adoption, and one line that I remember to this day, that explained adoption:  "You are really special because we chose you for our daughter or son."  Maybe I remember it because I was, at twelve years old, already sort of a proto-theologian.  I read that book, and that line, many times.

As their daughter grew up, she became troubled.  She rebelled fiercely.  She experimented with drugs and alcohol.  She went with a rough crowd.  She ran away more than once. She ended up in jail a couple of times.  For the longest time her parents didn't know what to do, and all at once it came out:  She never bought the line from the book on adoption:  "You are really special because we chose you for our daughter."  Instead, what she had been thinking was:  "My real mother didn't want me.  My real mother gave me away.  I must be worthless."  And the voices of those thoughts drowned out the voice of love and belonging given to her.

I told this story because I wanted us to consider that our basic identity is child of God, but it's so easy to believe and even seek other things for ourselves.  The popular one, the successful one, the failure, the one who dies with the most toys, the one who works the hardest.

Child of God.  We are tempted to exchange this identity for a thousand glittering ones, which in the end will fail us.

As I was greeting people after church, someone took me to task, gently:  You didn't tell us if the story had a happy ending, he said.  He hoped there was a happy ending.

I told him that yes, the story had a happy ending, which is true, but that was all I said.

The story had a happy ending, but it took a lot of time and heartache.  There was a lot of pain for this family, a lot of prayer and bearing-with, a lot of worry about what would become of them.  Eventually this young woman returned to her family.  She has a husband and two boys, both grown.  She hasn't returned to her childhood faith, but she is doing well.

I remember sitting with her and her parents not too long ago, when we all met for the funeral of a family friend.  There we all were, sitting in a row at the church:  my mom and my brother and me, her mom and dad sitting with her and one of her sons.

Her mother is losing her memory now.  Now they have to remind her about who she is.  They have to remind her that she is beloved, that this is her name, that she is really special, that she is a child of God that she has a name. This is holy work.  This is the mission of God.

This is the mission of God:  To go out and remind people:  You are beloved.  You are children of God.

The Story of the Quilt

I met my mother for lunch on Wednesday.  It was the anniversary of my father's death, but that wasn't why we were having lunch together.  It just turned out that way.

While we were eating, my mother unfolded an 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper and gave it to me.  She said there was something she never told me about the quilt that she had made and given to me a couple of years ago.

My mother has always been good at sewing.  She made most of our clothes, and even a spring jacket for my sister and me.  She made a pants outfit for me once, and matched the plaids so well that people commented on it.  But it is only recently that she had gotten interested in quilting.  It was my grandmother, my mother's mother, that was the quilter.  She was famous for her beautiful hand-stitched quilts.  Everyone tells me that she had an eye for putting together colors.  I have one of her quilts, but I don't remember ever seeing her put one together.  By the time I was born, it hurt her hands and her eyes too much to do the close work necessary.

Recently, though, my mother has begun quilting.  And two years ago she gave me this beautiful lap quilt.  I thought the colors were amazing.  It holds a place of honor in our living room.

But it turns out that I did not know everything about it.

On the piece of paper that my mother gave me, she told me that this quilt was a collaboration, in a way. After my grandmother died, my aunt discovered some pieces that my grandmother had cut out, and a pattern for a quilt square.  She took half of the pieces, and gave my mother the other half.  But neither of them knew what to do with them.  They had a pattern, but were not sure how to put it together.

One day, one of my mother's friends took a look at the pieces and the pattern, and she could figure it out.  Then my mother could begin to make the squares that would form the quilt.

It took a long time; in the process she decided to divide the pieces and make two quilts instead of one; my sister just received the other one.  Until Wednesday, though, I never knew that my grandmother had a hand in the quilt I received from my mother.

I see it differently now.  It is not just a quilt.  It is a story.  It was always a story, but until Wednesday I did not know the language that the quilt was speaking, even though I loved it.

My mother's quilt makes me think of the church these days, what has been passed down to us, what we value, what we know.  I know many of the older people in my congregation value and love liturgy.  They have been singing and praying in a particular way for many years, as it has been passed down to them.  They have learned some new rhythms along the way, it's true, but they still sing and pray the basic pattern, and they find it beautiful, and comforting, even, at times (although a seminarian friend recently scoffed at the idea of comforting religion).

And yet I wonder if we still remember the stories behind the rhythms and the words of liturgy, the ones that change it from a beautiful object into a story about us, about our mothers and our grandmothers and our great-grandmothers.  I wonder if we still remember the stories that speak about love that pursues us through the ages, that pieces us together, that made us by hand.  I wonder if we still remember the stories of why we sing and say and pray the things we do, and if we are even curious.

Elijah without Exegesis

I learned the story of Elijah before I ever studied it from a Bible.

This is not because I grew up unchurched and never opened a Bible.  Indeed, I was very regular in worship and went to Sunday School every week, although I really don't remember ever getting to the prophets.  (I feel like our Old Testament study sort of stalled out over Solomon.)  I may have heard the story of Elijah on Mount Horeb in worship, but, if I did, it didn't make an impression on me.

I learned the story of Elijah in public school, when my high school choir sang Mendelssohn's oratorio, "Elijah."

My high school choir's tradition was to learn an oratorio every winter.  When I was in tenth grade, we sang great excerpts of Hayden's "The Creation."  (I used to love to walk into my English class right after lunch, turn on the light, and sing, "AND THERE WAS LIGHT!")  My junior year, we sang the "Messiah."  My senior year, we learned The Elijah.

We did not learn the whole oratorio, but we learned and performed a pretty impressive chunk of it, enough to get the gist of the story, enough to perform for our winter concert.  We also joined area high school for a mass performance later in the spring.

There we were, thousands of high school students, singing about the prophet Elijah and the prophets of Ba'al, wicked King Ahab and his even more wicked wife, Jezebel.  It boggles my mind even to think back on it.

What a way to learn the Bible, going over and over difficult musical interludes, listening to soloists practice soliloquies, going into section rehearsals.  I still remember that the first Chorus begins with the word, "Help Lord!  Wilt thou quite destroy us?", and that our choir director warned us to make sure we pronounced the 'p' on Help.  I remember that a wonderful baritone from our school sang Elijah's part (although we had professionals for the mass choir).  Elijah's solo, "It is enough" was so heart-rending.  The song "He watching over Israel" was one of my favorite pieces.

But the action between Elijah and the prophets of Ba'al was the highlight of the piece for me.  We played the prophets of Ba'al, with our increasingly frantic prayers, while Elijah taunted us between our outbursts.  The choir director let us in on the secret meaning of some of Elijah's Ba'al insulting taunts. The piece where Elijah meets God on Mount Horeb was also dramatic, the music matching the words in tension, the voices sounding like wind and chaos and -- eventually -- peace.

I went out and bought the three-album set of the whole oratorio.  Eventually I even bought my own copy of the music and looked up Bible references in my Bible concordance (I found out that they aren't all from 1st Kings; not even all from the Old Testament).

I know, it was geeky way to learn a Bible story.  I mean, how many teenagers that you know are interested in singing huge sections of scripture to tunes written in the 19th Century?

We did.  I didn't learn about Elijah first from a Bible story.  I didn't learn about Elijah first from a sermon.  I learned about Elijah without anyone telling me what it meant, or what it was supposed to mean, or where it fit in the great narrative of the Bible.  I didn't think about what it might mean that the Lord was not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire.

It was a good story, and I was in it.  We were inside the story.  We were playing the people of Israel, and the prophets of Ba'al, the bad guys and the good guys, the saints and the sinners, the doubters and the believers.  We were inside the story, not understanding it, just singing it.

But the thing is, later on, I got curious.  It made me want to study, even.

I know.  It's a geeky way to learn a Bible story.  But still, it makes me think:  being curious is more important, in some ways, than understanding.  And being inside the story, however you might manage it:  is the beginning of wisdom.

Christmas Day Sermon: "The Most Beautiful Feet in the World"

This is the sermon I preached this morning for Christmas Day worship.  The story is adapted from a wonderful story I found over at Luther Seminary, called "Christmas Moccasins", by Ray Buckley.  The Hymn of the day was the "Huron Carol."

Isaiah 52:7-10

John 1:1-14

          The night was cold and the moon was bright one Christmas eve, when a grandmother and her grandson started on a journey together. 

They held hands as they walked.  The grandmother’s moccasins made barely a sound in the soft snow. 

She always wore moccasins.

While they walked along quietly, the grandson wondered why they were walking this way, and through these woods together. 

He remembered – and he wondered if the trees remembered – what had happened here earlier in the winter –what had happened to his grandmother and him. 

He wondered if the trees remembered how three drunken youths had stopped them as they walked along, how they had hit them, and knocked them down. 

How they had stolen both of their coats, and his grandmother’s moccasins. 

He wondered if the trees remembered that his grandmother had walked home barefoot in the snow, and that frostbite had taken two of his grandmother’s toes.

            And he wondered why they were walking this way again, on Christmas eve.

            When the boy and his grandmother had returned home that evening months before, they had not spoken to one another. 

Grandmother had heated up water for drinking, and for washing, and they had washed their faces and soaked their feet.

Then she splashed water on her face, and she began to pray. 

            She took out small beads that evening, and she began to sew new moccasins. 

She was a remarkable beader.  It was an art. 

She used the smallest, most beautiful, most colorful beads, and she began right away to sew new moccasins.

            *****

            “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace,” says the prophet Isaiah in the first reading today. 

Today – Christmas Day – it is the message that we focus on – “Peace on earth, good will to all.” 

That is the message of Christmas – and it's a joyful message. 

Originally, the messenger brought news of the return of the exiles – and the good news was that the Lord was returning to dwell in Jerusalem. 

It’s a joyful message, and I’ll confess to you, that when I’ve heard these words, “How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the messenger who announces peace,” I’ve often thought of Julie Andrews, singing with all of her heart as she runs through the hills.  

"The Hills are alive..."

 “How beautiful on the mountains…..”  

 Today we focus on the message, the message of peace on earth, the message that God is dwelling among God’s people…..

            But today, Christmas Day, I want to focus on – the feet.

            Have you ever wondered about that?  How beautiful are the FEET? 

Why not how beautiful are the eyes?  Or how beautiful is the mouth? 

Or even, how beautiful are the hands?   Why beautiful feet?  Because when I think of the word “beautiful” I don’t often think of the word “feet”. 

When I think of the word “feet” – I think more of how tired feet can be after a long day of working, I think of feet that are dirty after walking, I think of feet pounding the pavement, feet walking the malls searching for presents. 

I think of feet that walk and pace with babies who need calming, feet that go out searching for lost dogs. 

And I think of the feet of the long-distance runner.  And then I think that the messenger’s feet must have been tired, after delivering such an important message, walking and running over valley and mountain, rivers and deserts.  

            “How beautiful are the feet…..,, not just the voice, and not just the eyes, and not just the hands, but how beautiful are the feet

– the feet that take you there, to Jerusalem, or to any place that needs peace, that needs to know that God is present. 

How beautiful are the feet – because the feet walk the earth, the feet get tired, the feet go to the places that need healing hands and words of forgiveness. 

“How beautiful are the feet….” Because it’s so important to go, it’s so important to be there, not just in Jerusalem, but here. 

How beautiful are the feet that walk the halls of hospitals, and how beautiful are the feet of the ones who break bread with the hungry,

And how beautiful are the feet of the ones who hold hands with the dying, and how beautiful are the feet of the ones who shelter the homeless. 

            How beautiful are the feet of the one who announced, and who brought peace. 

How beautiful are the feet of the one who walked this earth, healing us and feeding us and shedding tears and bending down and washing feet.

            And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and walked among us.  How beautiful.

            ****

            So the boy and the grandmother walked that Christmas eve. 

They held hands, and they held gifts. 

They held three pairs of moccasins.  They were the moccasins that the grandmother had begun sewing earlier that winter, that very night when they were attacked.  They were beautiful and finely beaded. 

The grandmother had prayed all the while she beaded them. 

And she did something rare and beautiful when she beaded those moccasins.  She turned them over and she even beaded the bottoms. 

Then she wrapped them up in paper.  And she prayed.  She splashed water on her own face, and she splashed water on her grandson’s face.  It was how she prayed.

            Then they put on their coats and stepped on into the snowflakes.

            The grandmother paused at the top of a low hill,  and she paused  to pray again.  The boy’s heart pounded.  “Why are we here?”  he asked.  “Why are we going to see them?  On Christmas eve? 

The grandmother answered, “We are here to do the Creator’s work.  We are here to do the Creator’s work.”

            How beautiful are the feet……

            The walk from the top of the hill to the house below seemed to take forever.  Their steps grew slower as the snow swirled around them.  But they finally reached the doorway.

            The door was opened by a large man.  Behind him was a tree covered with Christmas lights.  “I have small presents for your sons,”  grandmother said.  “May I give them?”  She handed each a package carefully wrapped, and she said to each,  “I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas.  God bless you.”

            The room was quiet.  The three  pair of moccasins lay in three sets of hands – they sparkled in the light, with red and blue, white and yellow.  No one spoke.

            How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of the one who announces peace.  How beautiful.

            The moon shone down that evening on an old woman with a limp and a little boy holding onto her coat.  They walked through the grove of trees and paused to touch each one.

            And the word became flesh, and lived among us.

            Full of grace and truth.

            How beautiful are the feet of the One who came among us, announcing peace, bringing peace.

            How beautiful are the feet of the One who set us free to love one another.

           

            Merry Christmas.

            AMEN

           

           

Faith and (Non)Fiction

For the past several years, I have held a monthly book study at my congregation, called "Faith and Fiction."  I'm an English major, and the book club title came from my conviction that inside every really good story is a faith story of some kind, either overt or subliminal.  Great literature covers all of the theological questions:  redemption, epiphanies, sin, suffering and brokenness, forgiveness -- you name it.

Rarely have we ventured outside of the fiction genres (although we have read a handful of memoirs).  We've read some classics, children's books and a couple of mysteries as well.  But this month we read a piece of science writing:  The Immortal life of Henrietta Lacks.

To be fair, "Henrietta" is not just science writing -- it's also the story of Henrietta Lacks, her history and her family.  But, also to be fair, it's not fiction, either.  And though the book came highly recommended, it met with mixed reviews.  Some people thought that the science writing was dry; they were interested in the story of Henrietta's family, didn't find some other parts of the story awfully compelling.  Others were fascinated by the science, the history and the family's story.  Some considered the book a window to racism and poverty as well as the development of scientific breakthroughs.

Near the close of the conversation, one woman held up her book and said, "What does this have to do with 'Faith and Fiction'?  It was a fair question, given that we had gone off-genre, so to speak; we weren't anywhere near fiction.  But what about faith?

The author is pretty open about her lack of religious faith; we all thought that by the end of the book, she at least grew to appreciate the faith that sustained the Lacks family.  And we admitted that faith played a large role in the book, especially in how the family made peace with what had happened to their mother, and that somehow, God had used her cells for a greater purpose, to heal people and to save lives.  They were able to let go of their anger and see a wider purpose in Henrietta's life, and in their lives.  Especially, Henrietta's daughter Deborah, when she died, seemed to have found a peace which came both from finding out more about her mother, and also from finding out about the good that her mother's cells had done.

As for me, there is one more part of this book, not overtly connected to faith, that gave me pause, and made me think about faith.  And that is the story of the author of the book, Rebecca Skloot.  She chronicles not only the story of Henrietta's cells, and the story of Henrietta's life, but she also her own journey to get to know the Lacks family.  I caught myself several times thinking about the patience she had to have in order to get this story, to get to know and interview the family, to gain their trust.  The Lacks family did not trust people;  but Rebecca Skloot did not give up.  She was tenacious.  And she did gain the trust of the Lacks family.  Maybe they could see that she really did care about them, and was not just interested in using them.

I caught myself thinking about the patience and tenacity of God in search of us; about our ongoing lack of trust in God's purposes (sometimes justifiable, I'll admit).  I caught myself thinking as well about the mission of the church.  What is missing from most evangelism efforts, I think, is not a better method or strategy.  What is missing is tenacity, the patience necessary to gain people's trust, the conviction that what we have to share is really that life-giving that we need to share it.

What is missing, at least most of the time, is that kind of love.

So, I'll remember not only Henrietta Lacks, but also Rebecca Skloot, who wanted the world to hear this story, and who loved Henrietta's family.

Advent Anecdote

So, the other day I was getting ready for my noon Bible study, which entails going over to the local grocery store and buying lunch (usually soup and an orange).  I got to the check-out counter, where they know me almost too-well, and the older gentleman who was bagging my lunch remembered to put it in a small bag, instead of a grocery-shopping sized one.

"Well," I said, making small talk, "I considered buying a few more things besides lunch, but I changed my mind."

"You can change your mind," he said.  "It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind."

"It's anyone's prerogative," I replied.  "You can change you mind, too, is you want to."

He smiled.  "Yes I could...... but it would be painful."

Then I drove back to the church to consider John the Baptist, and Advent.