What to Pray For

For snow, rain or sunshine.

travelers, pilgrims, wanderers.
For the smallest blade of grass,
the widest canyon's chasm
and the river that cuts it.
The spaces between people.
For peace.

For the breath you hold.
For breath.
For the silence when you yearn to hear your name.
Your name.
For the flower, that it not be crushed.
The bruised reed, that it not be broken.

For the song not to end
the last pure note to go on and on
until the last outcast hears it
and arrives for the feast.

Christ the King

It sounds so regal, doesn't it?  So triumphant.  "Christ the King."  There is an unmistakable emphasis on power in this name, and I can't help thinking, at least sometimes -- shouldn't we have a good resurrection story today?  One where the tomb is empty and the angels are outside and they are frightening the women with their strange appearance and stranger words.  "Who are you looking for?  Whom are you seeking?"  And it is clear that Jesus is not in the tomb -- because he is risen.  Christ the king.  The power of his resurrection which brings all of us to life.

But the mysterious people who put together our lectionary -- that is the readings appointed for every weekend of the year -- they never do that.  Not even once.  They never give us a good resurrection story.  Instead, sometimes we hear the story about the King who divides the sheep and the goats, and who is found in the least and the little and the last.  Or sometimes we hear the story of Jesus before Pilate -- and Pilate is saying to Jesus "Don't you know that I have the power to crucify you or to let you go free?"  or sometimes we hear the story of Jesus on the cross, between two thieves.  Christ the King.

It is the end of the church year -- the beginning of another.  Next weekend it will be December and children will begin opening the doors on advent calendars and wondering what is inside each one.  We will begin lighting Advent wreaths and those of us who haven't already begun Christmas shopping -- well, we'll be acutely aware that we must begin NOW, or soon.   And "Christ is King."  That's what we say.  But what do we mean?

I can't help thinking that something is missing.  Maybe it's a good resurrection story.  Maybe that's what it is.  Maybe it's a story that makes us know, be certain, that everything will turn out all right.  Jesus has risen, and the dead will rise, and Christ is king.  Is that what is missing?  What do you think?

Instead, here is Jesus, on the cross.  Between two thieves.  There is nothing in this scene that would indicate that Jesus is a king -- nothing that would make us certain.  There are so many missing pieces.  And there are these two thieves.  One of them taunts Jesus, but the other one says, "Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom."  And if you think about it -- why would he say this?  How would he ever think that this man hanging next to him has a kingdom?  What moment of insight did he have?  This conversation is such a mystery that people have written stories to try to explain it -- some that he and Jesus had known each other long ago, and the thief had gone on to a life of crime.  But Jesus went on to be a healer and a prophet.  Others speculate that this man had encountered Jesus somewhere in his ministry.  Whatever.  We want to fill in the missing pieces.

Something is missing, that is sure.  Whatever it is, the thief turns to Jesus and says, "Remember me when you come into your kingdom."  Somehow, whatever is missing, he knows -- that Jesus is a king, and that it is possible, perhaps, that he might even have a place there.

But that is our life, isn't it?  There are missing pieces, and there is missing peace.  It was true fifty years ago, when a nation grieved the violent death of its president.  And it is true today.  There are  missing pieces in our lives, some small and sharp, some deep and hollow.  There is something missing.

And into the middle of those pieces, we proclaim, we say that "Christ is king."  That the one on the cross, offering forgiveness to tormenters, offering paradise to thieves, is the one true ruler of the world.  Who knows how we know?

So on Christ the King Sunday, we share God's peace with one another, and we live with the pieces, sharing them too.  They are pieces of bread.  They are pieces of our lives.  They are pieces of our hopes.

And we follow the King, the one on the cross, the one who remembers us, the crucified one, who lives.

Sharing Peace -- a Sermon for Easter 6

Based on John 14:23-29

             I love baptisms. 

            You may have noticed this about me. 

            I love everything about baptisms, from conversations with parents and sponsors, to pouring water and getting my sleeves wet to drawing crosses on foreheads.

             I love getting to hold babies and introducing everyone to our new sister or brother in Christ. 

            I love how the liturgy is almost always the same for a baptism, but how every baptism is different, because different people are involved. 

            So there are all these different stories –- like the three children who all got baptized at the same time, and one of them was so excited he said, “this is fun!  I like baptizing!”

             or the baby that grabbed both sides of my stole as she was being lowered down to the font. 

            One of the things I really liked when I first came to this congregation was that sometimes we would have a number of people, babies and children, and sometimes even adults – baptized at one time. 

            That was exciting to me, both getting to know the people beforehand, and the large crowds around the font on the big day. 

            I remember that one day there were five people getting baptized – a 5^th grader, two third graders, a 4 year old, and a baby. 

            They were all people new to the congregation, and one of the families included a single mom. 

            We were putting the service together and wanted her ex-husband and his family to be included. 

            And, as a step-mom myself, I wanted to be sensitive to everyone involved.  But I knew that it might be awkward, and that there are often really deep wounds, even when all the people involved want to work together and do the right thing for their children. 

            So I was nervous about how the day of the baptism would work out,  and the potential for conflict as well as for blessing.   

            I suppose that on this day, I really wanted there to be peace.

            Peace.  That’s what Jesus offers to his disciples, in the gospel reading today. 

            Here they all are, in the upper room again, gathered around, and Jesus is teaching them and telling them the most important things he wants them to know, to prepare him for his death – to prepare them for life in the world – to prepare them to be his disciples. 

            And even though he goes on for five chapters, really, what he has to tell them has a few simple things in it, that he says over and over. 

            “Love one another.  As I have loved you.”  “The Holy Spirit will help you.”

             I am giving you peace.   My peace.  Not the world’s peace, whatever that is.”    

            Over and over he tells them the same simple things.

             Love.  Share peace.   My peace.  The Holy Spirit will help you. 

            And the thing is – he’s not just telling the disciples in the upper room. 

            These are Jesus’s words to us as well.

             “Love.  Share peace. My peace.”  He’s telling us.  “The Holy Spirit will help you.” 

            And you know – we all want peace.  I know I do. 

            Not just on that baptism day long ago when I wanted things to work out well for that little family that had trouble and conflict.

            We really want there to be peace.  I pray for peace in the world, for the wisdom to make peace, for a good night’s sleep when I’m worried.

            What about you? 

            I want peace in my family, peace in my community, peace among neighbors – whatever that is. 

            So when Jesus says, “Peace I leave with you.  My peace I give to you,”

            I know I get a lot of images in my head, from a general sense of contentment – ah, peace – and a good night’s rest – to the peace that comes when enemies set down weapons and sit down at the table together. 

            There are a wide varieties of images for peace – and we want them all.  We want them all. 

            But what I really want to hone in on today is the image of peace between us  -- and peace between us and God. 

            Because I think when Jesus is speaking about peace he isn’t speaking generally about contentment, but he’s speaking about  peace as reconciliation, peace as something between us  -- and peace as something that is between us and God.

             He’s talking about a peace that closes the gap, goes the distance, overcomes fear and gives courage to do what Garrison Keiller used to say that Powdermilk Biscuits do,

             “give shy people the courage to stand up and do what needs to be done.” 

             I want to connect Jesus’ word on this night “Peace I leave with you” with Jesus’ words to his disciples when he came back to them after he rose – he walked right through those locked doors and he stood in front of them and said, “peace be with you.” 

            And we might think he was just saying “hello”  -- after all, the Hebrew word for “peace”  “shalom”  -- is also a greeting. 

            But I think that when he told them “peace be with you”  -- he was not just saying ‘hello,’    He was also giving them peace.  His peace. 

            The peace that closes the gap.  The peace that goes the distance. 

            The peace that won’t let anything – not fear or failure or conflict -- not anger or even betrayal or death  – get in the way of his love – and his presence.  “Peace be with you.” 

            Peace.  We all want peace.  I know I do.

           

      And we receive this peace and we share peace every Sunday, when we come here. 

      We come and we confess the distance we feel – the distance between us – the distance between us and God. 

      We come and confess our failures, our secrets, our failings, our fears, and we hear again and again that God comes to us, that God forgives and heals and loves and sends us – yet again. 

      Again and again God gives us the peace of his presence – I am with you.  Do not be afraid. 

      And then we share this peace with one another.  The peace of God be with you always – we tell one another. 

      We wish God’s peace on one another – friends, enemies, strangers – we close the distance, bridge the gap.

       It’s only a moment in the service, but that’s what it’s about.  Because we all want peace.  I know I do.  And it’s a gift.  And it’s our work, too.

      Peace.  It’s not about avoiding the newspaper, because knowing the pain of the world can keep you up at night, sometimes. 

      But it’s about reading the newspaper, and  praying for peace, and working for peace, however you can.

      It’s not about simply the absence of conflict, but the presence of God even when there is conflict.

       It’s not saying everything is perfect, even if it’s not.

       It’s about saying even though everything is not perfect,  we will work together, we will serve together, and I will bless you with God’s peace.  

      And we can be instruments of God’s peace…. Together.

     

            So, on the day, on that baptism day, you know – it was something. 

            All those people, standing up at the font.  The four your old looking all solemn and being able to tell the congregation, “I want to be baptized.” 

            The two third graders and the 5^th grader and their families around them – and you know – now that I think about it – they have all been on many mission trips as youth at this church. 

            And the sponsors, receiving candles, and hearing the words, “Let your light so shine before others that they may see your good works, and glorify your father in heaven.” 

            The congregation welcoming. 

            But the moment I most remember is this:  at the close of the service, the single mom and her ex-husband shared a hug.   I don’t even remember who started it, and it probably isn’t important.  

            Peace.  We all want peace.  I know I do. 

            I don’t think that everything was magically perfect for them after that, but they shared God’s peace that day -- the gift of peace.  And  even after that, sometimes, I imagine. 

            Baptisms.  I love baptisms. 

            The wet sleeves, the babies, children, adults – all children of God  The promise of it.  The abundance.  The stories. 

            The images of quiet babies resting in the promises of God, receiving the peace of God, and the images of screaming babies awakened to the less-than-peaceful world, still receiving the peace of God. 

            Walking up and down the aisle and saying, “this is your new sister or brother in Christ.”    Sharing that peace.

            The peace of Christ be with you always.  Amen

Not Exactly An Easter Sermon

We pull out all the stops on Easter.  So do you, I'll bet.  We have the flowers, and the music, and the crowds.  This year we had an incredible liturgical dancer who carried the paschal candle throughout the sanctuary.  The Easter sermon was clear and dramatic and inspiring.

We pull out all the stops on Easter Sunday.  Let me be clear.  I'm not against this.  Not at all.

But may I say?  I have often noticed that the Easter gospel itself is slightly less clear, a little more fuzzy,  more ambiguous.  Take Mark, for example.  The tomb is empty.  "He is not here.  He has risen."  But Jesus does not appear.  And the women run away, and don't say anything to anyone.  Or Luke's story.  Again, Jesus does not appear.  The angels tell the story, and the women believe it this time (that's a relief, anyway), but the disciples think the women are stark raving mad.

No trumpets.  No singing.  Just an empty tomb, a message, and some questions.

This Sunday, the crowds are somewhat diminished, and the questions continue.  But at least Jesus appears, walks through the locked doors and the haze and the ambiguity to say to the frightened disciples, "Peace be with you."

Seeing Jesus isn't exactly a relief, not exactly.  It raises as many questions as it answers.  It complicates things.  For one thing, Jesus expects them to go out.  "As the Father has sent me, so I send you," he says.  And they must be thinking, "wait... as the Father sent you....but what happened to you?"

So you have to wonder exactly what Jesus meant when he said, "peace be with you."  I'm pretty sure that he didn't mean, "have a nice day."  I'm not even sure that he was talking about World Peace, although I'm pretty sure that Jesus would be for World Peace.  No, this has to be a strange sort of peace,  a sort-of "peace with questions."  It's the peace of the empty tomb, the peace of nail-scarred hands, the peace of "Surely God was in this place, and I did not know it."

We don't resemble Jesus, not much anyway.  I don't know how it is that he expects us to go out in his name, bearing his peace, bearing his life, crucified and risen.  I think he's stark raving crazy sometimes.

So Sunday I'll go to church, like Thomas, and I'll be muttering a little under my breath, looking for Jesus to show up, with his wounded hands, breathing on me, and raising me to life, despite myself.  I'll be looking around for signs of mercy, and the love that is stronger than death.  I'll be listening for some strong singing and some soft prayers and some Alleluias.

I'll taste the wine and the bread, and look into the faces of people who know me too well.  And I'll try again to tell my hope.

Christ is risen.  Yes.

It Was All Singing -- And Weeping

Just before Christmas, my husband and I went to a theatre production.  At least, I called it a theatre production.  I said it was a play, before we went.  Someone had told us about it, because I had preached Advent 1 and used an illustration from the 1914 Christmas Eve Truce.  She said, "You have to see this."

So two nights before Christmas Eve, we went to the final performance is "All is Calm."

Except that it wasn't a play, really.  It was all music:  all music from the war, and from Christmas, sung by nine men from a well-known local vocal ensemble.

The performance took place in an historic theatre downtown here.  We sat up in the balcony; the theatre was packed.  I wondered if there had ever been vaudeville performances in this place, long ago.  I had a little chat with the woman who sat next to me.  She was a teacher.  The lights went down.

Nine men began singing, Christmas carols at first, and then: songs from the war:  Happy songs, sad songs, "It's a Long Way to Tipperary", "Keep the Home Fires Burning," "Pack up your Troubles."  The  songs were interspersed with readings:  Letters home from soldiers, for the most part; the names of the soldiers were read at the end of each reading.

Then the songs shifted, as Christmas neared.  The letters spoke of singing in the trenches, and how the trenches were so close that they could shout across the trenches to one another.

The British soldiers started singing a bawdy Christmas song, with a rousing chorus of "O Tidings of Comfort and Joy."

And then, the strains of "O Tannenbaum."

A french soldier spoke of coming to the front that Christmas eve, hearing the hymn with the sound of gunfire.

"Poor little God of love," he wrote, "Born on this night.  How could you ever have loved mankind?"

The German troops spoke of putting trees in their trenches; the enemy did not know what the lights were.

British soldiers recalled hearing the Germans' singing "Stille Nacht" as the greatest moment of their lives.

They sang.

They read the letters, letters that spoke of singing, and courage, and grief.

They created peace, brief as a candle, but the troops themselves created peace, from the bottom up.

And we wept.

It was holy, holy as church, brief as a candle.

They sang, "Stille Nacht," and we wept.

sharing the peace

Lately I've been thinking about "sharing the peace." This is a relatively new concept in Lutheran churches -- people have only been "sharing the peace" since about 1978. Usually it occurs after the prayers of the church, when the Pastor announces, "The peace of Christ be with you always," and the people reply, "And also with you." And then people turn and SHAKE HANDS with each other, and say "Peace" or something on that order. Therein lies the controversy. Some feel that it is not quite a serious enough gesture for a church service -- here we are concentrating on GOD, and all of a sudden we are shaking hands and saying, "Hello."

The idea comes from the Gospel of John, chapter 20. After the resurrection, the disciples are huddled together in a locked room, when Jesus comes through the door and greets them: "Peace be with you." Then he tells them, "As the Father has sent me, so I send you." Or, more colloquially, "Get your behinds out of this room and share my peace." "Peace be with you," is a greeting (think Hebrew, "Shalom") but it's not exactly like saying, "Have a nice day."

When we overcome our fear or our shyness or whatever it is to turn to our neighbor and say, "Christ's peace be with you," we are practicing for a life of getting our behinds out of our churches and our houses (anywhere we hide) and sharing Christ's peace with the world. It's not about standing on the corner passing out tracts, which would scare my dog. But it is about caring about the world and our neighbor enough to work for the world and our neighbor's good. So -- crusade against pornography. Work for the good of your neighborhood public school. Volunteer at the crisis nursery. Share Christ's peace.

Sorry about the sermon. Occupational hazard. Have a nice day -- oh, I mean, "Peace."