"What is It? -- God does not always come as we expect..."

The Hebrews knew God and God’s ways. They knew that God had come to them in their captivity, and that through mighty deeds of power – through all those plagues sent down on Egypt, through that miraculous passage through the Red Sea waters – they had been brought to freedom and new life. But now they are enslaved to a different master, to hunger, and of the God they think they have come to know they can see no sign. (Exodus 16:2-15)

            And then they wake up one morning and stagger out into the desert and find a layer of dew spread all over the ground, and when it had lifted, a sticky, flaky, whitish substance on the ground. They scratch their heads, look at one another, and say in Hebrew man-hu, which means “What is it?”

            And then, like in that old cereal commercial, one of them gets their younger brother Mikey to try it, and Mikey says “I like it”, and next thing you know they gather the manna up in baskets and bake it and find that once again they have been freed to new life.  They were not, as they had thought, alone and forgotten. God was with them, and God would provide.

            Their story is our story, a story that is often repeated in the lives of God’s people. It is a story that gives us hope when we find ourselves seemingly alone and feeling abandoned in our own personal wildernesses. A story that happens at those times when we must make the move from “What is it?” to “It is a sign that God is with us!”

            I was counseling a couple this past week in preparation for their wedding, and the bride-to-be related how she had lost her mother three years ago.  That must have been terrible, I said, and hard not just on you but on your relationship as well. It was hard, she said, but he was terrific through it all, and the hard times really brought us closer together.

            What is it?  The power of death to divide, or love to grow?

            I was listening to sports talk radio awhile back, and the hosts were commenting on a story that had just broken in the papers, about how on the eve of her wedding day the bride-to-be was accidently pushed into the shallow end of a swimming pool by a bridesmaid, breaking her neck and leaving her paralyzed from the neck down. What the hosts found incomprehensible was that the groom went through with the wedding. They were apparently unable to understand that loving another, through sickness and in health, might not be a duty, but a privilege, not a burden, but a calling.

            What is it? The end of promises made, or the beginning of living into new possibilities?

            Michael Piazza, writing in his blog this week, tells of Valerie.

     “Valerie was 34. She remembered that day last year like it was yesterday. She sat on the sofa stunned, unable to move. She had gone to the doctor to get the results of some tests. She assumed he would tell her she was anemic and needed to take vitamins or something. She wasn't remotely prepared to hear him speak of death, especially her death. She was 34. She had a good job, lots of friends. She did volunteer work for the crisis center and went to church. How could she be terminal?
     Now, a year later she sat on that same sofa amazed at all that had happened in that year. Her body clearly showed the wear of someone fighting to survive, but there was something inside of her that had never felt so alive. It was amazing the changes that had come over her since she learned that she might die sooner than later. Valerie wrote in her journal:

     I'd always been the cautious one, afraid of my own shadow. I wouldn't take risks or do unexpected things. Now, that I have had to face the fact that no one gets out of this life alive, I've been saying “boo” to all of those ghosts. It is amazing how easily all of the things you fear disappear when you are willing to confront them. If you are going to die anyway, why let them keep pushing you around? I just wish I had remembered sooner that I was going to die anyway.
     I've always been afraid of what people would think of me. As a result, I was cynical, condescending, and judgmental of others. It is funny how that works. But, today, when I went downstairs for lunch, I took a handful of quarters and walked up and down the street putting money in parking meters that were about to expire. The meter maid must have thought I was nuts, but today I wasn't afraid of what she might think of me. Now, my biggest fear is that I might waste a single moment of this precious life. Nothing makes me feel more alive than doing random acts of kindness.
     I wish I could tell everyone that if you have to be afraid of something, don't let it be what people might think. Be afraid that you might let a day slip by without really living it, without doing some good. That's the only thing worth fearing. The fear of wasting your life can make you more alive than you ever dreamed of being. I only wish I had some way to tell people before it is too late for them.”

      What is it? An unfairness that makes everything thereafter meaningless, or a wake-up call to an abundant life that is there for the taking each and every precious day?

Back in January, in response to declining worship attendance particularly among young families, we had an all-church off-site retreat to see if we might discern a new way forward. Once again the old adage “Watch what you pray for, you might get it” was proved true, because one of those young mothers we had taken pains to invite finally spoke up and said, “Why don’t we have a Saturday afternoon service?”

Now I had all sots of answers running through my mind, beginning with “But that’s something that Catholics do!”, continuing on with “And where will we find the money?”, and ending with “But Saturday is my day off and my wife will kill me!”

But she went on to explain how hard it is for young families to make it to church on Sunday mornings, what with sports games and practices, drama rehearsals, Chinese lessons and so on, never mind that they would like to have an occasional morning to just lounge around the house. So we put together a planning team, and the enthusiasm and ideas and participation have been over the top, and the word of mouth is spreading and all sorts of folk other than young families are telling us that they want to come, and now we are gearing up for a kick-off service on October 1.

What is it? More “stuff” that just has to get done, or a chance to experience the winds of the Spirit gusting through a three-hundred years young Meetinghouse?

Friends, the lesson for us all is clear. People with the gift of faith are as those with a new set of contact lessons, able to see that there is no wilderness in which we might travel that God is not with us, an abiding, empowering, healing, gifting, liberating presence. We can see that what others might view as a barren, inhospitable desert can be transformed by God into a fertile, nourishing garden.

God will come, but not always in the ways we expect, in the form we want, or on the timetable we would demand. But God hears, and God answers, and God comes.

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“When All Seems Lost”

In 1995 the Rev. Daniel Thiagarajah was president of the Seminary in Jaffna, Sri Lanka, where he lived in the president’s house with his wife, Thaya, and three year-old daughter, Lydia. Which is where they were when the word came that the Sri Lankan Army had broken through the lines and was advancing towards Jaffna, and that for their safety the population ought to evacuate. As they piled into their van, artillery shells began to explode all around them – in fact, two landed in the mud right in front of the car, but failed to detonate. Thankful for this narrow escape, they headed south down the only road to safety, but were brought up short as they ran straight into the mammoth traffic jam that results when 200,000 people flee an on-coming army. Fearful that the packed highway would be strafed or shelled, the family split up – Daniel stayed with the van, and Thaya took Lydia on foot. They agreed that they would try to meet up well to the south, across Elephant Pass, at a church where Daniel had once served as pastor. And so Thaya walked, first on the road, and then through the fields, and finally through the waters of the Jaffna lagoon; for twenty hours she walked, as the waters swirled around her legs, her hips, and then up to her neck; finally carrying Lydia over her head as the bombs fell behind and the water rose higher and higher.

Our reading for today draws on a vivid image to talk about the human condition. It uses the image of sinking beneath the waves, of being swamped on the seas, as a way to raise up the inescapable reality of our existence, the truth that there are times in our lives when we find ourselves overwhelmed by the seas of misfortune, when we wake up and realize that we are in the grip of forces and powers which vastly outstrip our puny capabilities and weakness, when we can be terrorized by our worst fear, that there will be no hand to reach out and save us. It speaks to us of those times when all seems lost.

In Matthew’s gospel the disciples find themselves in a small boat far out to sea when a squall strikes, when a microburst suddenly whips the seas into mountains, violently wrenches the tiny craft off course, and threatens to send them all to watery graves.

            We know what he is talking about; we know that he is speaking about us, about the ways in which disaster can reach out and threaten any one and all of us at any time. He is talking about the experience of grief, of despair, of hopelessness, of powerlessness, of crucifixion. He is talking about that devastating blow when after three rounds of chemotherapy and months of hoping and retching and positive outlook and arms that have come to resemble pin-cushions the oncologists say “We’re sorry, there’s nothing more we can do.” He is talking about the numbness that descends when the somber officers in dress uniform turn off the sidewalk and walk up to your front door. He is talking about being up to one’s ears in pain and loss, eyes bleary from weeping, stomach churning without relief. He is talking not about “Reality TV”, where all problems are wrapped up in one short hour, he is talking about REALITY. And yes, he is talking about the horror of refugees fleeing for their lives. But he is also talking about the more mundane type of feeling overwhelmed, the sort of thing that comes from the drip-drip-drip accumulation of smaller griefs and woes, when the job loss comes just as the marriage is falling apart and you are trying to deal with a child with special needs at the same time as your parent is slipping into dementia….

            You might not agree with me on this, at least not openly. You might not want to admit that you ever find yourself feeling as if you are ready to slip beneath the waves. We are, after all, stoic New Englanders. We come from hardy stock, we are tough, we can take it, and after all, we say, “we are not as bad off as so and so.”  That might work fine at the supermarket, or at the beach, or even when you greet me after worship, but it doesn’t work so well at 2:00 in the morning when you are alone in bed and can’t get to sleep and you’re not sure how you are going to get through the night never mind another day. The Titanic is going down and you know it and you know that there is no way you are going to prevent that from happening and the bluffing and the façade just don’t cut it anymore. And the question comes,  I am sinking beneath the waves, and does anyone care? More importantly, does God care?

            That was the question on the minds of those disciples. It had been a long day, filled with Jesus teaching them and the crowds about the kingdom of God, and oh by the way feeding five thousand as well, and come evening Jesus had commanded his disciples to set sail for the other side of the Sea of Galilee. They encounter a terrifying windstorm, and considering there were four professional fishermen among the disciples, it must have been a true gale. Waves threaten to swamp the frail craft.

            Does God care? It is a question which goes right to the heart of any relationship – do you care? It is a question many adult children still struggle with right through mid-life – do my parents care about me? Do they love my brothers and sisters more than me? And so we keep track of how many visits they make to see our siblings, we carefully listen to see whether they praise our children as much as they praise their other grandchildren, we even try to gauge their love for us by trying to figuring out how they plan to dispose of their estate. Worrying about whether someone cares has a corrosive effect on the relationship, and over time, can even destroy it. Because the deeper meaning of “Do you care?” is, “Am I alone?”. For if you don’t care about me, then I really don’t exist for you, and I cannot hope that you will be save me in time of need.

            Jesus, Matthew tells us, cares. The disciples act as if he is alone – but Jesus is with them, even walking over the seas to be with them. But Peter doubts, saying, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” And of course he sinks, but Jesus reaches out and catches him, and after climbing into the boat with Peter, stills the storm. 

            When we read Matthew’s account of the stilling of the storm, we are challenged to examine our own faith. The suspicion that God does not really care about us corrodes our religious life. But, Matthew tells us, Jesus is with us in those times when we feel like we might sink beneath the waves. We are not alone, and God in Jesus cares.

            I don’t know how it was for Thaya that terrifying night when she struggled through the rising waters of the Jaffna lagoon, the only light provided by exploding ordinance behind her, her arms aching from carrying her precious daughter, her heart breaking over the destruction to her people, and her mind consumed by worry over Daniel stuck on the highway. But I suspect, from conversation with her, that even as she cried out in prayer for deliverance, her legs were kept moving by the deep-seated belief that nothing, not water nor bombs nor fatigue nor anything else in all creation, could separate her from the love of God in Jesus Christ. It was that belief, that trust, that kept her going all the way to an eventual joyful reunion with her husband, Daniel.

            And it is that belief, that trust, that keeps me going, and will keep you going, when all seems lost.

Doers of the Word

“But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves.” So writes James the Apostle, in his letter found in the New Testament. What he means by this is that for faith to be real, it must be translated into deeds. As a preacher once said, it must be “tangiblized.” Otherwise, faith is just another form of self-deception. Just as inaction reveals the inner attitude, so too does action. Faith is not just a matter of the head and the heart, it is a matter of the hands as well.

We are a congregation peopled with those who are not mere hearers of the word, but who are also doers of the word.  Many of you do in a very important way – by tithing, by pledging, by sharing of your financial resources, you fund this church’s ministries here and beyond, where we are doers of the word. Money is ministry in this way, and don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise.

            But we are also a congregation who are doers of the word in a very hands-on sense. Sometimes this is the case as you go about your daily lives, as you try to live for others as Jesus lived for us, living lives of compassion and caring and seeking justice and working for peace. And sometimes you do this sort of hands-on doing of the word together, working with others on a Habitat for Humanity build, or pitching in at the hospital or at A Baby Center in Hyannis. And sometimes you pick up and get on a plane and go to New Orleans for a week of rebuilding homes destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Just as Carol and Brad will share with you this morning….

            Carol and Brad told you about how they were doers of the word through their work for families seeking to rebuild their lives in New Orleans. We often tend to think of being doers of the word in just that sense, in the ways in which we reach out to help our neighbors. But I think there is another important way we can be doers of the word as well, and that has something to do with being intentional about working on our own stuff, about growing deeper in faith, about working towards bringing together our doing and our being.

            So for me, when we are off on a mission trip, part of my job, part of my being a doer of the word, is to help those on the trip figure this out as well. That is one of the reasons that we close each evening with an hour of shared reflection and worship. We talk about the events of the day, about the joys and the disappointments, about the highs and the frustrations, about the interactions we had with the locals, about what we had learned. We often find, at least early in the week, that we have more questions than answers, and then at times figure out that what we thought were the answers were simply doorways to more questions, and by the end of the week it turns out that we really had learned something new about ourselves. Let me share just two examples.

            Last year one of the work groups arrived on site only to find that they had hardly any of the tools they needed to get the work done. They ended up sitting around for about half the day, growing increasingly frustrated with the inability of the overseeing organization to get them the tools and materials. They shared that frustration in the evening meeting, each taking a turn going on about the lack of organization, bureaucratic red-tape, and so on. And then someone from another of the groups said, “Okay, now take that frustration you experienced for one-half a day, and think about how it must feel for folk who have been trying to get their homes rebuilt for over four years, and who keep running into delays from FEMA and insurance companies and shoddy contractors and on and on.” Whoa; big reality check; everyone felt just a little bit sheepish, just a little too entitled. Gave us all a lot to think about.

            A second example. This year, after our first day’s work, and one of the reflection circle had just finished gushing about how neat it was to meet one of the homeowners and spend some time talking with them. “Harrumph,” opined another member of our group, “I came down here to do work, and all this time chit-chatting just gets in the way of the work I am supposed to be doing. If I had my way, I would be like a fairy that just flits in, does the works, and gets out.” Not every one agreed, but I could tell a number of folk shared this sentiment. So at the close of the session, I said, “I wonder if we all might spend some time over the coming days thinking about just exactly what the work is that we are supposed to be doing down here.”

            Well, sure enough, when we gathered for our last time of reflection, everyone had thoughts on the work we were doing in New Orleans. They all agreed, of course, that we were there to help folk made homeless by a hurricane; but they also all got that we were there to work on ourselves as well.

We were there to learn more about the causes of what many thought was a natural disaster – but which was also a man-made tragedy, with components that included the man-made destruction of the protective delta marshes; the man-made construction of a canal which gave the floodwaters a straight-line path into Lake Ponchartrain; man-made faulty engineering of the levees; and a man-made federal blunder which caused tens of thousands of homeowners to cancel their flood insurance six months before Katrina, because they were told they no longer lived on a floodplain.

We were there to learn once again how much better it is to have wealth. We stayed in a church in the Uptown area of New Orleans, a fashionable district of beautiful, expensive homes – which was built on the high ground, and so was untouched by the flooding. While those who had relatively little lost everything, those with much were largely unaffected.

We were there to learn about gratitude – to learn once again how blessed we all are to have homes and not live in a FEMA trailer and not have to wonder if we might ever have a home again.

And we were there to reconnect in a new way with our faith. We were living out the parable of the Good Samaritan as we reached down to help those in need; we were talking with people who had lived through the agony of Good Friday and had been raised to new life; we were there to know again that faith, if it has no works, is dead. And that those who are doers of the word are, indeed, blessed in their doing.

"Your Soaking In It!"

It was a moment right out of that old Palmolive Dishwashing Liquid commercial, the one where Madge, the wisecracking manicurist, shocks a customer by telling her that her hands are soaking not in beauty salon lotion, but a dishwashing product.

Flanked by Amy and Nicole, with whom I had just spent a grimy week rebuilding Katrina homes in New Orleans, I am sitting in an express nail salon at Dulles International Airport, on a short lay-over on the return to Boston. A newbie to the world of mani-pedis, on a whim I had decided to join them as they sought some cosmetic first aid for hands more attuned to the rigors of texting and typing than ripping out ceiling tiles, pounding nails, and painting trim. “I’m new at this”, I told them, as the manicurist worked on softening my cuticles (what is a cuticle, anyway?), “but I think we are supposed to talk about whether Jen is over Brad yet and if his thing with Angelina is really going to last….”

Well next thing you know, Irina, who is applying some sort of disk-sander to Amy’s soles, asks where we were and what we were doing, and when she finds out that we were on a church mission trip, starts in telling us about how much she loves the Russian Orthodox church she belongs to. Then Abril, busy applying a vermillion shade to Nicole’s fingernails, starts in about what a great Hispanic Pentecostal church she attends, and how she doesn’t know how she would get through a day without her faith.  At which point Marcy starts chiming in about the evangelical church she calls home.

It was a “Toto, I don’t think we are in Kansas anymore” moment for us three New Englanders, where the odds of anyone talking about their faith in public are about as long as a summer Friday back-up trying to get over the Sagamore Bridge.  Funny thing is – I went in looking to get my hands worked on, I came out renewed in soul.

The Wise Men started out. . . with questions

     New Year's Eve Chinese dinner served up this fortune cookie nugget: "Wise men started out becoming that way by asking questions."

     January 6 is celebrated in the church as Epiphany or Dia De Reyes (Three Kings Day), the anniversary of the arrival in Bethlehem of the Magi, the Wise Men from the east,  who came to find and worship the newborn king, Jesus.

     The fortune cookie prompted me to look again at these Wise Men,  who I always assumed were called "wise" because that is how they were before they set out on their cross-desert voyage of discovery.  But looking at the text again, and wondering about their seeking, I cannot help but wonder whether their wisdom came on the way, and through their willingness to question.

     Questions like, "We have seen a new star in the east (when it rose), and we wonder what it might mean?"; and, when they arrive in Jerusalem at Herod's court, "Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews?"; and after they find Jesus, "Although Herod has told us to report back to him the location of this child, ought we instead listen to that dream of warning we had, and so return home by another road?"; and after they return home, "What does this mean for how we live, for how we understand our world, for how we understand what our purpose in life may be?"

     For me, faith has always been more about the questions than the answers, more about honest inquiry and less about settled dogma, more about marveling at the glimpses of the divine that seem as fleeting and as beautiful as a child's lightly-blown soap bubble and less about unquestioned and unquestionable tablets of stone.

     The Wise Men remind me that perhaps wisdom is to be found on the journey of faith.

     What do you think?  If there is wisdom here, and if your safe harbor has become a little too safe, the cozy fireside a bit too cozy, can you imagine being open to following a star?