tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10869781619445680082024-03-15T20:11:46.412-05:00faith in communitystories of life, church, the neighborhood: where grace is foundDiane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.comBlogger1615125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-56689301205191571852023-08-28T20:14:00.002-05:002023-08-28T20:46:59.173-05:00The Power of “Amen”<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> It was Saturday afternoon. I was ready for Sunday, and getting ready to go out of town with my husband on Sunday afternoon, for a quick anniversary trip. Just overnight. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I got a text from one of our new members. If there is such a thing as a “desperate text”, that is what this was. Her good friend, the man who used to attend church with her and her granddaughter, was dead. Heartbroken was not a strong enough word for what she was feeling. I called her. She wanted to know if it was possible for us to have a funeral the next Friday, even though he had not joined the church.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I said yes. It didn’t even seem like a hard decision. She was hurting; how could we not do this for her? He was her best friend, had been like a father to her granddaughter. It was even more than that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And, she said, he had taken his life. When we met together to discuss music and scripture readings, the first thing she said to me was, “What is a scripture reading that lets people know that a person took his life but he is in heaven?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I knew my task then. We chose his favorite songs, and sang Amazing Grace. I chose Psalm 130, and parts of Romans 8. And I started to write, or tried to write, a sermon. I felt the weight of saying the right thing, and not saying the wrong thing. I didn’t know anyone else who would be there, but this heartbroken, grieving woman. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I wrote and rewrote and rewrote again. I think I was afraid of naming the reality because there have been times when people have not wanted the reality named. The most important thing is to tell the truth. But it seemed hard. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So there we were, at 1:00 in the afternoon. There were a respectable number of people there on time, but they kept coming during the first part of the service, slipping in and taking a seat. These were people that this man had worked with at two different jobs. All of them thought it was important to be there for him, for his family, for each other. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I remember that my parish member wasn’t sure about having remembrances. She couldn’t think of anyone who would be able to speak. I decided to do something a little risky, and invite people to share something they remembered. Five people raised their hands and stood up and said gracious words about their friend.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then it was time for me to speak. By this time our little church was pretty full. I began. I shared a couple of memories. I acknowledged this man’s struggle with depression, and how depression lies, and we were here to tell the truth. And then I came to the hard part. I said these words:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“And I am glad you have come here to the church as well, to T’s church, to the place she and K and her granddaughter worshipped. Because, I am sad to say, there was a time when the church would not have had his funeral in the sanctuary. There was a time when the church believed that people who took their lives were somehow beyond God’s mercy. We preached judgment then, instead of grace. And that makes what you are all dealing with even harder. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“And so today I want to be very clear — that K was and is a child of God, athat God loves him, knew his pain, and received him as his own.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was then I heard it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">AMEN. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A chorus of voices from the pews. They said Amen and they keeps saying Amen, whenever the grace and mercy of God was proclaimed, whenever words of eternal life invoked. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">AMEN</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This is not a common practice in the denomination to which I belong. But I felt the power of this one word. The Amen of agreement, the Amen of encouragement, the Amen of radical mercy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In that moment I felt that the words I was saying were not mine alone, and that the ministry I was offering was also not mine alone. All of these people who came — they came to grieve, and to receive hope — but they also came as ministers and witnesses to the power of the gospel.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">AMEN</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After the worship service, the congregation shared food and stories, hugs and tears. So many people said to us, “Thank you for letting us come here. Thank you for your welcome.” The gratitude overwhelmed us. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But also — I heard so many stories, from this man’s co-workers, stories about all that they shared with one another at work. These people who worked together were a family, bonded together both by the work they did, but also by dinners and stories and lives they shared. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have worked as a pastor for so long that I have forgotten the kind of bonding people can do at work, the ways in which our coworkers can become our family, and even — our church. A community of support — and faith.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A community of “Amen.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We can be that for one another. When we are afraid to tell the whole, hard, and merciful truth. When we need to name the pain, but also the love. When we need the mercy of God to be shown in each other’s arms, and eyes, and voices.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Amen</span>.</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">May we say it, and hear it, and be it, for one another.</span></p><p> </p>Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-18601477961355805482023-07-29T21:35:00.004-05:002023-08-03T11:11:04.281-05:00Make America Godly Again<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">It was back in June, and I was shopping for clothes to take on a retreat. I suppose it was an excuse — do I really need more clothes? — in a nice women’s shop. I had picked out a couple of sale items, when I turned and saw her. She was wearing a t-shirt that said, “Make America godly Again.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And immediately I wondered, I wonder what godliness would look like to her?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t ask. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into a theological discussion right then, and, it was June, and out of the corner of my eye I also spied what I THINK was their tasteful and sort of understated Pride-themed shirt. It was white but had all kinds of colors woven into it as well. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The woman’s “godly” t-shirt: gray.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe this was a coincidence, but it did make me think.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I posted about the incident and my question on facebook. Some people did ask me why I didn’t ask HER. Maybe I should have. But I thought possibly it would have been a longer conversation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On facebook though, I did get a response that made me think. One of my friends talked about godliness and how people just went to church more back in the 1940s and 1950s (and even 1960s). The church where I grew up was full, and, I will admit, I sort of wish that the church was full like that again.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It got me nostalgic for awhile, thinking back on the crowded Sunday School Rooms, and youth group (although I didn’t really like youth group, but that’s another story). I thought about every Sunday worship and what it sounded like when a lot of people are singing hymns they know and love, together. Most of the stores weren’t open and there wasn’t much on TV. If you asked people, almost everyone said they believed in God.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The Good Old Days.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But was that godliness?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’m older (and still Christian, by the way), but I know some things about the “good old days” that I didn’t when I was growing up. The good old days weren’t good for everyone. I just didn’t know about it then. I didn’t know about segregation. My northern suburb didn’t really have any people of color. I didn’t know about lynching. I didn’t know that people thought it was somehow godly to bar the doors of their churches and not let people of color worship with them. It was considered godly to have separate schools and separate water fountains. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVYxtn6WC66d_NiHYYAEChHdd3H-QRH8naAdUxfFA3NpMuENtN4GnQtaDjVjFGz5RLdrMgfJVXitxKutVu9tf7wYlOuP8kXc_FqQQIQv-6kOhnmAYwaq2ulgfyuqtmxO6-e95CgMRahtzdEwwlIQibjRFUUDV8gQnyuMhBC8Pe-07SHv0aQLYr9Vluu8/s4032/IMG_3141.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVYxtn6WC66d_NiHYYAEChHdd3H-QRH8naAdUxfFA3NpMuENtN4GnQtaDjVjFGz5RLdrMgfJVXitxKutVu9tf7wYlOuP8kXc_FqQQIQv-6kOhnmAYwaq2ulgfyuqtmxO6-e95CgMRahtzdEwwlIQibjRFUUDV8gQnyuMhBC8Pe-07SHv0aQLYr9Vluu8/s320/IMG_3141.jpeg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />But everybody went to church. And believed in God.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So “Make America Godly Again?” How do we know we were godly before? How are we even defining godliness? What is our criteria for godliness anyway?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">When I think back on my childhood, (and frankly, even parts of my adulthood), I think I defined godliness as what I wasn't supposed to do -- drink, smoke, swear, be too familiar with the opposite sex before marriage, My grandparents also included dancing and playing cards (they believed it was a sin to use face cards and we only played Rook.) So godliness was a sort of respectability, although that turned out in some cases to be outward respectability. And perhaps, in some cases, that included going to church. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I still remember my aunt telling me once, when I talked to her about the "good old days" in her hometown and home church, about men being active in church, that she replied, "And then they went home and beat their wives."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, "make America godly again?" I have mixed feelings. I would want to know what the definition of godliness was. I would want to know what the criteria was. I would hope that rather than barring the doors and keeping people out, true godliness would include mercy and wide welcome. It would include seeing the image of God in one another, and even the stranger. You know, like Jesus, who hung around with sinners and accepted dinner invitations from them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think as well that I would be careful about wearing a "Make America Godly Again" t-shirt. If I did, it wouldn’t be gray. It would be all the colors. Godliness would be vibrant, with open arms. Godliness would rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. Godliness would laugh, and sing. And be humble. Godliness would have room for more people, not fewer, because it would be based on the huge surprise of grace.<br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-81208943913261809472023-07-18T13:02:00.003-05:002023-07-19T16:41:15.454-05:00What makes a church good?<p> Early one steamy morning my husband and I were walking our dog around the common areas of our community. It was early enough that the lawn workers were out, mowing and weeding and beautifying, and as we walked along the circle, one of them paused mowing to let us pass. I thanked him, and asked him how he was.</p><p>“I want to quit!” He said. </p><p>“How long have you been doing this?” I replied.</p><p>“Three days. But I know I don’t want to do this the rest of my life. I think I might want to go to college.”</p><p>I asked him which college, and he quickly named a well-regarded college nearby. I offered that one of the young people from my church would be attending that college this fall.</p><p>He asked if I attended the church down the street, and I said, No, and I named my church (Grace) and where it was located.</p><p>Then he asked, “Is it a good church?”</p><p>Before I could say anything, my husband responded, “SHE’S the pastor!”</p><p>The young man looked surprised. “YOU’RE the pastor?”</p><p>Sometimes it is difficult to imagine that after all these years (women have been ordained for over 50 years in my denomination) people are still shocked that I exist. And yet, it’s not his final comment that reverberates; it’s his question: “Is it a good church?”</p><p>It made me wonder what a “good church” would look like to him. Maybe that’s why I hesitated to say “yes." I think that my church is good (after all, I’m the pastor), but in what way is it good? Would he think so? And even though I think we are “good” (whatever that means), I don’t think we are a perfect church. There are times that I am amazed by our love and generosity — I still remember the Spirit I felt when our congregation blessed our two high school seniors and gave them quilts that our quilters group made. On that day, I thought, “This is a great church!”</p><p>One of our newer members lives alone; when he had medical appointments, some of our other members gave him rides to and from the doctor’s office. And when the son of a friend of the congregation needed to get married over a weekend leave, members of the congregation made sure he and his fiancé were welcomed, and made the celebration happen.</p><p>When an older member of the congregation died suddenly, almost 30 members of the church attended her funeral, even though it was at another venue about forty miles away.</p><p>But, if I am honest, there are other moments too: times when someone (even me) said the wrong thing at the wrong time. There have been moments when the livestream failed, or the sermon fell short. The music isn’t always perfect.</p><p>But, what makes a church good? That’s what I am thinking about. I don’t know what this young man thinks. I don’t know if a good church for him is large, and has a band, or small, and has prayer groups. I don’t know if a good church for him is sure about everything, or leaves room for doubt. </p><p>For me, this is what makes a church good: a church that listens to the children and the shut ins. A church that hears the voice of God, in scripture, but also in outcasts. A church that practices forgiveness. A church that knows Jesus, and wants to know him better. A church that cares for one another, and for others. This church doesn’t need to be large, but there is always room for more.</p><p>What makes a church good?</p>Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-69821376639604986882022-04-25T12:34:00.003-05:002022-04-25T12:34:32.887-05:00Practice Resurrection: Doubt and Trust<p> <span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Since our service didn't broadcast this weekend, I thought I would share my sermon here:</span></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Alleluia! Christ is risen!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He is risen indeed! Alleluia!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I’ll be honest. I thought I wasn’t going to have a sermon series for the season of Easter. I’ll just preach week to week, I thought – and then, I came across a poem by a man named Wendell Berry. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Wendell Berry is a Christian, a farmer, and a writer. I believe he lives in Kentucky. The poem is called “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” -- promise, I won’t read it to you – <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Throughout the poem are strewn odd words of advice like these: “Love the Lord. Love the world. Work for nothing.” “Ask the questions that have no answers.” “Love someone who does not deserve it.” “Plant Sequoias.” “Laugh.” “Be Joyful though you have considered all the facts.” The last two words of the poem are these: ‘Practice Resurrection.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> How do you “practice resurrection”? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It’s not a bad question to ask throughout the season of Easter -- not bad to consider for these 50 days. How do you practice resurrection? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Isn’t it something that is Just given to you? It just happens. You can’t do it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> You can’t resurrect yourself – God has to do it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And yet—in some ways we CAN practice – by – well – planting sequoias (or bluebonnets) , or being joyful though you have considered all of the facts. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> So this Easter we are going to practice resurrection – and I hope you will also send in your ideas as well.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And I can’t think of any way better to begin to practice resurrection than with the story of Thomas. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Thomas, the great doubter. “Doubting Thomas.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I feel a little sorry for him, being stuck with such a nickname. After all, if you read the gospels carefully, that’s not ALL that Thomas was. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> In John 11, Thomas was brave – he was the one who said to Jesus – when he said he was going to Lazarus, “Let us go, that we may die with him.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And we have Thomas to thank for asking that great question in John 14, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going. How can we know the way?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> for Jesus answered him by saying, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.” Where would we be without Thomas’ question? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But “doubting Thomas”, that’s what we remember – that’s what sticks -- but that’s not even really true. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I know our translation has Jesus saying, “Do not doubt but believe” – but in reality Thomas wasn’t just doubting – he was unbelieving. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He didn’t say “I doubt it”. He said. “I don’t believe it.” Or, “I won’t believe it – unless I see.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Maybe that’s even worse. But it’s honest. And You know what? I’ll take that honesty. I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be honest when you are standing in front of Jesus. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> So maybe that’s one part of practicing resurrection. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> No platitudes. Be honest. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Be honest about your doubts, your struggles, your questions. Like Thomas. Put it out there. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It’s risky and vulnerable because there are always people out there who might think you are not a good enough Christian if you have any questions, or if you are struggling with something. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But I admire Thomas’ honesty – that he is willing to come out with it right in front of the disciples and say, “Unless I see the nail holes – unless I can put my hand in them – I will not believe.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But I can’t help thinking that this isn’t just about Thomas. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It’s about the other disciples too – what they did and didn’t do. When Thomas wasn’t there with them on Easter evening – they went out looking for him. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And whatever flaws there were in the relationships between the disciples – and I am sure there were some <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> -- he felt that he could be honest with them – tell them what he was really feeling – and they wouldn’t cast him into the outer darkness. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> So a community willing to listen and walk with one another – in both joyful and painful times – is practicing resurrection.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> There’s another thing I would like to thank Thomas for – if it wasn’t for his unbelief – we wouldn’t have Jesus’ words, “Have you believed because you have seen me? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Blessed are those who have NOT seen – and yet have come to believe.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Because like the words, “I am the way the truth and the life,” those words are for all of us. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They are for those of us who have not seen – and yet – somehow – for some reason – have come to believe. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They are for those of us who were not blessed with those literal, first-century resurrection appearances – although I will say they must have been as terrifying as they were amazing. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Blessed are we who believe that Jesus rose – even though we weren’t there. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Or maybe a better word than believe is this “ Trust.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Blessed are those who have not seen – and yet have come to trust.” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Because trust is not just about what you know in your mind – but trust has to do with relationships – and it is active. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> For example – I’m thinking about when we stayed in an AirBnb one time on travel – and we stayed in a stranger’s home – in one of their extra bedrooms. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I didn’t think about it at the time, but that took a certain level of trust – both on our part – and on the part of our host. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Doubt AND Trust – both a part of practicing Resurrection. Because we live in a world where both Good Friday – and Easter – are real – and are happening at the same time. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I couldn’t help noticing a news story from Ukraine last week that churches in Lviv were full on Easter Sunday. Why? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They are living in a time of violence and struggle and suffering – which might seem so contrary to our proclamation of the resurrection. They are looking around and seeing death, and fear. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And at the same time – they are proclaiming with their lives the hope of the resurrection – the things they do not see – but trust – the victory of the love of God.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> In you life there will be times you will know – that God is holding you close. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And there will be times when you will ask the question, “Where is God? Why is this happening?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Embrace both of these realities. They are both true.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They say that Doubting Thomas eventually travelled far – all the way to India. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> There are very old Christian churches in India that date themselves back to doubting Thomas. And who knows whether any of the legends are true. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But I like to think that – if he indeed went – that went both with trust and with questions – with struggles and with faith. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He opened a door not knowing what was on the other side – except that Jesus was there. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He went -- practicing resurrection.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> May we trust that – Christ is risen – every day – and practice resurrection in our lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> AMEN<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-34787816136910549482022-04-12T20:12:00.007-05:002022-04-12T20:12:58.254-05:00Loving the Questions<p>Lately I have been noticing that I LOVE questions. Sometimes (I'll be honest) I love questions simply because I know the answer and knowing the answer makes me feel smart and even useful.</p><p>For example, on Sunday at confirmation one of the student's mothers asked a question about our worship service that morning. We had Palm Sunday and included just a portion of the story of Jesus' suffering and death. On the way home her husband had asked, "Where does Judas come in?" She said, "I'll ask Pastor tonight at confirmation." And I felt a surge of pastoral usefulness as I told her that Judas comes in before the section of scripture we read -- he had betrayed Jesus earlier in the story, and he's already out of the picture.</p><p>The week before I went to visit a woman with communion in her home. She was ready for me with "questions for the pastor". I realize that I love these moments -- she wanted to know the meaning of the phrase, "By his stripes we are healed." And I could do that. </p><p>I love questions.</p><p>But I realize that there is more than one kind of question -- there is another kind of question, and sometimes I am privileged to hear it. It's not a question that makes me feel smart, or useful. It is a kind of question that makes me feel humble, and (I'll admit) a little uncomfortable. It is a question that makes me feel like I am walking on holy ground. The question is bigger than I am.</p><p>Last week, someone asked me a question like that.</p><p>He was four.</p><p>The question he asked was, "Why is Jesus so important?"</p><p>How do you answer a question like that? That is not a question to be answered (not really), but a question to be lived. It is a question that I hope will follow this boy his whole life, and I hope he will discover different answers to it at different ages. I wonder what he will discover by asking why Jesus is so important.</p><p>A little while later, someone else asked another question, "Why did Jesus have to die?"</p><p>She also was four.</p><p>And you may disagree, but I believe that this is the same kind of question. I do not know the answer to that question, not really. I know some people say they know, but I don't. In the same way that I don't really know why anyone "has to" suffer -- but they do. </p><p>And yet</p><p>This is Holy Week, and I can't help thinking that this is the week for these kinds of questions. The second kind. The kind that humble you, and make you realize that you are standing on holy ground. The kind that you live with your whole life. </p><p>This is Holy Week. The week for questions that are bigger than I am.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-51544225483991946342020-07-21T18:15:00.006-05:002020-07-22T06:29:18.324-05:00Wheat and Weeds, ReduxOn Sunday I preached the parable of the wheat and the weeds, the one where there is good seed sown by a good sower and an enemy that mucks things up by sowing weeds while everyone is sleeping. And before that, on Tuesday evening, when we had read this parable and its explanation at an online Bible study, there was silence afterward we finished reading. And someone said, "I don't like this parable." And I think that part of it was just that the parable itself ends with the image of the weeds being burned and the wheat being gathered, and the explanation has that line about casting out evildoers and the weeping and gnashing of teeth. <br />
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So, it's not (in some ways) what you would call a "feel good" parable, although I wrestled a blessing out of it, pointing out that God lets the wheat and weeds grow together because God doesn't want to lose even one shock of wheat, and as well pointing out that the presence of the weeds does not mean God has abandoned the field. <br />
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Afterwards my husband asked me why I had not used our own yard as a sermon illustration: with our many weeds that we struggle to control, and our St. Augustine grass (which we had never heard of up north) which we THOUGHT was a weed, and were merrily trying to pull out. I said that I had thought about it but I had way too much material for one sermon. So the St. Augustine grass did not make it into the sermon.<br />
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But he also told me afterwards that the one thing I mentioned that he had never noticed before was that the reason the sower doesn't want to dig up any weeds is that the wheat would be uprooted at the same time. In other words, their roots are too close together, even entangled. He had never noticed that. Frankly, neither had I. I had always focussed on the interesting idea that this particular weed looked a lot like wheat. But the fact that it might not even be possible to uproot weeds without uprooting some wheat along with it -- that never made an impression on me. <br />
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But I'm thinking more and more about that entangled wheat these days. Maybe it's COVID 19 and our attempts to quarantine and protect ourselves from the virus. Maybe it's the fact that there are many gated communities around me, or the fact that we seem to live in bubbles defined by our race or class or even our politics. We surround ourselves with people who think like us, whether or not they look like us. <br />
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But the truth is, we are all tangled up in each other, and our fates are intertwined. Even if we live in gated communities. Even at our most segregated. I remember that some people would say: why should I care about the public schools? My kids are grown up now. And someone else would say: I care, because the children who go to those schools will be the teachers and police officers, and custodians and politicians in my community, and I want them all to be well educated. We touch each other's lives, whether we want to or not. <br />
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Our fates are intertwined. We belong to each other. That's God's honest truth, although some days it may make us weep and gnash our teeth.<br />
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But someday, when all of the weeds inside us are burned, perhaps we will rejoice in this. Perhaps we'll see the beauty in the dandelion and stop trying to dig up the Augustine grass, and notice that the wheat is springing up and bearing fruit, to share.Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-39270152739569983082020-05-22T20:52:00.000-05:002020-07-21T17:06:19.014-05:00Singing, in and out of ChurchMy dad always sang in the shower. He sang in the car, too. And, he sang in church, standing right next to me. He sang all of the hymns, and all of the liturgy, and even the bass part on the three-fold amen. Sometimes, in the quiet of my heart, I can still hear him, singing in church. Because he sang, I sang too. I learned Beautiful Savior, and What a Friend in Jesus, and Children of the Heavenly Father, and Immortal, Invisible, God only Wise.<br />
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It wasn't just church, of course. My mom played a little bit of piano, just enough so that we could sing a few of the old standards. And of course, there was always the shower, and the car. There was always a lot of singing, and singing along.<br />
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So during this season that we have not been in the church building, it has been the singing together that I have missed. I wanted to make sure that the services that we provided included some singing -- not just music, but singing, even if it was just one person, or two people. Maybe nobody would sing along. But maybe someone would. Maybe even a few people would. I hoped so. I imagined just one person, maybe, sitting at their computer, singing along to a familiar song at worship. I imagined that perhaps a family or two would not just stare at the screen, but sing along as we were singing a hymn, or a contemporary song.<br />
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We went to church every single Sunday when I was a little girl. I mean it. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow would ever keep us from missing Sunday morning worship (although I think that measles did, once). We did not travel much, back when I was a little girl, so church was like clockwork; we never missed. So I have a very vivid memory of the one time that my parents decided to sleep in, and not go to church one Sunday morning. I have no idea what possessed them, but it did not catch on. But what I remember is that my sister and I stood in the middle of the living room floor, holding my dad's old hymnbook, and we sang the liturgy.<br />
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I'm not sure why we did it. Nobody told us we could; and nobody told us we couldn't. But we decided we wanted to do something holy that Sunday morning, even though we weren't in the church building.<br />
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So we sang.<br />
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These days, I am heartbroken. I have heard that during the current pandemic, it is not safe to sing in church. It is not safe to sing together. That's what they say. So when we finally do gather, we won't be singing. And it will feel strange. Because church has been one of the few places left where we still sing together. <br />
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I can't help but think, though, that perhaps this is a time to find our voice, not just in our church buildings, but out of them. In the middle of the living room, for starters. To learn to sing, and to speak, even when we can only imagine the other people singing along. <br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oKZf-yJINtY/XsiC-bkZ3lI/AAAAAAAAEqI/xHK09g6OansNxbSckHdJRiNly5mw6OYdwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/thumb_IMG_1172_1024%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oKZf-yJINtY/XsiC-bkZ3lI/AAAAAAAAEqI/xHK09g6OansNxbSckHdJRiNly5mw6OYdwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/thumb_IMG_1172_1024%2B2.jpg" width="240" /></a>I heard recently from a friend whose church worships on Zoom. The choir director there tells everyone to mute themselves when they begin a hymn. Then, he tells them, "you can sing as loud as you want to!" <br />
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I love this. When I think of it, I think of my dad, singing in the shower, or in the car, or in his whole life. And I think of my immigrant foremothers and fathers. They didn't have many books, but they had their Bibles, and they had their hymnals. They carried church with them. They had home altars. They lit the candles, and they sang.<br />
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Every once in awhile, someone from my church will post a picture of their home worship space. their candle, or their Bible, or whatever it is they need to set the space apart. It gives me a little bit of hope. Maybe the children are standing in the middle of the living room, singing. Maybe they are having a conversation about God. Maybe they are praying out loud, even when they are alone. <br />
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So, let us sing. Alone, for now<br />
. Loudly or softly. Whether we sing in tune or not. And let us sing of a love wider than we can imagine, stronger than death, greater than our national interests, bigger than the whole universe.Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-29865717085904758962020-02-28T22:06:00.003-06:002020-02-28T22:08:32.472-06:00Oil and AshesOn Sunday evening, I got a phone call from a member of our congregation. She wanted me to know about another member of the church who was dying. She wanted to make sure I knew, and that I would go out to see her as soon as possible. <br />
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A little later I got a text from someone else with the same message. It was already late, so I resolved to go over early the next morning. <br />
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That Sunday morning we had been on the mountaintop with Jesus. It was a brief, shining encounter; we raised up brightly colored Alleluias and shouted and then put them away for Lent. That morning we remembered the words, "This is my beloved son, with whom I am well-pleased."<br />
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Then, on Monday morning, I drove over to the assisted living center where this 101 year old woman lived. I considered that she had faithfully attended worship almost every single Sunday, but not the day before. One of her daughters-in-law was at the door of her apartment when I arrived. She was sleeping peacefully. I prayed and sang and spoke in her ear; I sang Beautiful Savior and What a Friend we Have in Jesus. I told her how important she was; how much the children loved her. Her daughter-in-law told her that her husband was waiting for her, that everyone would be all right.<br />
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Then I got a small container of oil out of my purse. It was something I had just received; a hand-me-down from a retired pastor. I hadn't used it before. I unscrewed the lid; there was not much balm left, but there was enough to put on my finger, and on her forehead, and to say the words, "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit, and marked by the cross of Christ forever." <br />
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And I remember that after that, her daughter in law took the container from me for a moment and she smelled the fragrance of that small amount of balm. <br />
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It was two days before Ash Wednesday.<br />
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On Wednesday morning at 7:30 I was standing in the lobby of our congregation's pre-school. Parents came in with babies and toddlers, and I was there to offer ashes and strange words to anyone who stopped. "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return." And although not everyone stopped, some did, expressing thanks, some silently. One man told me that he was raised Catholic, but hadn't been for awhile. Several brought their children to be marked as well. <br />
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And even though I do this, I offer the words and the ashes, I have to wonder what it is that draws people to the ashes and the words, "Remember that you are dust"? It seems like the last thing we would want to remember. <br />
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A little later, I held a chapel service for the children over in our sanctuary. We heard the story of Shadrach, Mesach and Abednego in the fiery furnace, and how the fourth man was with them in the flames, so that they were not burned. And afterwards, two of the teachers and several of the older children also wanted ashes on their foreheads, in the form of a cross. <br />
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"Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."<br />
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After the chapel service, when I arrived at the church office, and I learned that my 101 year old member had died that morning.<br />
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"You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked by the cross of Christ forever."<br />
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Oil and ashes, we are marked. We are born and we die. We die, and we are born again.<br />
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At the end of the day I got a message from a young mother from my church. She said they had really hoped to come to the noon service, but they didn't make it. <br />
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But before she went to bed, her daughter went to the fireplace, and found ashes and marked her parents with the ashes. With the sign of the cross.<br />
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You are dust, you are marked with oil and ashes. You are born and you die. You die, and you are born again.Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-1518399818093799432020-02-17T16:28:00.003-06:002020-02-17T16:28:37.892-06:00A Tale of Two FuneralsA week ago on Monday afternoon I was here for the memorial service of one of my parish members. That's probably not an unusual thing for a pastor to say. I've held a lot of funerals through the years. But, until recently, i have not had many in this little congregation. <br />
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I remember meeting with the family the Thursday before. She wanted to have two hours visitation starting at 12:00. The service would be at 2:00 p.m. They chose two hymns; I urged them to include one more. They had two friends as eulogists as well. The man's wife and children spoke so warmly of their husband and father, memories of family events and things that he had done in the communities where they lived, including (I remember) that he liked to read to the children at Head Start. And I remember that she was concerned that our church would be large enough. They had heard from many people who planned to attend. We had extra chairs ready for the narthex and the balcony, just in case we would need them.<br />
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As it turned out, we did need them. This little church of ours was packed that Monday afternoon. I have never really seen anything like it before. I have been to a few other large funerals, but it felt like people just kept coming, squeezing into every nook and cranny, singing "Beautiful Savior" at the top of our lungs. I did not see this, but i was told that there was a line of cars stretching down the highway waiting to get into our small parking lot. <br />
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It is not very often that you get a glimpse of the impact that one life can have. One ordinary life. This man, though beloved, was not in any way famous. He did not have an especially large family. He was active in his church and he was active in his community. There was something humbling about trying to squeeze all of those people into our little building that day. It felt like God was shouting at us to have faith -- that though we are small, God is mighty. Just look around. Look at all of the people. Look at how God works in the world.<br />
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That is how I felt that day.<br />
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Inevitably, though, I thought back. It was early December, the beginning of Advent. I was preparing for a funeral that day too. We had gotten word that an elderly member of our congregation had died on Thanksgiving Day. Her daughter called and asked if we could have a small memorial service in our church. Of course we could. This woman had been a faithful member of our congregation for many years. I remembered where she always sat, every single week. I remember that she wore a sweater, even when it was hot. I remember how her son started bringing her to church, when she became ill. During the last several months, people asked after her when she was not able to come to church. <br />
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On that day in early December, there were not many people in the church. A few family members, a few faithful members of my congregation, who had looked out for her. My heart warmed to see them. One woman who came expressed dismay at the small group of people gathered. She was as shocked to see this small group of worshipers as we were shocked to see the great crowds last week.<br />
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I don't remember much about the funeral, except that her granddaughter gave a lovely solo. I remembered a particular sermon I had given, when I asked members of the congregation to share their favorite Bible verses, and this quiet unassuming woman had raised her voice and quoted Isaiah 59:1, "The arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor is his ear too deaf to hear." Her family shared stories of her love and faith and strength. <br />
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And it was no less true that day in December -- though we are small, God is mighty. Look around.<br />
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This is how God works in the world.<br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-20792126348299849732020-01-22T22:41:00.004-06:002020-01-22T22:41:59.428-06:00Following JesusIt's that time of year again: it's the time of year that we hear Jesus calling disciples as he walks alongside the sea. It's the beginning of his ministry. He has gotten baptized, and gone into the wilderness, and now here he is, saying "Repent, the Kingdom of heaven is at hand!" And he walks along, and he sees Peter and Andrew, and simply says, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people." And they follow him.<br />
<br />
Immediately.<br />
<br />
This blows my mind. I mean, simply the word "immediately" blows my mind. They don't have to think it over? They don't have to make a list of pros and cons? I just can't imagine "immediately." They just leave everything they know in order to "fish for people."<br />
<br />
They are fisherman, and some people think this is what is so attractive, this is the thing that intrigues them. They fish for fish, and Jesus says they will fish for people instead. Jesus has used exactly the right words to catch them. <br />
<br />
Right now, though, I'm thinking about this. All they know about Jesus is one phrase: "Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven has drawn near." That's all. He hasn't healed anyone. He hasn't preached. He hasn't multiplied any loaves or cast out any demons. He has said this one sentence, and it is "Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven has drawn near." And then he calls them.<br />
<br />
And they follow. Immediately.<br />
<br />
He gives them no details. They don't know where he is going. There is no "strategic plan", no monthly goals to meet. I'm not saying that Jesus doesn't know where he is going, but he doesn't tell them, at least not at this point. Later on, he will let them in on the secret of his death and resurrection, but the words will not sound so clear to the disciples as they do to us.<br />
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I keep looking for something that will explain the disciples' eagerness to follow. Immediately. Perhaps when they heard the words "Kingdom of heaven" they saw a vision -- maybe those words conjured up a dream. What kind of dream could it have been? What did they think the kingdom of heaven was, that made them want to get up and start fishing for people? <br />
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What could someone say to you that would make you want to leave everything behind? What is so good that you will risk everything for it? <br />
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The Kingdom of heaven. A place where there is enough. Where you don't have to lock your doors. Where the leaves of the trees are for the healing of the nations, or for you. A place where those crushed by life will be restored. A place where they would finally be out of debt, forgiven, free.<br />
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Is that what it was? Is that what made them follow?<br />
<br />
What could someone say to you that would make you want to leave everything behind? What is so good that you will risk everything for it?<br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-19482432483878365992020-01-17T10:30:00.001-06:002020-01-19T14:20:59.263-06:00Just MercyLast Friday my husband indulged me by going with me to the movie "Just Mercy", which had just opened up in our community. It's not that he didn't want to see the movie, but that I had read Bryan Stevenson's book in 2015, shortly after moving to this community from Minnesota. I remembered the strong emotions the book elicited, and its stories that put a human face on many death-row prisoners -- some of them guilty, some of them innocent. I remembered its main story well, about Walter McMillan, framed for a murder he did not commit, and the irony that his story took place in Monroeville, where Harper Lee wrote "To Kill a Mockingbird."<br />
<br />
Very near the beginning of the movie is this small vignette, which I remembered from the introduction to his book. Bryan Stevenson is still a law student, and he is going to visit an inmate on death row for the first time. He doesn't know the young man, and he doesn't have good news. He is anxious about the contact on many levels. He wonders if this inmate will be bitter and abusive to him. But when he goes to the prison, that's not what he finds. He finds a young man who is much like him, who had a similar church background, sang the same songs, lived in similar kinds of experiences. He tells the young man that he will not be executed in the coming year, and he reacts as if it's the best news he ever heard. Now, he says, he can invite his wife and children to visit him, because there's no danger that he will be inviting them on the day of his execution.<br />
<br />
They ended up talking well over the one hour limit (which raised the ire of the prison guard). As the angry guard pushed the prisoner back out of the room to his cell amid Stevenson's protests, the young man suddenly burst into song, "Higher Ground." He sang with conviction in a deep baritone voice,<br />
<br />
<i>Lord lift me up and let me stand</i><br />
<i>By faith in Heaven's tableland</i><br />
<i>A higher plane, that I have found</i><br />
<i>Lord, plant my feet on Higher Ground.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Stevenson says that in that moment he experienced grace. He did not expect to receive hope from this young man on death row. He wondered how many people we meet, in how many circumstances, we do not really see.<br />
<br />
The words Jesus speaks in this week's gospel are his first recorded words in John's gospel. They are all provocative in their own way. "What are you looking for?" "Come and see." <br />
<br />
But today I am thinking that it is the third time that is the most powerful. Andrew brings his brother Simon to meet Jesus. Jesus looks at Simon and sees him, and says. 'You are Simon, son of John." But that's not all he says. He continues, "From now on you will be called Cephas" (which means Peter). Jesus sees Simon, and he sees a Rock. <br />
<br />
Bryan Stevenson has spent his life working for justice for those many of us do not see. He sees people battered by life experience, struggling against disability, some wrongfully imprisoned, some trying to rise above the worst they ever did. But before he could help them, he had to see them. It's not as easy to do as it is to talk about it. But it is a moment of grace. Both to see -- and to be seen.<br />
<br />
How many people do we meet, in how many circumstances, that we do not really see?<br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-36334926137158344852019-12-20T20:17:00.001-06:002019-12-21T08:18:18.885-06:00In Those Days...Here it is, a few days before Christmas. I have been lighting the candles and saying the prayers and going about my duties and my days, meeting with people and reading but not taking as much time for intentional reflection as I'd like.<br />
<br />
A couple of days ago I went to visit a shut-in, and I brought my old confirmation Bible along with me instead of the newer, shinier translation. It's still in pretty good shape, even though it is about 50 years old. And I read out of that old translation, about Caesar Augustus and swaddling cloths, and I remembered back to when I made it my mission to memorize Luke chapter 2, out of this very translation.<br />
<br />
I think I was ten or eleven years old, and I don't remember why I took up the challenge to memorize these passages. It wasn't required for a Christmas pageant; my parents were not encouraging me to memorize scripture passages. I didn't go to a parochial school either. But somehow, one December I decided that this was what I would like to do: memorize as much of the Christmas story as I could. <br />
<br />
Every day I would crunch through the snow on the way to school, and I would start out with chapter 2, verse 1, and see how far I could get. I didn't know who Quirinius was, or where Syria was, and I didn't know that the word "Caesar" meant "Emperor", but I plowed through the verses, understanding more or less, getting a little farther every day. <br />
<br />
"In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled. this was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria."<br />
<br />
I think I may have made it all the way to verse 14, in the end. Every day I walked and recited, I recited and walked. It was December. <br />
<br />
I suppose it was my Advent discipline, although I would not have said so at the time. At the time, I don't think I knew what an Advent discipline was. And I'm not sure that the process of memorization itself yielded any special insights into the scriptures -- at least not at the time.<br />
<br />
I think back to that year. I have been a pastor now for twenty-five years. At the time I tried to memorize the Christmas story I had no idea how my life would turn out. I had not an inkling that I would be doing this work, that I would be reciting the story myself every single year.<br />
<br />
A few years ago, in another congregation, I was visiting a shut-in just a few days before Christmas. He was a retired pastor who had served our congregation. Recently he had had a stroke, and this hearty active man was now in a nursing home, barely able to speak. <br />
<br />
I came with communion and the Christmas story. His wife joined us. She was there every day, all day, just staying with him. And when I began to read from Luke chapter 2, he started saying the words along with me.<br />
<br />
By heart.<br />
<br />
Every once in awhile he would fade out, but he always came back strongly on three words, "in a manger". And while we were speaking together, reciting together, I noticed that those three words, "in a manger" -- were repeated three times in that one chapter. How could I have been reading those words all these years and not noticed this.<br />
<br />
There is so much in the Christmas story -- the shepherds and the angels, the long journey to Bethlehem, "Glory to God in the highest!" And in the middle of it all is the manger. The child is lying in a manger.<br />
<br />
This is the sign. This is the sign of Christmas. It is the manger that carries the child. <br />
<br />
All those years ago, I trudged up and down the streets, and I memorized the words, not knowing where the words really led. And then one day, many years later, they led to the manger. The lowly place.<br />
<br />
And the words became food: the bread of life. In a manger. <br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-91252963556676979192019-11-13T22:17:00.004-06:002019-11-13T22:17:27.758-06:00Foreign LanguagesOn Friday, my day off, my husband and I drove south into Houston to attend the annual Christmas Bazaar at the Norwegian Seaman's church. In some ways, going to this event seems a lot like going home: my home state in Minnesota has a large Scandinavian-American community, and the decorations and the flavors and the sounds had a comforting familiarity.<br />
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And yet, it wasn't exactly the same. This wasn't a church for people with a nostalgic, distant memory of their homeland, but for strangers and sojourners, people getting used to a new country. Instead of feeling like the closed ethnic communities in my home state, there was an international flavor as we bumped into people from all over the country. We talked to Minnesota Swedish Baptists and Wisconsin Lutherans and Norwegian immigrants planning a pilgrimage to the northern regions of the United States over the Christmas holiday.<br />
<br />
While milling around a large crowd shopping for Scandinavian Christmas decorations, I happened to overhear some familiar sounds. I recognized the sound of the Japanese language, although (sadly) I didn't understand any of the words. I turned around and noticed four women perusing the Swedish linens and the Christmas trolls. <br />
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It has been over thirty years since I left Japan, after three and a half years as a missionary and teacher. I recognized the sound of Japanese. But I no longer understand the actual words. Still, I wanted to make a connection. <br />
<br />
'Are you from Japan?" I asked (in English).<br />
<br />
"Kyoto," they told me.<br />
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"Ah," I answered. "I lived in Japan a long time ago." I emphasized word "long" so that they would not misunderstand that I was fluent in any way. <br />
<br />
"Where did you live?" one of the women asked. "Tokyo," I answered, ".... and Kumamoto."<br />
<br />
"Ah," they answered. (Kumamoto is not known as a haven for foreigners.)<br />
<br />
We all nodded to one another in the Japanese way, and then we parted. It was a small encounter. I didn't find out why they were here, or for how long, or how they found this place. It was almost as crowded in the church as in a crowded train in Tokyo; hardly room to turn around, much less to have a conversation. <br />
<br />
A little later I was standing in line to buy some Christmas decorations. Right in front of me was one of the four women from Kyoto. She had some small decorations, and I said, by way of making conversation, "Those make good gifts." <br />
<br />
"Not gifts," she answered. Then there was a pause, and she said the word, "Souvenir."<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGvjSawrl7c/XczVOp2jUZI/AAAAAAAAEWA/Cc8fCPyx4cYCfNcPwXp0pzZHpzQ3csg0wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/norwegian%2Bseaman%2Bchurch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGvjSawrl7c/XczVOp2jUZI/AAAAAAAAEWA/Cc8fCPyx4cYCfNcPwXp0pzZHpzQ3csg0wCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/norwegian%2Bseaman%2Bchurch.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
I paused too, and I remembered something -- one word -- in a language I (mostly) no longer understood. I remembered the word for souvenir in Japanese. "Omiyage?" I said. <br />
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I remembered what it was like to be a tourist and a teacher and a missionary, and the "omiyage" that I brought home. A Japanese ningyo, a handkerchief with flowers, a teacup, a pair of bamboo chopsticks. I was buying memories, hoping that so many years later, I would remember something about living in that strange place. <br />
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And there is so much that I have forgotten. I recognize the sounds, but I no longer understand most of the words. <br />
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But there is omiyage. There are souvenirs, and somehow they still do the job: they make real the memories that seem so far away. Was my life transformed on that narrow island so long ago, when I taught students English and Jesus, and saw God in their faces? Did I listen to church services in Japanese, and join the members afterwards for curried rice served by the pastors wife? <br />
<br />
Sometimes it surprises me how spiritual we think we should be. After all, we believe that God became flesh and blood, and that his disciples touched him and he touched them, and that they ate and drank together. And when he left, I wonder if there were times when they forgot what the sound of his voice was like, or forgot the meaning of his words. <br />
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But there are still souvenirs -- things we taste and touch -- that suddenly bring the meaning back to us. All we need is a word -- or a phase sometimes -- "Bread of Life" or "Good Shepherd" -- to remind us that we once spoke a foreign language, and hoped for a better country.<br />
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<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-13015730439773005442019-10-23T22:02:00.002-05:002019-10-24T08:44:47.041-05:00Seen and UnseenEarly this week a woman from my congregation stopped by and said she needed to talk to me. She told me about a couple in her neighborhood that she visits. They are somewhat shut in, so she has been checking on them and visiting with them to make sure they are okay. Lately, the husband has been diagnosed with a terminal illness. She asked him if he wanted a pastor to come and visit him. As it turns out, he had an affiliation with our denomination earlier in his life, and when she asked him, he got tears in his eyes. She wondered if I would be open to paying them a visit.<br />
<br />
Not too longer before that, a man from my congregation mentioned that his family had taken a single mom and her son under their wing. They have gotten to know each other. The mom has to leave early in the morning for work, before her son has to get up to catch the bus for school. So sometimes this man will go and knock on their door in the morning to make sure her son is up and ready for school.<br />
<br />
Recently our congregation completed a modest capital drive. For part of our capital drive, we finished a modest face-lift of our sanctuary. Now that we're done, we're asking, what's the next step? We are talking about the necessity to reach out in our community in new ways -- to know our neighbors, and think of ways that we can meet the felt needs in our community. We are not a large congregation, but we know that we need to be a part of our neighborhood, know our neighbors, and care about them in real and concrete ways. <br />
<br />
In the middle of thinking about what our "church" could do, I thought about these two small encounters that I knew about -- the woman who visits her shut-in neighbors, the family who has befriended a teen-age boy and his mom. How many other unseen encounters are there in my congregation, just like these?<br />
<br />
It's easy to focus on the things we can see. In fact, it pretty much all we can do. I can see the people who come to make supper for the homeless families who stay at our church a few times a year. I can tell you all of the names of those who help serve communion or help with the children's church or make breakfast one Sunday a month. I am grateful for the quilters who gather on Fridays, the altar guild who prepare the altar on Saturdays, the Bible study leaders who meet in homes. <br />
<br />
But it suddenly occurred to me that so much may be going on that I cannot see, and that because I don't see it, I don't honor it, and make sure people know how important it is, and that this is a part of their calling to love their neighbor.<br />
<br />
I keep reading things about how the church is too inwardly-focussed, too much worrying about maintaining their property and membership and comfort, and not enough focussed on their neighbors. But maybe part of the problem is that this is what we can see -- but there is so much going on that we can't see and don't notice. <br />
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The same person who tells me she doesn't know what it means to be outwardly focussed -- just got home from going to the funeral of a neighbor's son. She didn't know that what she was doing was ministry. <br />
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I noticed recently that a woman had not been to church for awhile. In fact, it occurred to me that I had only seen her in church when she had a role in worship. I will admit that my first thoughts were that she only thought it was important to come when she had to do something, but instead I decided to email her and ask how she was doing. <br />
<br />
I found out that she had been through so many stresses in the past few months, illnesses and deaths in her family, people she was supporting with presence and prayer. I had no idea. So much of her life was unseen to me.<br />
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This is the church. Seen and unseen. But so much unseen. Except by God. The One who has planted us deep deep down in the world, from which we do spring up.Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-19766023144410583182019-09-03T21:07:00.002-05:002019-09-03T21:07:21.693-05:00Following JesusOnce upon a time, there was a church that thought they wanted to follow Jesus. I'm not sure what it was, maybe it was the new pastor, and the fact that, after a few years of decline, people were beginning to visit the church. Some of them even joined! For the first time in a long time, they were hopeful about their future. <br />
<br />
That new pastor even encouraged them to have dreams, to think about who they wanted to be and what they wanted to do. She asked them what they thought God wanted them to do. Groups of people from the church began to meet and consider what the gifts and needs of their community and their congregation might be. They studied and they prayed. And when they looked out of their back yard they saw something -- they saw a piece of property that they had had for a long time. Many years before, they had been growing and they thought that their church would be larger. They bought that empty land then but they had not kept growing and the land became a playground and a ball field. They even considered selling it once or twice.<br />
<br />
But after studying this time, when they looked out of the window of their fellowship hall, they had different dreams. They had learned that there was a need for senior housing in their area, and so they had a dream about creating housing for senior in that back yard. They even went a little farther, and considered that in the middle of the senior tower -- they should create -- a day care for children -- so that the old and the young could learn from and bless each other.<br />
<br />
The members of the groups were excited about their ideas. They knew that they were challenging goals, and that they probably would not be able to do everything at once. But they called a meeting of the congregation one evening, where they shared their dreams with others.<br />
<br />
After they got done sharing, one of the older members of the congregation stood up. He opened his Bible and began to read from Luke, chapter 14:<br />
<br />
"For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who see it will begin to ridicule him, saying, 'This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.'"<br />
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That was it. That was all he said. Then he sat down.<br />
<br />
But it was enough. The disciples who had come to the meeting dreaming of following Jesus did not have a reply for the gentleman who spoke. They did not know what to say. They left their dreams behind when they left the meeting that night.<br />
<br />
I wonder about the large crowds who were traveling with Jesus, and what happened when he told them this parable, and the other one, about the king going out to make war against another king. I wonder what those large crowds following Jesus thought when he told them that they needed to hate their lives and carry the cross if they wanted to be his disciples. I wonder if the large crowds got smaller after that. <br />
<br />
Why were they following him in the first place? <br />
<br />
He was eating and drinking with those who were left out; he was giving sight to the blind and restoring lepers to community and making the lame leap for joy. He was multiplying loaves and casting out demons. He was giving life, but there was a cost, and it was everything. They should know that.<br />
<br />
I wonder still about the dreams of that little congregation. Maybe it wasn't what God wanted us to do, after all. Maybe it was all right to give up when we heard those words about counting the cost. But is that why Jesus spoke those words to the crowds? Did he want them to turn away? Did he want them to give up, knowing it was too hard?<br />
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Follow me, he still says, knowing that it is too hard, knowing that we will fail. <br />
<br />
What does he want us to do? <br />
<br />
Maybe he wants us to ask the question.<br />
<br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-64730174604057470912019-08-27T21:46:00.001-05:002019-08-28T08:51:54.072-05:00Hospitality to StrangersMy memories of Hebrews 13:2 go back to my childhood, and a book that I received from my godparents. It was called, <a href="https://www.ebay.com/itm/ANGEL-UNAWARE-by-Dale-Evans-Eogers-1953-hardcover-with-dustjacket/254319329489?hash=item3b369d00d1:g:teQAAOSwfvJdRYeS">"Angel Unaware",</a> by Dale Evans Rogers (remember Roy Rogers?) and was about their young daughter who died while she was yet a child. I remember the positive message that caring for a sick child turned out to be a blessing and a transformation rather than a hardship.<br />
<br />
I suppose that this verse is one of the best known passages of scripture. It's right up there with, "Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, today, and forever." Or "Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen". And who wouldn't want to entertain an angel (even though you didn't know it until afterwards)? <br />
<br />
But since I am now a student of Biblical languages (especially Greek), and since I have been thinking more deeply (especially lately) about the word "stranger", I can't stop thinking about this passage of scripture. <br />
<br />
I start with that really disarmingly short first verse. "Let mutual love continue." You know what "mutual love" is in Greek? Philadelphia. The city of brotherly love. So love your brothers and sisters. That's the first thing. And that makes sense, right? Not controversial at all. Not that I'm saying that it's always EASY, but it makes sense to love "one another."<br />
<br />
But the next part -- about showing hospitality to strangers -- well, that's another thing, if you really think about it. Without any disrespect to Dale Evans Rogers, the word "hospitality to strangers" in Greek is really one word "philoxenia" -- which means "love of the stranger." To be hospitable is to love the stranger. And the word entertain? is the word "xenos" in Greek, which means both to be a host AND to be strange. To be a good host is -- in a way -- to be strange. Or maybe -- just maybe -- the best host knows what it means to be a stranger.<br />
<br />
This blows my mind. This blows my mind as an American and a Christian and a pastor. Partly because when I hear the word "stranger" -- this is a word that I don't associate with angels so much as I do with fear. Especially these days, but not only these days. These days we are afraid of the strangers at the border, people whose lives and poverty we cannot seem to imagine. But most of us -- were at one time strangers and sojourners in this land as well. We were immigrants from somewhere, poor or hopeful or fleeing oppression. Most of our families have a story about when they were strangers, when they didn't know the language, when they prayed that someone would be kind, speak slowly, help them count their change in the grocery store, help them find their way in a strange city or a strange neighborhood. <br />
<br />
But perhaps the best host knows what it means to be a stranger, and perhaps this applies to the church as well. We have become too at home here in this world. We have forgotten what it means to be a stranger, and this affects our ability to truly share the good news. <br />
<br />
I remember that long ago, I lived as a missionary in Japan. I was there to share the gospel, to invite people to the great feast, which is Jesus and his love. But most of the time, I was a stranger. I couldn't read the labels on food in the grocery store. I didn't know how to cook most of the food I found there, at least at first. I only knew a few other people, who came to Japan with me. I understood the rhythm of the liturgy, but not the words. And it seemed to me (although I didn't realize this for a long time) that this was a part of the point. To be a stranger. Not to know everything. Just to know Christ, and him crucified.<br />
<br />
We used to get off the trains in our neighborhood, and walk through the streets, smelling the good smells coming from people's houses. We would joke about knocking on stranger's doors and invite ourselves in for dinner, but we had learned enough Japanese culture to understand that we should never do that. But we knew that we were vulnerable, and needed help to navigate the world.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best host knows what it means to be a stranger. I can't help thinking about Jesus, who was guest at so many parties, and how many people thought they knew him, but they didn't. He was the best host who, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and shared it with his disciples. <br />
<br />
The truth is, the world is a strange place, and the Kingdom of God is stranger still. Love your enemies. Forgive people, and keep forgiving them. Be generous. Give everything away, and you will be rich. You are deeply flawed, and you are deeply loved. You are not what you do. You are not what you buy. Love the stranger.<br />
<br />
There is no "strategy" to mission. It's just love. Love one another. Love the stranger. Love yourself, in all of your strangeness. Love Jesus. After all, the best host knows what it means to be a stranger.Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-21539294313724002502019-08-13T20:25:00.001-05:002019-08-14T11:48:14.082-05:00BilingualThe other day a woman I am acquainted with startled me by saying that she has experienced people telling her to "go back where she came from." I knew that she was born in the United States, so I could not imagine the scenario where someone would say something like that to her.<br />
<br />
"When does this happen?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"When I am talking to my 92 year old father," she said.<br />
<br />
So people assume that, because she is speaking in another language, a language that they perhaps do not understand, that she is somehow less-than. That she does not belong. <br />
<br />
Things like this happen. A woman from my congregation took her daughter to get her driver's license. She has an hispanic last name, and the woman at the office asked if she or her daughter had a green card. She is from CHICAGO. But for some reason or another, because of the arrangement of certain letters in her name, it is assumed that she is less-than. That she does not belong.<br />
<br />
Like my new acquaintance, the one who speaks to her father in Spanish, and to me in English. The fact is (and perhaps this is what really makes people uncomfortable) she is not less-than. She is more-than. She is bilingual.<br />
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I remember going to Disneyland when I was sixteen. It was a long time ago, and we went on a tour with a number of other first-time visitors to Disneyland. The tour guide was telling us all about the history of Disneyland, and then, she turned to some other guests sitting next to us, and she started talking to them in French. I was fascinated. I couldn't imagine being able to just switch languages like that. I couldn't imagine being bilingual.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4kBwU_YwQ-o/XVQ7Lok1deI/AAAAAAAAEMk/qs3sTk9LaQEAPBU5qaq8rPcFy_DArKwhQCLcBGAs/s1600/Grandma%2BJudy%2Bpostcard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="265" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4kBwU_YwQ-o/XVQ7Lok1deI/AAAAAAAAEMk/qs3sTk9LaQEAPBU5qaq8rPcFy_DArKwhQCLcBGAs/s1600/Grandma%2BJudy%2Bpostcard.jpg" /></a>This is the immigrant experience. It was the experience of my grandparents, on both sides. My grandma Judy came from Sweden as a young woman, worked as a domestic in Connecticut, and kept her foot in both countries for awhile, traveling back and forth from Sweden to American until she met my grandfather. She tried to teach us Swedish words. I only remember a few of them now. <br />
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What is it that makes us want to believe that someone else does not belong? That they are somehow "less-than"? To know more than one language, more than one culture, more than one reality, is rich and necessary in our world.<br />
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I think that to be a follower of Jesus is, in a way, to be an immigrant. When we take the values of the Kingdom of God seriously, we will realize that there is another language in the world. It is the language of the Kingdom of God, and sometimes it doesn't make sense. The kingdom of God speaks of valuing those who seem to be less-than: the widow, and the orphan and the stranger. The kingdom of God tells us to pay attention to the small and the vulnerable rather than the powerful and the successful. The kingdom of God speaks of love that asks nothing in return. <br />
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And there are people who might hear that kind of language and say, "Go back to where you came from." <br />
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The woman I know who was told, "Go back to where you came from" -- she said that her family is from Patagonia. She showed me pictures. It's a beautiful place, where she's from. But she is called to be here now. She promised to teach me a little Spanish.<br />
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The Kingdom of God is a beautiful place. And more and more I hope to learn the language of that place too. Every once in awhile I hear a new phrase: "a bruised reed he will not break and a dimly burning wick he will not quench" -- so different than the language of the other world I live in, where the poor are crushed and turned away.<br />
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Someday this world will fall away, and all that will be left is the language of the love of God, and we will see the beauty in those we thought were less-than, and we will be astonished. In the meantime, we are called to teach each other a few words of the New Language, to be bilingual.<br />
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<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-4819067213060200412019-07-08T19:51:00.000-05:002019-07-08T19:51:29.134-05:00Mine, Yours, OursThis summer we have a tree in our sanctuary, and every week we are hanging a different fruit from the tree. Every week we are exploring a different fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Preaching in series is something relatively new to me; I'm preaching some old scripture verses in a new context, and preaching some Bible stories I've never preached on before as well.<br />
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Last week our theme was joy. The fruit of the Spirit is Joy. And the text that I chose (usually read during Epiphany in my tradition) was from Nehemiah 8. And of course the verse itself is so well-known, although most people don't know the story surrounding the verses. "The Joy of the Lord is your strength."<br />
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I've seen it on plaques.<br />
I've heard it in songs.<br />
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But not really thought much about it.<br />
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One of the things i do these days (that I never have done before) is find images for the sermon. We have projection in my congregation, and I look for pictures and sometimes for words that I can put up on the screen. And I was looking for this verse, "The Joy of the Lord is your strength", and what was interesting to me is that, for the most part, I found this verse on line: "The Joy of the Lord is my strength."<br />
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It made me think. Those pesky pronouns. I thought, of COURSE when Ezra is speaking to the people, he is going to say, The Joy of the Lord is YOUR strength." But what does he mean? Does he mean that the joy of the Lord is your strength as an individual believer? Or does he mean that the joy of the Lord is your strength as a part of a community of believers?<br />
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Does it even matter?<br />
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Those pesky pronouns. I was recently reminded in a Bible study that faith is an individual matter. No one can believe for someone else. We each stand before God on our own. No one else's good word can get us in. (Okay, except Jesus'. That one doesn't really work.)<br />
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It's true; no one else can believe for us. Except that I catch myself thinking about the times when I went to worship, with all of my doubts, and said the creed along with all of the other believers. Somehow their faith made me stronger. Maybe we can believe for one another sometimes.<br />
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And maybe the joy of the Lord is not my possession or yours, but it is the gift of the Spirit to the community of faith. it is the Spirit that doesn't just live in our hearts, but it is the Spirit that also lives in our community, where we share joy and sorrow, fruit both bitter and sweet, and good.<br />
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On Sunday morning, I took out a small bottle of bubbles to show joy. But I wasn't very good at blowing bubbles, and the six year old girl sitting next to me said, 'You're doing it too fast!" Then she showed me how to blow a bubble properly. <br />
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And the joy of the Lord was our strength.<br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-5820127525636400342019-07-08T11:15:00.003-05:002019-07-08T11:19:19.413-05:00The Fruit of the Spirit is Joy<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">“The Power of Joy”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Nehemiah 8:1-10</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The fruit of the Spirit is Joy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And the joy of the Lord is our strength.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Do you recognize that verse? I have seen it on placques, heard it in songs, know it by heart. “The Joy of the Lord is our strength.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Just one verse – but have you ever thought about it? How is joy a strength? Is joy strong? Is joy powerful?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Sometimes we think just the opposite – that joy is a child’s virtue. I know when I close my eyes and think about joy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> – I think about children – the children at the pre-school, who, when I come over to visit – just to check in – are so happy to see me – are so excited to show me their new shoes, or tell me about their baby brother, or their trip to the Coca Cola Factory in Atlanta! Joy! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They are joyful. But then -- they don’t have to deal so much with life – at least – most of them don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Joy seems to be a luxury sometimes – for us adults – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> it’s a serious world after all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> There are many wrongs to right, so much pain to heal, so much tragedy …. A little bit of joy might be okay, but in moderation….too much seems wrong, and frivolous and even – naive …. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> You know what they say about Pollyannas, and their annoying cheerfulness – their unrealistic idea that you can always find something to be GLAD about….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Pollyanna…. I even rented that old movie this week <b>–(Pollyanna</b>) in an effort to understand Joy, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I remembered that this movie was one of my dad’s favorites – my goofy dad, who liked to tell the same joke over and over, and who made up his own words to songs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Pollyanna was one of his favorite movies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And I remembered again about the girl who played the “Glad Game” – who tried to find something to be glad about everywhere. Her father taught her the game.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They were missionaries, and they were poor, and they had to rely on charity. One thing Pollyanna wanted more than anything else was a doll, but they didn’t have money for it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> So they waited for the charity boxes from the missionaries. There was no doll – but there were a pair of crutches. What was there to be glad about? Pollyanna’s father told her that she could be glad – that she didn’t need the crutches…. That was the glad game. To find something to be joyful about – even In a pair of crutches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And the fruit of the Spirit is joy. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And the joy of the Lord is our strength. But joy doesn’t seem to be that powerful. It doesn’t even seem realistic, sometimes. In our world. In our time. And it probably didn’t seem to be realistic to the people of Israel in Nehemiah’s time either. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Nehemiah – the book where those words “the joy of the Lord is your strength” comes from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Here’s the scene. It’s about the year 538 BC. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The Israelites have been in exile in Babylon and they have finally been allowed to come home. They came back to a temple in ruins and a city whose walls had been destroyed. And in those days it was important for a city to be fortified to have walls. So the exiles had a lot of work to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Under the guidance of the governor Nehemiah and the priest Ezra, they rebuilt the temple and they rebuilt the walls of the city – not easy tasks. There were a lot of setbacks and arguments and it was hard to unify the people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They were probably tempted to give up. A lot of times.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But finally, in today’s reading, the walls are finished, and the people are gathered by what is called the “Water Gate.” You might call it a sort of resurrection – the resurrection of the city of Jerusalem –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And while they are there they asked the priest Ezra to read to them from the scrolls of the Torah – the first five books of the Bible. And we don’t know exactly what he was reading from the Torah –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Just that they hadn’t heard the Word of God for a long time –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And that while he was reading, he was explaining so that they could understand, and that while he was reading, they fell on their faces and wept.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And that is when Ezra told them to get up, and stop weeping -- for the Joy of the Lord is your strength.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Why were they weeping? They had reason to weep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Some people speculate that they wept because they realized how they had failed their God, and strayed from him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They heard the word of God, and the law of God, and they could not find anything to be glad about. Not just because of the way the world was – a dangerous place – but because of the way they were – turning their backs on God – forgetting his promises, and their responsibility to bless the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They wept because they realized all these things – and all of them were true –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But the priest Ezra told them the truth – That Joy is more powerful than tears – and that the Joy of the Lord – is the most powerful of all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Get up and realize that despite everything – God is still with you. Get up and rejoice in the voice of God. Get up and feast – and share what you have with others who have less. Get up and realize that you are alive….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It can be like this for many in our own day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Sometimes it seems like our religious institutions are crumbling. People are abandoning their practice of the faith, churches are closing, the situations in our society are leading to a lack of mercy and compassion for others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> When we see how far we are from the Word of God, we might want to weep. The tasks we face as a church as a big as anything faced by the people of God in Nehemiah’s day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But the joy of the Lord is our strength too. And if we stand in that joy, the work we must do will be done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The joy of the Lord is resurrection Joy. It is the fruit of the Spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It is the city of Jerusalem come back to life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It is the gift of the word of God, the God who is still speaking to you, the God who still has a mission for you. It is the gift of life – and it is the gift of the community – standing TOGETHER as they listen to the word of God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The joy of the Lord is our strength – and it is resurrection joy – and it is a communal joy. –We can give it to one another. Pollyanna gave it to her community – where she came to stay – and they gave it back to her when she lost joy and felt she couldn’t go on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The fruit of the Spirit is joy. Resurrection joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> We give it to one another. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Where have you seen joy this week? Where do you find joy?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I have a friend who has had cancer – who I have prayed for – and kept in touch with – and this week – I saw on video – I saw that she has been raising monarch butterflies – and releasing them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Go out and look for joy this week! And then come back to witness to the power and presence of God in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> AMEN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-4789406275690115132019-07-08T11:06:00.002-05:002019-07-08T11:06:27.910-05:00The Fruit of the Spirit is Love<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Ruth 1:1-21</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The fruit of the Spirit is love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I read an article the other day that might not seem to have anything to do with this verse – but it does. Bear with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The article began with an odd experiment in what we notice. People were asked to watch a basketball game. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Half of the players wore white shirts and half wore black shirts. They were asked to pay attention to how often the ball was passed among the players wearing white shirts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Shortly after the game began, a man in a gorilla suit came out and walked among the players. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And you know what? -- fully 50% of the observers did not notice the gorilla. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> In fact, they would have sworn that there was NO gorilla. They were looking for something else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> In our modern world, we have been trained not to see something which was obvious to generations in the pass: that a personal God is active and moving in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> We still believe it – or we say we do. But our senses have been trained in other ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> So this summer, we are going to train our senses to see what we believe – that a personal God is active and moving in the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Starting, today, with love<b>.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The first of the fruits of the Spirit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It’s no accident, I think, that it’s first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> After all, Paul also writes that, “Faith, hope, and love abide, these three – but the greatest of these is love.” Love is first. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And the other fruit is connected to love. It is sort of a foundation fruit – and you will see that when you see love – you may see another one of the fruits as well. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> How do we train our eyes to see love? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> First of all, I think, by noticing the stories of love in the Bible – really looking at them – seeing the details, imagining the scenes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Like this scene, in the first chapter of Ruth. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I think that if there is one thing that is famous in the book of Ruth – it is the verses spoken by Ruth – and we recognize them as words of love <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> – but most of us know them from popular weddings songs. “Entreat me not to leave thee/for whither thou goest I will go…. Thy people shall be my people, thy God my God… and where thou diest I will die.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> We know that Ruth’s words are words of love –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But they are spoken from a daughter in law to her mother in law – and they are spoken in bitter circumstances. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Naomi and her family had left Israel during a famine and moved to Moab – and their sons had married two Moabite women. But both Naomi’s husband and her two sons have died. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She has lost everything. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She knows she needs to return home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And her daughters in law – being foreigners – there is no reason to expect they would be welcome in Israel – and really – no reason for them to go to Israel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> There have no children with their husbands. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They have no ties any more to Naomi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And yet – both of them – at first – tell her that they will go with her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And I think it is an act of love on Naomi’s part – to tell them they don’t have to come – she doesn’t want to tie them down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She doesn’t think there is anything for them in Israel. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Naomi isn’t going to get married and have more sons that will grow up and be husbands for them – and that’s what both of these women need – in that time and culture. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But for some reason – Ruth won’t leave. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She wants to go with her mother-in-law. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She is willing to go to a place where she might experience hostility – and do what she can to help Naomi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Between a Moabite daughter-in-law and her Israelite mother-in-law. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Maybe it’s not where you would expect to see love. But it’s there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The fruit of the Spirit is love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And what does this tell us about love – the fruit of love?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> First of all – it tells us that the fruit of love comes in unexpected places and in unexpected people – even the “wrong” person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The fruit of loves comes in a Moabite woman willing to go the distance for the mother-in-law that she loves – to go with her to a country that she did not know – and where a welcome was not certain -- Look for the fruit of love – even in the unexpected and the wrong places.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And the fruit of love comes to us in places the places of grief and death – also unexpected places. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Naomi is living in a strange land – she has lost her husband and both of her sons. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She expects that her daughters in law will leave her too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Why would they stay? She has nothing to offer them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And yet Ruth clings to her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> For us too – the place of grieving and death is also a place of love – maybe especially so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It was on the night in which he was betrayed that Jesus said these words to his disciples, “Love one another as I have loved you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> And then he washed their feet – and then he died for them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He was preparing them for his death when he said these words – when he gave them these words – words about his deep commitment to them – a love that would never let them go <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> – and their commitment to one another, a love that would also show itself to be fierce in the time of death. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Not then – but later, after he died and rose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> In times of death – love is the evidence of life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Love that holds hands at a bedside, comes out for the funeral, brings casseroles, listens. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> They are sometimes little things, but they are big things. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Where have you seen the fruit of love in this world, in your life, in this community? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Because we believe that a personal God is active and moving in this world. But we need to retrain our senses to notice it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> For many years I saw the fruit of love – but I didn’t that’s what it was for a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> I used to know a man who walked permanently bent over. I didn’t know why and I didn’t really think about it much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He walked permanently bent over, sometimes straightening up just a little, to say hello.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Sometime after his wife died, I realized it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Is wife had had polio as a young mother, and developed something called post-polio syndrome later on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> She spent most of their marriage in a wheelchair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> He gave up a job he loved as a professor to take a higher paying job, and they remodeled the kitchen so that the appliances worked for her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Even though she was in a wheelchair, they still enjoyed going to the theatre and to concerts together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> But in order to get her into and out of the car, and into places, he needed to carry her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> From the car to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to her seat. And so all of those years – in this bent over man – I was seeing the fruit of love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Only I hadn’t trained my eyes to notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> A personal God is active and moving in this world…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The fruit of the Spirit is love. Where have you seen it? Where have you seen God?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Go out and look for him this week…. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And <b></b>then come back to witness to his power.<b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Amen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-73906650730177888052019-06-17T11:18:00.004-05:002019-06-17T11:18:59.231-05:00Hand MotionsYesterday was Holy Trinity Sunday at my congregation, the Sunday we make special recognition of the name of the one whom we invoke every single week: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.<br />
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So, among the songs we sang about the Trinity, was this simple one: <br />
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Father, I adore You</div>
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Lay my life before You</div>
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How I love you.</div>
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I sing this song at the pre-school connected with the church sometimes. It is simple enough to learn, even though the concept is too hard for pre-school children to grasp. We learn the simple words, and we also learn some hand motions.<br />
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Come to think of it, every single song I sing with pre-school children has hand motions. <br />
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Usually on Sunday morning we do not use hand motions. We sing complicated songs with a lot of words, some of them hard: words like "Trinity" or "Immortal" or "cherubim". So on Sunday morning we were singing a song much simpler than our usual fare.<br />
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I decided to teach the congregation the hand motions too.<br />
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Why do I do hand motions with the children at the pre-school? I can't say that I have thought about it very deeply. It's just something you do. Children need to learn not just with their eyes, and not just with their voices, but also with their hands and their feet. Learning is active. Learning is a whole-body experience.<br />
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I like to think that worship is a whole-body experience too, but when I think about it, I realize that a large part of it is learning to sit still and pay attention. Sitting still does not seem very whole-body, although it is an important thing to learn to do. It is also (and even more so) very important to learn to pay attention -- not just for an hour or two on Sunday -- but in every part of our life.<br />
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I learned well how to sit still in church. And there were times when this skill was very helpful. I was a good student. I knew how to listen to the teacher. There are times when sitting still is very important.<br />
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But I confess that sometimes I think I learned that lesson too well. I was so good at sitting still, that I was afraid to get up. <i>If I sit still</i>, I thought,<i> I can't get into troubl</i>e. Not getting into trouble became the point. <br />
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But sometimes faith calls us to get into trouble. Sometimes faith even calls us to make a ruckus. How do we learn that? How do we learn that there is a time to sit still and listen, and there is a time to stand up and do something? There is a time to walk right over to the wounded man by the side of the road in Jericho and help him. There is a time to stand up and say something is wrong. There is a time to use your hands and your feet and your whole body to worship God. There is a time to stretch out your hand to help, to comfort, to heal, even to raise a fist. There is a time to do the hand motions, to use your whole body to worship God, to follow Jesus.<br />
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Hand motions. <br />
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Jesus, we adore you. Lay our lives before you. <br />
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Our whole lives: hands, feet, voices, shoulders and knees, eyes and ears. Our beating hearts. <br />
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<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-59867768359963402272019-05-20T21:48:00.001-05:002019-06-06T12:10:11.449-05:00Behaving in ChurchOne day during the coffee hour after church I mentioned to someone that I enjoyed the fact that there were more children in worship than there used to be. "I think it's important for them to be there," I said, by way of making conversation.<br />
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My conversation partner agreed. "Yes," she said, "it's important for children to learn how to behave in church."<br />
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"Behaving in church." Is that what we are doing? Maybe it is. We sit and we stand at the right time. We are silent when we are supposed to be silent. We speak when we are supposed to speak. We sing (or we don't sing if we don't know the song.) We listen during the sermon, or our minds wander. We shake the hand of the pastor as we leave, and say, "nice sermon, Pastor." That is how we behave in church.<br />
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Or, if we are children, we sit still and try to fidget as little as possible. We color in the pew, or we go elsewhere to have an age-appropriate experience. Sometimes our parents help us follow along, a little. But what is most important is to behave, not make a ruckus, not run up and down the aisles, not shout or say something inappropriate. You know, behave in church. <br />
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There's 'behaving' and then there's worshipping. We come to church not simply to behave but to worship. To worship means to listen and to speak, to sit still and to stand up, to sing and to pray. To worship is to participate. I want children, in all of their fidgety, wondering uniqueness, to participate in worship. <br />
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When I was a little girl, I sat next to my dad most Sundays. I looked up the hymns in my hymnal, and I sang along with my dad when he sang the hymns in his baritone voice. He participated, and I wanted to participate too. He said the prayers and I said the prayers. I learned to worship by worshipping with him. And I loved the liturgy because he loved the liturgy. I still do. I love knowing the parts by heart, when to sit and to stand, and to participate.<br />
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But that is just a sliver of what worship can be. In our church now, we do something that we would never have done in my church growing up. it would not have been considered proper. Sometimes we invite the children up during the last song, to play musical instruments. We let them help with the benediction by putting their hands up in blessing. We let them know that worship is an active verb.<br />
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One Sunday, something out of the ordinary happened. Just before the end of the service, a woman in the congregation asked for prayer. She said she had gotten a text from her son, and her grandson was in the hospital. <br />
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So we did something that might not have been considered proper when I was a little girl. We invited her to come forward, and we prayed for her grandson. And I asked if anyone in the congregation would come up and surround her while we prayed, and help us pray for her grandson.<br />
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A few adults came to the front of the church.<br />
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All of the children came up to pray.<br />
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Because, they had learned how to behave in church. <br />
<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-46191284218057068232019-05-03T15:11:00.001-05:002019-05-03T15:23:02.850-05:00Casting our Nets on the Right Side of the BoatI was innocently reading aloud the Gospel story the other day, when I noticed something I had never noticed before.<br />
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I've been a pastor for a long time, and occasionally I suffer from the occupational hazard of thinking that I know the scripture passages from which I preach. Sometimes I even think I know them by heart. <br />
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But there I was on Wednesday, reading John 21, that addendum to the Gospel of John, that beach story of fishing and breakfast and restoration. I was reading it to a group at an assisted living center, and I noticed something. The disciples had fished all night and caught nothing. (haven't we all had experiences like this?) And then -- Jesus appeared to them on the beach, but they didn't know it was Jesus.<br />
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And Jesus told them (we all know it's Jesus, but the disciples don't) to cast their nets on the right side of the boat, and they will catch something.<br />
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And of course, they do it.<br />
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And they catch so many fish they can barely handle them all.<br />
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So far, so good. <br />
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But on Wednesday, I noticed for the first time: the disciples do what Jesus tells them to do, without knowing that it is Jesus. They obey him, they take his advice, even though they think they are talking to a complete stranger.<br />
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Why do they do it? Why do they cast their nets on the other side? <br />
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They are the fishermen, after all. They know what they are doing (even though their expertise did not yield anything this time). The person on the beach has wisdom (because he's Jesus) but they don't know that yet.<br />
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And yet... they do what he says.<br />
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I am reminded of the time I went to preach at the City and County Jail. My text was from Matthew 4: the call of the disciples. I thought it was odd that the disciples dropped everything immediately and followed Jesus. But the inmates were not so surprised. It was Jesus calling their names, after all. If Jesus calls you, you have to do it. You can trust Jesus, even if you can't trust anyone else. Of course they followed immediately.<br />
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But this time -- the disciples don't know who is telling them to lower their nets on the other side, the right side of the boat. They do it anyway.<br />
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For some reason.<br />
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And I can't think of any reason why they do what Jesus suggests, except for this: they have been fishing all night, and have caught nothing. What do they have to lose? They have come to the end of their own expertise and are willing to try something, something that might even seem foolish.<br />
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When I think of us modern-day disciples, I think that the problem is that we rarely feel that we are in this position. Instead, we usually believe that we have a lot to lose -- too much to lose to risk casting our nets anywhere than where we have always put them down before.<br />
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I know that is often what keeps me stuck: worrying so much that anything I do, any change I make, will mean loss to me, will mean loss to my congregation. I don't realize that, in truth, my nets are really empty. <br />
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How do we get to the place where we have nothing to lose? In truth, I do not know, but I know that somewhere, the resurrected Christ stands on the shore, inviting us to put our lives in his hands, inviting us to a strange and unexpected abundance.<br />
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<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-39884519484589464592019-04-24T21:40:00.001-05:002019-04-24T21:55:57.694-05:00The Child Who Held My HandIt was Holy Week last week. Our new pre-school director had a great idea, something we hadn't done in exactly this way before. She wanted to have a short chapel session every day, and every day tell a little more of the story of Jesus.<br />
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So on Monday we had palms and marched around the chapel and told about how Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and how people spread their cloaks on the ground and shouted 'Hosanna!" And on Tuesday we told about how Jesus washed his disciples feet and how he shared supper with them. On Wednesday we had flowers and Jesus prayed in the garden, and we prayed too, and the soldiers came. And on Thursday -- on Thursday there was a cross and a tomb, and a centurion told us how he felt about Jesus and the cross.<br />
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At the end of the chapel on Thursday, I told all of the children to gather with their teachers so that they could go back to their classes. And as always, I went to the door of the chapel and greeted all of them as they lined up with all of their classmates and prepared to go back to their classrooms. And somewhere, in the middle, one little boy grabbed my hand and just held on.<br />
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I could have made him let go, but somehow I didn't. <br />
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Because he held my hand, I ended up walking with him out of the chapel and onto the sidewalk. <br />
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Because he held my hand, I kept walking with him. <br />
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A couple of times he rubbed the back of my hand on his cheek. And then he just kept holding on. So I kept walking with him. We went through the front doors of the school, and he kept leading me until I ended up in his room.<br />
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I keep thinking about the journey through Holy Week, and the little boy who held my hand.<br />
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Usually I just say goodbye to the students at the door of the chapel. I don't go any further with them. <br />
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But on Thursday, I walked the whole way, just because he held my hand.<br />
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This is how it is with us, and with the story of Jesus as well. We can leave it there at the door, and wave goodbye, and go about our week. <br />
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Or we can walk with the story all week. Jesus can become real to us, and his story our story, and we can walk and walk until we find ourselves in a place we never thought we would be. <br />
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<br />Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1086978161944568008.post-31836806696754928252019-04-08T22:01:00.001-05:002019-04-09T13:51:17.592-05:00Serving Communion in the DarkI was glad on Sunday morning when I realized that the rain had not started yet. <br />
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Sometime on Saturday afternoon, I started getting news reports about severe weather. It was first scheduled to arrive in the middle of the night, then sometime early Sunday morning. But when I got up on Sunday, the rain had not arrived yet.<br />
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I was pleasantly surprised. It was going to be an important Sunday in church, not just the 5th Sunday in Lent. We had important things to do. Afterwards, we had scheduled a meeting of parents and youth planning activities for the coming year. We have never had enough children and youth to plan activities before, and I did not want our planning meeting to be rained on. <br />
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I also had scheduled a home communion visit in the afternoon with a homebound couple from the church.<br />
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We made it through worship without any rain. I won't lie: it was a gloomy, threatening morning, but it didn't rain and we even made it through our youth planning meeting. When I went back home it had just started to sprinkle.<br />
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I called the shut-ins and said I would be over after lunch, but that I would be keeping an eye on the weather. They said they understood and would see me later. <br />
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It wasn't long after we finished eating that the wind came up, and the thunder started. On my phone I saw that there was a tornado warning in the area. Then, just a few minutes later, we heard a sound I had never heard before. I thought perhaps sirens were going off, but it wasn't exactly like that, either.<br />
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It was over soon after that. <br />
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I called my shut ins. I couldn't get through. My husband said, you will just have to go over. So I did.<br />
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When I got there I discovered that their power was out. They were sitting in the dark, eating hamburgers that one of their daughters had brought them. Even the stoplights were out on the neighboring streets. <br />
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It was still daylight outside, but inside the house it was more like twilight. We visited for awhile about natural disasters: tornadoes and earthquakes and hurricanes and blizzards -- all of the normal things. Their daughter fretted about what would happen if the power did not come on, and said she would be back to check on them later, to make sure they got to the bedroom all right. They kept re-assuring her that they would be all right.<br />
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Finally, I opened up my communion kit. It was getting darker, and I wasn't sure how well I would be able to read the prayer book. But just as I was pouring the wine, the husband got out the biggest flashlight I have ever seen and flashed it right at me. I felt a little like I was in the spotlight. <br />
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I tried to hold the book under the light and read the words while he held the light in his hand. I opened the Bible and read the gospel reading: about Mary and the anointing oil she poured over Jesus' feet -- and we wondered together about that scandalous generosity. I felt the light on the book as I tried to read the pages, and the light warm on my face, making me blink. The light exposed some things and hid other things.<br />
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And when I got to the words of institution and I held up the wafer and the small cup to the light, somehow I felt like a player on a stage -- the darkness all around -- this moment in time, this act, illuminated.<br />
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The body of Christ given for you. The blood of Christ shed for you. In the darkness.<br />
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I watch the news and despair sometimes. Of disasters natural and unnatural, preaching a gospel of chaos. These are dark times, when it seems like we cannot see each other's faces, and know that we are made in the image of God. <br />
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And then the spotlight comes on in the darkness, as the oil is poured out on Jesus' feet. The spotlight hits my face, and I realize that God is calling me to lift the cup, to break the bread, to say the words by which God reconciles the world.<br />
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The body of Christ given for you. The blood of Christ shed for you -- and for all people. In the darkness.Diane M. Rothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07749136181846671327noreply@blogger.com0