Preaching and Teaching

a sermon by John W. Wimberly, Jr.
Pastor, Western Presbyterian Church
Washington, D.C.
April 26, 2009

Text: Luke 24:36b-48

If we were Roman Catholics, the discussion would have started with the papal encyclical Evangelium Vitae which spells out church doctrine as related to human sexuality. If we were Jews, it would have started with the Torah and Talmud and then moved into a midrashic conversation. If we were Pentecostalists, we would have prayed and waited for the Holy Spirit to fill us with wisdom. But this past Tuesday night, it was about 300 Presbyterians who sat down to discuss and vote on our denomination’s position on homosexuality. So we started with a Bible study.

When it comes to understanding and knowing God, as Presbyterians, Scripture is our unique and authoritative starting point. Within the sacred text, we believe there is an answer to every question, a question for every answer. And so we probe it century after century.

God’s Word isn’t always immediately clear. But it is our calling and responsibility to find it. We know it is there.

To Presbyterians, searching Scripture seems obvious. But for many others, it seems outrageous. These folks ask, “How dare you proclaim a book to be the Word of God that is filled with so much racism, sexism, homophobia, not to mention R-rated sex and violence?” Indeed, our affirmation of Scripture can seem like a wild, almost bizarre affirmation. And yet affirm it we do.

Seminary produces some major faith crises. Some of them relate to self-questioning—who do I think I am trying to be a pastor? Some relate to our classmates—who do they think they are trying to be pastors? But for Presbyterians, the biggest crises usually relate to Scripture.

In seminary, we undergo the traumatic process of deconstructing the Bible. We learn how the texts began as collections of stories passed verbally from one person to the next for decades before being written down. We study how the text was transmitted and, at times, mangled by monastic scribes over the centuries. We analyze beloved texts using literary, historical, textual and source theory. By the end of this process, the text feels much more like the work of humans than the Word of God.

Frankly, some seminarians can’t deal with it. They run away from the process, returning to the original, very simple understandings of Scripture they brought to seminary. They sing, “Jesus loves me this I know because the Bible tells me so” as they sell their biblical studies textbooks. Other students become pretty jaded and cynical regarding the bible, seeing the text as hopelessly compromised by the human minds who wrote and interpreted it over the past two thousand years.

However, some students emerge from the process with a profoundly deepened love for the divine mystery the Holy Book is. We find Scripture to be a gift that can never be fully unwrapped. We learn that we can preach on the same text ten times and discover ten very different meanings to the passage.

During seminary, under the mentorship of a great biblical scholar named Dominic Crossan, I became so intrigued with the Bible that I almost did a Ph.D. in biblical studies. But when I spoke with a theology professor at the University of Chicago, David Tracy, he gave me a warning. In biblical studies, he said, I would have to learn so many languages that I wouldn’t have time to study much else. “We theologians,” he laughed, “need know only German!” It was a funny caricature of biblical scholars. But a large part of their time is devoted to languages and linguistical analysis. As a result, I chose to do my doctoral studies in systematic theology.

Despite the complexity of modern Biblical studies, the Bible remains as much a source of truth and wisdom for a peasant studying it in a small village in Kenya as it is for our highly educated bible students here at Western. In a direct and compelling way, open to any and all persons regardless of class or culture, the Bible reveals a very simple, redemptive message: God loves us—more than we know, more than we appreciate, more than we deserve.

There is a question I used to pose to my high school youth groups. If we dropped the bible on an island where the people lived in total isolation from the rest of humanity, would the people be able to read and understand the bible? I think the answer is “yes.”

However, many think the answer is “no.” They believe the Bible is so culturally rooted that it makes no sense without its cultural context. I disagree. The truth of God’s story shines brightly from the Bible no matter how much or how little we know about the book, no matter what our cultural starting point.

Would all the residents of that island come to believe in God? No. Would they all come to believe that Jesus is the Christ? No. But they would all be better people spiritually for having read the Bible.

Given Scriptures’ universal appeal and significance for our spiritual lives, why is it that so many Presbyterians, in this country, aren’t serious students of the Bible? Why don’t we have three or four ongoing bible studies here at Western instead of two or three? I’m not exactly sure. But I have a couple of thoughts on the matter.

First, most of us think the Bible is far more complicated than it is. In fact, it is a collection of various pieces of literature. The Gospels are short stories. Paul’s writing is a collection of letters. Acts of the Apostles is a brief history. Revelation is, well, revelation. The Old Testament is a collection of histories, short stories, legal writing, instructions on religious rituals and poetry.

Most of us read short stories, history and even collections of letters by famous people. But we don’t read the same in the Bible. We see the Good Book as somehow more complicated than other literature. It isn’t.

Second, we think the Bible is confusing. At times, it can be. The literature was written by and for people in another time and place. As a result, some of it just doesn’t make sense. When it doesn’t make sense, we have a choice. We can skim over the challenging parts or dig in and learn what the original intent was. The latter is better than the former. But it is not necessarily mandatory. Shakespeare is filled with all kinds of things that don’t make sense without a little study. However, many people continue to find meaning in the Bard’s work as they ignore the details and focus on the broad themes of the stories. It is possible to do the same with Scripture.

Third, there are things in the bible stories we find offensive so we don’t read them. We don’t want to think our God condones violence, misogyny, classism. Worried the Bible does, we stay away from it.

But we can’t engage in denial as to what does and does not exist in Scripture. When we encounter ungodly realities in Scripture, one option is to shut the book and walk away. Another option is to affirm the stories are, in fact, ungodly, contrary to God’s Word. To do so, we need to acknowledge the bible not only as the Word of God but also as reflecting the values and vices of the human beings who wrote it. As Christians, our job is to discern what is the Word of God and what is the word of humans in the sacred texts.

Fourth, we find the bible to be filled with major contradictions. On the one hand, it says “love your neighbor.” On the other hand, at times, it says people who don’t share our faith will burn in hell. On the one hand, it says “God so loved the world.” On the other hand, it describes the world as a huge temptation. Why would God love a temptation?

As I view Scripture, these contradictions are key to understanding the genius of God’s Word. The contradictions make it absolutely impossible to read Scripture literally. We can’t be God’s avenging warriors and God’s peacemakers at the same time. We can’t be filled with judgement and grace at the same time. We can’t accept a passage in Leviticus condemning homosexuality and simultaneously embrace Jesus’ inclusive approach to all people.

In other words, all of these contradictions force us to think…and pray…and think some more…and pray some more. We can’t just read the Word. We have to discern the Word. We have to make some choices about what parts of the Bible we will follow.

Were it not for Scripture’s contradictions, the Bible would be the most dangerous book in the world. Because without the contradictions, Christians could declare with absolute certainty and confidence that “such and such is God’s Way. No doubt about it. No further questioning needed. We know God’s will. Let’s go!”

And, of course, that is exactly what some Christians have done over the centuries. Such certainty about God’s will has produced crusades, pogroms and discrimination.

The contradictions in the Bible are not a curse. They are a blessing. They are intended to keep us humble. We cannot assume our interpretation of any one piece of Scripture is absolutely true because there is usually a passage in Scripture challenging our position.

At the Presbytery meeting on Tuesday, we tried something new. Rather than everyone going to microphones to debate the issue of ordaining LGBT folks, we started with a bible study around small tables. Listening to post-meeting comments from friends as well as the lengthy commentary on Facebook, it is clear the small table discussions changed positively the tone and tenor of the meeting from that of past meetings on this issue.

In a small group setting, we had to take seriously the biblical rationales for the differing positions around the table. Just as importantly, we had to take seriously the person making them. It didn’t change the vote. Our Presbytery did what we usually do, we supported the ordination of LGBT folks by a 2-1 margin (In a sign of significant movement, the overture lost only narrowly on a national level). But it did change the way we walked away from the meeting. There wasn’t the bitterness and hard feelings that oftentimes have accompanied these votes. It was replaced by a humble understanding that there are many ways to read the Good Book.

However, the fact that there are many ways to read Scripture does not mean that all interpretations are correct. As the church and as individual believers, we can and must come to some agreement of what Scripture broadly mandates and reveals. To do so, we read Scripture in search of its repeated, overarching themes and then apply those themes to our understanding of particular texts.

For example, Scripture has a strong theme about inclusion. Ranging from the Old Testament’s numerous mandates to treat foreigners and strangers kindly and justly to the New Testament’s story of God’s love spreading from Israel to the Gentile world, it is clear that God intends for us to build communities where everyone is welcomed and valued. Applying that broad theme of inclusion to the small number of homophobic passages in Scripture, a growing number of us conclude that the individual passages are reflective of a homophobic human society, not an inclusive, loving God.

Another example focuses on violence. There is an omnipresent Biblical theme rejecting violence, running from Cain and Abel to the teachings of Jesus. This is important context when we come across a verse where the author celebrates Israel’s victory over opponents by saying something like “And 20,000 of the Philistines were killed. Praise the Lord.” Employing the numerous biblical mandates to deal with each other nonviolently, I think we can safely view such passages as reflective of human values, not God’s Word.

So we use Scripture to judge Scripture, a principle advocated by John Calvin as well as many other theologians before and after him. We aren’t using changing, random cultural values to guide our changing understanding of Scripture, as is often charged. We are using broad Biblical values to particular verses of Scripture.

I am well aware that this is not a really uplifting sermon. But it is a very important sermon. As Presbyterians, we use the Bible as our authority. If we aren’t reading the bible on a regular basis, we make a mockery of our approach to faith. We might as well go back to the way things worked before the Reformation and allow clergy and Popes to decide the meaning of Scripture. At least, they are reading and thinking about it.

There is a fifth and especially irritating reason why we don’t read Scripture. We are spiritually undisciplined. That is a polite way of saying we are lazy. I don’t like saying it. But I can think of no other way to say it.

How much effort does it take to read a chapter of Scripture every night before we go to bed or every morning when we wake up? Reading a chapter a night, if we started with Matthew on January 1^st, we would finish all the Gospels by the end of March.

“But it is filled with stuff we don’t understand,” we protest. How much effort does it take to ask Carol or me for the title of a good commentary to help with the reading? Not much.

A good friend of mine is the pastor of a large, conservative Presbyterian congregation. We were talking the other day and he said, “My biggest frustration is that my members don’t know the Bible.” I was stunned. I said, “I thought only members of liberal congregations didn’t know the Bible!”

Folks, there are no good reasons not to read Scripture daily. Gratefully, it is never too late to become a student of Scripture. I have known people who have started serious bible study in retirement. However, those who do start late always have the same comment, “I wish, oh how I wish, I had started earlier.”

As we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus, may we become a Bible-reading, Bible-centered people. It is our history. If we are to thrive as Christians, it must be our future.

Let us pray: Gracious God, you have given us your Word. Help us to find the time and energy to study it. As we do so, it will give us new energy and reorient the way we spend our time. All this we pray in Jesus’ precious Name. Amen.

Pastor, Western Presbyterian Church
Washington, DC
April 19, 2009

Text: John 20:19-31

My husband and I were at a wedding rehearsal in Florida, many years back. I was presiding over the marriage of a beautiful couple; the bride was a friend of mine. The groom’s family wanted a justice of the peace, but the bride’s family wanted a minister. After a lot of negotiating, the groom’s family finally figured that I would be okay.

That was not the only point of negotiation. The sweet bride and groom was having to deal with the problems that many modern couples do: it was quite clear that the groom’s divorced parents were not going to play nice, even though their son was getting married, they were going to take every opportunity to cause a fuss. The seating charts became like a difficult chess game, as it became clear that the mother of the groom had to be separated from anyone other than her second husband.

As a result, guess who got to sit next to her? My husband and I were situated beside the mother of the groom, which was okay for a while, but then she began drinking a bit too much. She was kind of arrogant anyways, but as the night wore on, that particular character trait kept getting magnified, and so she took her groom’s wedding reception as an opportunity to tell Brian and me how much she disdained religion.

Now, I’m not sure exactly sure who told her that it was okay to berate strangers for their choice of careers over dinner, but evidently, someone did. We got to hear how intelligent people don’t believe in religion. The arguments didn’t get much deeper than that. It was just that now, with everything that we know, having a belief in God is silly. She kept pressing the matter, trying to provoke some sort of reaction out of me, and I was determined not to allow her to ruin my friend’s wedding weekend. After some time, my husband finally turned to her and said, “You know what? I think that you must be mistaking us for people who care what you believe.”

It was, of course, not the first conversation that I had of that sort. I have had it with many of my friends; we had it inside of the church and outside of the church. My husband and I often have it with each other.

It is strange how people assume that if you have become a pastor, then you don’t think about these things, when most pastors probably think about it more. We are often counseling people who have gone through major crises, and they are asking where God is in the midst of all of it. They begin to question their faith. It’s easy to take on those burdens.

I have questioned my own faith many times, and I have walked through seasons of doubt. My entire spiritual journey has been one of questions and doubts.

There is a sense that, in this modern era, this time of empirical evidence and when we began to gain more and more scientific, psychological, and even meteorological knowledge, that we did not need the superstitions of religion.

A literal reading of the Bible might suggest that the universe is roughly 6,000 years old and was created in six days, but the worlds of archaeology and biology have flourished and we have learned so much about evolution, and how the earth has taken millions of years to develop.

In the Bible, certain behaviors are understood as demon possession. But now, we have begun to understand some of the psychological, chemical or medical explanations behind things that we thought were demons.

There was a time in our ancient history, when we thought that God needed to be pleased in order for us to have plentiful food and good crops. Then, we realized that droughts or fertile soil were not directly related to the sins or good behavior of people, but rather the weather was determined by fronts and air streams. Storms, hurricanes, or freezes can often be predicted.

(Although we might be coming full circle on this one. As we learn more about global climate change, we do realize how our bad behavior affects the weather, and we have gone back to the ancient commandment to take care of the earth. But that’s another sermon for another time).

Also, we began to read the Bible differently. We began to understand how many of the earliest scrolls that we found did not look alike, and we saw inconsistencies within the text. And when we began to place the Bible under our literal and scientific understandings, it seemed to become completely unrealistic.

When we, in our modern times, began to gain control over things that had been completely out of our control, when we began to understand unexplained behaviors, like mental illness, and we saw how much exercise or medication helped men and women who had been previously living in torment, and many of us asked why we need religion.

In our post-enlightenment era, with all of our modernization, we no longer needed the superstitions and mythologies. Many people proclaimed that “God is dead.” And there was a thought that educated, reasonable people certainly did not do things like pray or go to church.

Since God was seen as something we used to explain those things that could not be explained, and since we had an explanation for so many things, then our modern minds no longer had a need for God.

As we began to understand our world around us, there was no need in imagining a God who might exorcise demons, heal, or command the weather. God, as our modern philosophers and thinkers have told us, is a crutch. God is a father for people who cannot attain adulthood, who cannot outgrow their own need for a parent. Religion is an opiate for the masses. The idea of God lulled people into satisfaction with its promise of a better after-life, so men and women would settle for oppression. The modern world would stamp out the need for religion. After all, we have air conditioning. Why would we need God?

There was prediction after prediction that the idea of God would certainly die. And yet, in countries around the world, it has not worked out the way that we thought it would. God is not dead, as we supposed. God is very much alive.

That is the message of Easter. In the beauty of our celebration, as we sing among the lilies and the fanfare, we forget how scary all of this must have been for the followers of Jesus. We get a glimpse of the fear and doubt in this story though, as we join the disciples in the locked upper room. They are afraid of people who might come after them.

Mary gave the report that she had seen Jesus, and Jesus seemed to be showing up in different places, here and there: along the beach shore, or on the road to Emmaus. Often times his own followers didn’t recognize who he was.

And here Jesus shows up, even though the doors are locked, in the upper room.

Doubting Thomas, as he has been known throughout our faith history, does not believe the story that Mary tells him, and says that until he can put his fingers into the wounds, he would not believe that Jesus has risen from the dead. And then, Jesus appears there, in that room, and offers his side, with the gaping wound to Thomas.

Whenever I read this passage, I remember when I was a child, and I got stitches in my leg, and the scar would turn purple when I got cold. And it was so cool to watch it turn different colors; it was like a mood ring. So, I would show my friends the scar, and they would show me their scars from their latest bike crash or cut on the beach. I used to have a friend who would say, “What’s the point in getting hurt if you have nothing to show off at the end of it?” And, at the time, I couldn’t agree with her more.

I’m glad Jesus has his scars. There was Jesus, showing them off. I wonder if they changed colors.

Whether they did or not, I think that right here, in this moment, this upper room, among these frightened and doubting friends, is the beauty of Christianity, even in this current day. I think that for two reasons.

First, it doesn’t really matter what Thomas believes. Jesus still comes to him. This, to me, points to the divinity of Jesus, because it always seems to be that way. I hear stories, time after time, of people whose doubts overtake them and they cannot bear to believe any longer. And yet, so often it doesn’t matter entirely what they decide. God is persistent. God still comes to them, and God still holds them, even when they reject God. And this has been one of the most important things that I have learned throughout my life.

It does not matter if I doubt. In fact, for some people, doubt is an important part of their faith. The theologian, Paul Tillich says that if faith is a coin, then doubt is one side of it. And ultimately, it does not matter how much we question God. God will still love us.

Second, Jesus shows Thomas his scars. He points to the place where the sword went in his side and the nails went in his hands, and Thomas believes.

It is the moment of belief for many of us. Jesus wears scars. We all wear them, don’t we? In this time of great Enlightenment, when we understand more about the earth, the weather, and our chemical make-up than we ever have, there are so many things that we do not know. We have not been able to figure out how to feed everyone. We do not know how to shelter people. We do not know how to keep men, women and children from violence in their homes. We do not know how to deal with international conflict without wars. We do not know how to break our own addictions. We still get incredibly lonely. We still do not know how to keep from having scars.

And yet, in our doubt, and even with these wounds, we have those moments when God comes to us. God blows a Spirit of peace in the midst of our doubts. And when we are going through the most difficult time in our lives, and we know that people are praying for us, and we have a community surrounding us, then somehow we find a courage and resilience that stems somewhere far beyond our understanding, but it grows up within us. And I think it is somehow rooted in the fact that our God has scars, and the people who surround us are wearing them too.

Because with everything that we know, with all of our education and our enlightenment, we still have deep wounds that don’t quite heal. We still have a feeling of absolute dependence upon God, in the core of our being.

And so, we join the disciples, in this room filled with believers and questioners, looking at our scars. And we welcome Jesus, our savior, who is blowing peace upon our gravest doubts.

To the glory of God our Creator,
      God our sustainer,
            And God our Redeemer. Amen.

a sermon by John W. Wimberly, Jr.
Pastor, Western Presbyterian Church
Washington, D.C.
Easter Sunday April 12, 2009

Text: John 20:1-18

A couple of years ago, I was on a Southwest Air flight out of Baltimore. At the beginning of the flight, the cabin crew started the regular, required explanation of what we were to do in case of an emergency. The crew member on the PA system said, “Let me begin by saying that if any of us on the flight crew believed that anything we are about to explain to you was actually going to happen, we would have called in sick today.”

In the moments following their discovery of the open tomb, Mary Magdalene and Peter may well have wished that they called in sick. Because, in the subsequent hours, they went through an emotional roller coaster equal to any in-flight crisis on an airplane.

On Easter morn, two thousand years ago, still overwhelmed with grief, Mary Magdalene walked out from Jerusalem to Jesus’ grave site. Maybe she was taking flowers out there. Maybe she just wanted to sit as close as she could get to Jesus’ body. People do that all the time. Several Gospels say she went with some special spices to apply to his body.

But when she arrived at the tomb, it was open, not closed as she expected. In a response that reveals the authority structure of the early church, Mary didn’t go into the tomb. Instead, she went to get Peter. Three days after Jesus’ arrest, trial and execution, surely the word had gotten around that Peter had denied Jesus not once but three times during his time of need. And yet, such was Peter’s position of authority among Jesus’ followers that Mary Magdalene went running to get him.

Upon listening to Mary, Peter raced to the tomb, went in and saw Jesus’ funeral garments rolled up neatly, placed on a rock. But, in another indication that Peter oftentimes was not always the most perceptive guy on Jesus’ team, Peter and his companion returned home, not understanding what had taken place.

Mary didn’t go home. She just sat down and started to cry. In the bible, people cry all the time. Everyone from Sarah to King David to Jesus to Mary cried. As some of you know, it doesn’t take much for me to get choked emotionally and begin to cry. In a culture where men and women alike still have to defend their tears, I like to think I am just being biblical.

While Mary cried, first some angels, then the Risen Christ appeared to this special woman whose life had been totally transformed by her interaction with Jesus. They explained what had happened. Jesus wasn’t dead. He was risen. Mary then ran to tell the disciples.

I cannot continue without noting the importance in the Gospel narratives of women being the first individuals to encounter the Risen Jesus, women being the ones who informed Peter and the other disciples that Jesus was risen. In the sexist culture of the first century, in the sexist culture of the 21^st century, it was and is an unmistakable, indelible message to all: God views women as indispensable, equal players in the redemption of humankind. Any and all attempts to subjugate women to lesser, subservient roles in life run contrary to God’s will and actions.

So often, I hear it assumed that the news of Jesus’ resurrection was greeted with overwhelming joy by his depressed, defeated followers. I’m not so sure. That doesn’t sound like the humanity I know.

No doubt, there was a lot of joy when they first got the word. But I think their joy was quickly mixed with a huge dose of confusion and fear. Confusion as to what was going on. Fear as to what Jesus and God might have in mind for them.

Remember, the disciples never understood the need for Jesus’ death. They had refused to accept even Jesus’ own predictions that he would die and be resurrected. In the years following Jesus’ death and resurrection, the early church did a meticulous reread of the Hebrew Scriptures. Using a different lens, looking not for a Messiah who would come and rule the earth but for One who would suffer, die and be resurrected, they found the narrative that explained Jesus’ death and resurrection. But not yet having done that work, on Easter morn, the followers of Jesus still did not know what to make of the empty tomb. No wonder some speculated that Jesus’ body had been stolen.

Ignorance breeds fear. One of the reasons the financial markets have been so roiled for the past six months is a fear of the unknown. Investors don’t know the value of various investments, the land upon which companies sit, the ability of consumers to purchase products, whether or not companies or consumers can borrow money.

Business people can create business plans for good times and bad times. But it is incredibly challenging to create business plans for uncertain times. So experiencing the unknown, not knowing what is what, the business and finance communities have been kind of frozen, like the proverbial deer looking into the headlights.

Upon hearing about Jesus’ resurrection, I think the disciples froze. They also asked themselves profound questions. If Jesus was resurrected, what did this mean for them? Would he be angry with them? After all, they had all run for cover during his time of need. Would he assume the Davidic kingship they thought he was going to take earlier? Or was his resurrection a signal that the Last Days had begun? Their future was totally unclear.

In a poem entitled “At the Border,” poet Carl Dennis writes, “At the border between the past and the future, no sign on a post warns that your passport won’t let you return to your native land as a citizen, just as a tourist who won’t be allowed to fraternize with the locals….Are you sure you’re ready to leave, to cross the bridge that begins under a clear sky and ends in fog?”

Dennis captures perfectly why we so fear the unknown. We know the past. Even if it is less than desirable, we know it. As such, it is our native land. However, whether we admit it or not, it is a native land in which we can no longer live.

Whenever I go back to a big part of my past, the state of Wisconsin, I am filled to the overflowing with emotion. On one hand, I am so grateful for the friendships and family life I had there; the progressive values I was taught; the beauty of the state’s lakes and farmland; the warmth of its people. On the other hand, emotion wells up as I realize it can never be mine again. Never. It is no longer my home. When there, I am a tourist in my native land.

The disciples had to be, just had to be, filled with enormous fear about what the future would bring for them—personally, collectively. They had to realize that, given Jesus’ resurrection, they would never return to what was. And yet, they had no idea what was to be. Beyond the bright clear day of the Resurrection was a dense fog.

So it is for you and me, this Easter morn. We stand on a bridge. Behind us is a world of high property and stock values, access to seemingly unlimited credit, a good job market and our delusions of an American Empire. Before us, on the other side of the bridge, is a world shrouded with fog. Dare we cross over?

Dennis’ poem continues, “But look, you’ve started across already and it’s one lane wide, with no room for U-turns. No time even to pause as drivers behind you lean on their horns, those who’ve convinced themselves their home awaits them on the other side.”

Indeed, we really have no choice but to move forward. But these folks behind us who are so eager to move into the unknown are really irritating. Why are they so bound and determined to cross into a land of which they know nothing? Have they no idea that they have no idea?

Maybe a heart attack is on the other side of the bridge. Cancer. A divorce. Maybe there is a terrorist attack, an earthquake or another mass shooting.

Then again, maybe the love of our life is over there. The job of our dreams. A movement to save the planet. A congregation taking the next step in a growing process.

Every Easter, I spend a fair amount of time wondering what Jesus thought when he awoke in the tomb. Some of my decades-long reflections are pretty humorous, at least to me. But they are also pretty irreverent so I won’t share them this morning.

But really, it had to have been bizarre. Jesus awakes wrapped in burial clothes. It is dark, cold and damp. The last thing he remembers is excruciating pain and the taunting laughter of Roman soldiers. What could he have been thinking as he sat up in that tomb? More important, once he saw the light outside the open entrance to the tomb and figured out what was happening, how did he summon up the courage to go outside? After all, out there were the people who crucified him, the fickle crowds who turned on him, the friends who deserted him.

Did he hesitate? Did he rush out? We don’t know. But ultimately, trusting in his God, he left behind his past and stepped out into his future, into our future.

Kurt Anderson had a great piece in Time Magazine a week ago. It was entitled “The End of Excess.” In it, he described how we will never go back to what we had/were doing from about 1980 to 2007. During that time, the square footage of the average house in the United States increased by 50%; savings dropped from 11% to 1% of a household’s disposable income; the price of a home quadrupled; we used oil, gas and coal as though there is an infinite supply of them and they do no damage to the environment. Those days are done. We cannot go back.

But when this crisis passes, some will tell us the crisis was a mirage, that the things that caused it didn’t cause it. Their fear of the unknown is so great they’ll tell us the same old-same old is just fine. Some will even call the past God’s way or, at a minimum, the American way. “We don’t need change. We don’t need to explore the unknown. Let’s go back to what we know,” they will say.

In the old church at 19^th and H, we used to have major problems with rats. One time we thought there was a rat in the bushes in the outside courtyard. So we called the exterminator.

The regular guy was on vacation so a young, new-to-the-job fellow arrived. We told him he needed to check in the bushes because there might be a rat in there. He said, “I’m not checking in there. I don’t know what is in there. I might get bitten.” Now, maybe I’m wrong, but to me, this was somewhat like calling the fire department when the fire detector goes off and they arrive only to say, “I’m not going in there. I might get burned.”

There is only one way for us to enter the future. We have to go there. Yes, we may get bitten or burned. But venturing into the unknown is the only way to travel to the world where our dreams can be realized.

And, frankly, the future isn’t as totally covered by fog as the poet Dennis describes it as being. We can see some of the outlines of that world from here, the superstructure God has built for the lives of every generation—past, present and future.

We will love our families and our families will love us. Those with kids will love and raise them. The kids, in turn, will love and care for their parents as they age and die. We will meet friends who become family. We will appreciate the beauty of dogwoods blossoming and a landscape painted white by the snow. We will be moved to tears by a Neruda poem, a Michelangelo sculpture, a Verdi opera. We will do some good works that amaze even us.

We will also walk into the future with some major improvements over the past. Improvements we can proudly say we helped God create. As we move forward, an African American will be our President, not a slave. Many women and men will walk side by side as equal partners. A gay couple in Iowa will go forward as a married couple not living together in secret. The diversity of our national family will grow as immigrants continue to bless us with their presence.

However, even seeing the broad framework of life in the future, we still don’t know the specifics. And, oh, how we long for/love specifics. So we hesitate, become anxious, and wonder what we should do. We need something more to get us moving forward.

Thanks be to God, something more is out there. As we stand at the border where past and future meet, if we look long and hard, we will see Jesus across the bridge, in the future. He is motioning for us to join him. If we listen carefully, we will hear him saying the same thing he said to those fisherman on the shore, to Mary Magdalene, to a tax collector and so many others: “Follow me.”

What more do we need to walk boldly, bravely into the future? What more can God provide than the Resurrected Christ to call us into the future? As believers in God, believers in one another, believers in our own abilities, let us cross the bridge to the life God has created for us.

Let us pray: Good God, you know us so well. You know our hopes. You know our fears. Give each of us the courage and faith to follow Jesus out of the tombs in which we reside to the future where you wait for us. All this we pray in the name of the Risen Christ. Amen.

Pastor, Western Presbyterian Church
Washington, DC
April 10, 2009

Text: John 18:1-19:42

A friend of mine did some research on the elderly. In particular, she wanted to know what people feared. She thought she knew. She assumed that they would fear death.

As she continued her studies, however, she realized that it was not dying that made them afraid. It was something more particular than that. They had the fear of dying alone.

I understand that. I think that almost any suffering can be endured, as long as there is someone beside us, who is attentive to us, holding our hand. Jesus seemed to know this.

When Jesus began his ministry, the first thing that he did, was to gather a group of friends together. It was a wonderful group of characters—fishermen, tax collectors, doctors—women and men who traveled together, taught one another, and worked with each other. Throughout the three years, they fed one another. Together, they met terrifying demons, and watched broken peoples’ lives and bodies become whole. In the intensity of this final week, they are praying together, washing each other’s feet, crying with one another, and fighting with each other.

And yet, there is one thing that Jesus seems to do all by himself. As we read the passage this morning, I am struck by the fact that Jesus is faces such tremendous suffering all by himself.

               Jesus walked that lonesome valley,
              He had to walk it by himself,
              Nobody could walk it for him,
             He had to walk it by himself.

The story begins with the betrayal of a friend–the isolating, and terrible moment when Judas slips out of the upper room, to tell the government where they could find Jesus. They could arrest him, at nighttime, when he was not teaching, but he was secluded, away from the crowds, with only a handful of disciples surrounding him.

There is nothing quite as cruel as the betrayal of a friend. I am reminded of the pain and heartache that happens if we find out that our spouse has been cheating on us, or a loved one has been lying to us about their addictions. The worst part about the betrayal, is desperately lonely we can feel at the end of it. Even when we are surrounded by other friends, our insecurity is so high, and our trust level is so low, that we can often feel utterly isolated.

And so it is with Jesus, as he walks through the bitter betrayal of having his close friend, turn him in for a reward, betraying Jesus to an excruciating death on the cross with a solitary kiss.

When the soldiers came for Jesus, they are not sure which one of the disciples it is. And Jesus tells them “It is I,” and Jesus asks the soldier to let his friends go. After a quick initial struggle, the disciples run away, and leave Jesus to be captured alone.

They all leave, except for Peter. He can’t quite withdraw from the scene, and so he follows the soldiers, lurks in the distance, watching as much as he can. And yet, even Peter flees, when people ask him if he’s a friend of Jesus, Peter denies that he ever knew Jesus.

Jesus is alone.

No one could be with Jesus as the soldiers tortured and mocked him. And his disciples were not around when he carried the instrument of his very own death to the hill of the skull. And no one could be there as the nails were pounded into Jesus’ hands and feet. No one was there when they put the sign over his head, proclaiming that he was the King of the Jews. He suffered all of it alone.

And then when that cross was erected, when it was placed into the hole in the ground, and Jesus hung in a naked display of cruelty, none of his disciples were hanging next to him.

There was a law that no one was allowed to mourn for the person who was being crucified. Soldiers could jeer, people could split up the robe, the mocking and chanting could continue, but no one was allowed to publicly grieve for the one who died, or else they could be crucified as well.

Yet, we see one moment here, where Jesus may not have been totally alone, because the law prohibiting mourners didn’t seem to stop a small handful of people from being there, at the foot of the cross. Two women and the beloved disciple, gathered there with Mary, so she could watch her innocent son die.

And even at this moment, Jesus turns to his mother, and says, “Woman, here is your son.”

Then he says to the disciple, “Here is your mother.”

And with those words, that last, final relationship, between a son and his mother is severed. And it is finished.

The painful loneliness seems to penetrate every scene of this horrible story. And, it is a rejection that we have all experienced at one time or another. It is when there is a pain so deep that we are sure that no one can understand our suffering. It is a torment that is so profound, that we have difficulty getting out of bed in the morning. And, if we let it, the isolation can feed itself, until we are sure that no one can relate to us.

And, yet, there is something comforting about this story, for those of us who have felt abandoned and betrayed. Not because we revel in anyone else suffering, but because here, in buried in this awful story, is the realization that we are not alone. We are not isolated.

Here in this story, we realize that we have a savior who bears the deepest burdens with us. And, when we pray, we do not utter words to an all-powerful God, who cannot understand what it’s like to go through hell, but we cry out in the name of Jesus the Christ, who emptied himself, took on human flesh, and fully immersed himself into the intense love, compassion, and betrayal that is at the heart of human community.

When we pray in the midst of our suffering, we are opening ourselves up to a God who has walked through the depths of human torment, and a God who taught us how to love in the midst of betrayal, how to forgive in the midst of torture, and a God who taught us how to heal even our own broken lives.

Even before the triumph of Easter, Jesus teaches us how to embrace abundant life. And in the midst of all of it, we know, we are not alone. Ever since Jesus walked that lonesome valley, we have found comfort and strength in that certain hope that we have a God who has gone before us, and will walk with us.

To the glory of God our Creator,
God our Liberator,
And God, our Comforter. Amen.

A sermon by Carol Howard Merritt
Pastor, Western Presbyterian Church
April 5, 2009

Text: Mark 11:1-11

A couple of years ago, our family went to the Grand Canyon for summer vacation. It had always been my dream to go there, and even with all of the anticipation, I was not disappointed. For a couple of days, we wandered from the National Park in search of artwork. We drove across barren highways to the Painted Desert, until we saw a giant spray-painted sign that read “dinosaur tracks.”

It was too good to pass up; we had to get out of the car. When we opened up the door of our vehicle, the sweltering August heat overwhelmed us, so we made sure to grab our water. We paid a couple of dollars to a tour guide who also had a water bottle, but he didn’t really drink from his. His was equipped with a squirter, which he used to outline the tracks in the red dust.

The imprints and bones seemed to go on for miles. But, there was another really interesting thing. There were pieces of red rocks all around us, but it was a different hue than the desert. While the canyon was a mixture of orange, brown and red, this rock was a brilliant red. In one place, the locals had gathered the stones together, and suddenly it became clear what it was. It was coral.

“You see, all of this was underwater at one time,” the guide said flatly, as he pointed out how part of the desert was rippled. I crouched down, and began to trace the wavy rock with my finger. The evidence was all around.

As a teenager in school, I had read about land masses shifting, how plates moved, but I had never imagined that I would stand, in the middle of a desert, looking at the evidence of water. It puts things in perspective. It made me realize how much things shift and overturn, and how earth, just like the course of history is always changing. It was so fascinating. From the Canyon to outlying desert, we could see what seemed like millions of years of evolution. Our landscapes alter, our brains evolve, and even our skeletal structures adjust. 

Change is a fascinating thing, especially when we are looking back at it, but it is a much different when we are in the midst of it, when it affects us personally. This week in our church calendar, we look back on a moment of our sacred history, realizing how quickly things can change, and how scary it can be.

We remember Jesus, riding on a donkey, entering Jerusalem as if he were royalty, breathing in the calls and cries of the crowd.

I wonder what he imagined as he rode through the city walls. There is not much doubt what the people thinking. They wanted him to become King. They saw in him a person who could overthrow the oppressive Roman government, who could bring release to the Jewish people. They saw in Jesus a fulfillment of all the promises that God had made to them.

But what about Jesus? What was he thinking as he rode through all of that expectation? Did he wonder if he was going to become king? He had already hinted to his disciples that he was going to die. But with this proud entrance, did he wonder how long his life was going to last? It seems as if the questions of his own destiny must have been looming all around him, echoing through the shouts of the people.

So, why did he enter the city with such fanfare? Why didn’t he duck out of the parade? Would he have preserved his life a little longer if he had?

We gather on Palm Sunday, echoing the crowds, and yet realizing that the mood of the people changed quite quickly. They went from calling out “Hosanna” to crying, “Crucify him” in a very short time. Of course, they were probably different people, but Jesus was the same person, facing such different popular opinion. I often wonder how he had the strength to face the crucifixion, and now I imagine that riding on through the praise must have been difficult as well, because he kind of knew what he had in store. He had a sense of his own destiny. He realized how much things were about to shift and change under his own feet.

But we don’t have to look too far backinto history to realize how much things have changed. We can look around right now, and see an incredibly productive and creative moment in history.

Technological advances have made it so that we don’t shop, read, or get our news in the same way. We have quickly gone from landlines, to cell phones, to email, to texting, to video conferencing, to social networking.

Varying forces have made it so that we do not sustain ourselves in the same way. We have gone from an agrarian society, to an industrial society, to tech-driven markets, to a culture dominated by the service industry. Business that was once done within miles of our home is now easily transacted across the globe.

In the workplace, women have gained incredible access to most occupations and political positions. We have a long way to go in many areas. Equal pay and support for families are still big issues, but the change is undeniable.

We change as social creatures. Not too long ago, marriages were arranged. They were contracts between families, often based on the class and status of a family. Then, there was a sense that these relationships should not be based on a social contract, but a couple should love each other and choose their own spouses.

Even then, there was an understanding that the choice was to be made within certain parameters. A couple needed to marry someone within their own ethnicity and religion. But we soon found that the love between two people did not discriminate. And people became attracted to men and women who did not look like them. Now, we are beginning to look at the meaning of marriage again, as same-gender couples are able to live without as much fear, they are teaching us that beautiful, life-long, loving relationships often form between gay men and lesbians, and in places like Iowa, our definition of marriage is changing.

Religion in the United States is looking quite different. Mainline denominational churches used to be in the center of town, and (from what I hear) most people went to church. Not only that, but being a Presbyterian meant something very different than being a Methodist. And if you moved into a certain town, you would surely go to a Methodist Church, if you were raised in a Methodist home. But now, people go to church, and find the one that fits them more. Like marriage, going to church is less of a pre-arranged social contract, and more of relationship based on mutual respect and love.

We have also seen the rich history of evangelicalism swell to new heights in our culture. They took a prominent role in politics and culture, and, now they are beginning to lose their voice, and their conservative social agenda is no longer making any sense in a new generation.

We can almost feel the rumbling under our feet. Sometimes it seems to be changing so quickly. Other times, it does not seem to be changing nearly fast enough. Often times I get frustrated with our denomination because they seem to be moving so slowly toward full inclusion of gays and lesbians as deacons, elders, and ministers. It is heart-breaking to see extremely talented men and women who are not able to live out what God has called them to do, because of their personal relationships. But then, I talk to some of my older colleagues who are amazed that our attitudes have changed so quickly. They remind me to keep advocating, but to also realize that a lot of the change that needs to occur is a matter of time.

Sometimes the evolutions are amazing, but other times, it can be scary. Especially right now, as our economy is changing. We are reading about layoffs and unemployment. We are watching our friends collect pink slips, and some of us are collecting them ourselves. We realize that certain industries are drying up, and we don’t quite know how to respond. 

Students are beginning to wonder what kind of jobs will be available upon graduation. I notice that many of my friends are looking at things completely differently than my parents did. I’ve noticed a shift from people who are trying to find a secure job, to people who are looking to create their own jobs. It has become necessary for them to take great risks, and become innovative. Some who are getting close to retirement age are going through shifts as well, realizing that their resources may look very different in the coming years.

I can almost feel the rumbling under our feet. Our social structures, our economy, our occupations, our employment practices, and even the way that we communicate have all changed. Things as basic as picking up a newspaper or a book have adapted. We are in the midst of a quickly evolving culture.

We can look at most of the changing nature of our society with interest and curiosity if the changes are happening somewhere out there, but when they begin to affect our personal lives, our own well-being, then it becomes a completely different story.

My husband, Brian, is the pastor of Palisades Community Church in D.C. He had a food drive yesterday. It was very interesting. Not many people showed up, so he began to go door-to-door asking for donations, and still gathered very few items.

We were pretty stunned at the outcome, mainly because when we were living in a very conservative town in Louisiana, and they had a food drive, the organizers had lines of people there to donate. They had to rent four large U-Hauls to put the food in. The generosity was overwhelming. Literally. All of the churches in town sent hundreds of volunteers to collect the food.

And yet, in a neighborhood where people make ten times the amount of money, it was difficult to finagle a bag of rice from them. I don’t mean to disparage the good people in D.C., but I did wonder what the difference was.

I think it might have been that people in South Louisiana were used to the extreme economic change. They understood what it was like to live through oil booms and oil busts. They were well acquainted with tornadoes and hurricanes. They knew what it was like to have their sugarcane or rice crops wiped out, and when one factory left the area, they understood the devastation it brought. And, they had learned to survive by being generous with one another, by caring for one another, by storing up food in the fat and the lean years. They learned to weather extreme change by depending on each other.

It seems like we can learn this from Jesus. I think he might have moved through the cheers of the crowd, because he knew how much things were going to change. I think he realized how important it was to have the love and support of a community to get him through the week of passion. Throughout the next week, over and over again, we see Jesus in intimate community with his friends. They will cry together, fight for each other, eat with one another, and wash each other’s feet. They will care for Jesus, and Jesus will care for them, with tears, expensive ointments, and love. They will make sure that he is ready for his burial.

This is what we will need to learn through our own changes, as we begin to wrestle with change, those questions of our personal destiny, and our destiny as a country, we will need to learn from Jesus and his followers, how to support one another, care for each other.

As one of our college students told me recently, “I used to be completely obsessed with my career. Now, I realize that there’s much more to life than that. Loving and being loved, having friends and community.” Her words reminded me once again that so many things change in our lives, but there are many things that stay the same. Loving, and being loved, enjoying friends and community, this is the way that we will survive any change.

To the glory of God our Creator,

God our Liberator,

            And God our Sustainer. Amen.

Pastor, Western Presbyterian Church
Washington, D.C.
March 29, 2009

Text: John 12:20-33

One of the things I treasure about the Lent narrative is the sense of inevitability that pervades it. Earlier in Lent, we read one of those famous, tension-filled moments when the disciples questioned Jesus as to why he had to suffer. Jesus rebuked them for their lack of understanding. He said his suffering and death could not be avoided.

This week we again hear Jesus talking about his impending death. Said Jesus, it is as inevitable as a grain of wheat falling to the ground. He didn’t see his death as a totally bad thing. From this fallen grain, he said, much will grow.

Many theologians have read these passages and interpreted them to mean that it was God’s will for Jesus to be crucified. As you know, I disagree. I take these stories as indications that Jesus was a realist. He knew the world in which he lived.

Like many who have promoted forgiveness in a world addicted to vengeance, Jesus knew he was a threat to the principalities and powers. He also knew these folks tend to eliminate rather than tolerate dissenters. Therefore, he concluded he had a choice. He could compromise his message and live or he could die with integrity. He chose to die.

Life is filled with things we can’t change. We get cancer. A loved one dies. We aren’t given a job promotion we deserve. We have a neighbor who is a jerk. We aren’t athletic. We aren’t all that smart.

At a meeting last week, I was with a young southern pastor who I really love. He enjoys playing the “I’m just a country boy and don’t really know all that much” card southerners like to try out on Yankees like me. They say that and then blow you out of the room with their intelligence.

But this meeting I had some fun with him. He started his comments by saying, “You know, I’m not the sharpest bulb in the drawer.” I interrupted and said, “This time you’re right. Because it is either ‘I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer’ or ‘I’m not the brightest bulb on the block’ but it isn’t ‘I’m not the sharpest bulb in the drawer.’”

Jesus teaches us that whether or not we’re the sharpest knife in the drawer, a loved one dies, or we made a bad investment, there isn’t much of anything we can do about it. We are what we are. Life is what it is.

When I mentioned something along these lines about a month ago, I got an email from an irritated visitor as he returned home on Amtrak to New York. He accused me of being fatalistic about life. I don’t think it was an accurate criticism. But as a preacher, you learn quickly that people hear what they hear. In fact, sometimes what they hear is better than what you said!

If this good fellow is here today, he is now certain that I am a fatalist. But Jesus was fatalistic and neither am I. It isn’t fatalism to accept certain unchangeable things as unchangeable. It is realism.

Clearly, we want to be careful that we don’t accept as unchangeable that which is changeable. We may have cancer but we can fight and maybe beat it. We may not be the smartest person in the class. But we can be the hardest working students in the class and still get good grades.

Nonetheless, our choices in life are not infinite. They are limited by some personal, physical and societal realities. A failure to acknowledge these limitations can lead to a lot of wasted effort and massive frustration.

As Jesus looked at his insurmountable problems, he traveled to a very profound spiritual zone. As Jesus put it, “Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour?’ No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour.” In prayer, Jesus decided that the destination the disciples wanted him to avoid was exactly where he was born to go, meant to be.

So often, the same is true for you and me. The stubborn, won’t-go-away, irritating problems in our lives oftentimes are related to the heart of who we are and what we are called to do. They are not barriers. They are doors.

Most Europeans in the fifteenth century concluded the Atlantic Ocean was a dangerous and immutable barrier to travel to China. Columbus didn’t see it that way. He saw it as a route to a new world.

In the 20^th century, most people saw the segregated bus system in Montgomery, Alabama as an unresolvable barrier to civil rights. Rosa Parks saw it as a means to and end. Challenging the bus system, she could help build a civil rights movement.

In South Africa, most people thought apartheid would never go away. Nelson Mandela, Helen Suzman and others thought the outrageous injustice of apartheid presented an opportunity to awaken the conscience of people of good will, to build a new, multiracial governing coalition on the southern tip of Africa.

In 1970, our Presbytery thought Western Church should shut its doors. The problems we faced were insurmountable. Our members didn’t agree and called a young pastor who shared their hopes. But there were some insurmountable problems. So, in the mid-1980s, we defined what we couldn’t do and stopped trying to do it. Instead, we started working on what we could do. The result has been a history of growth.

In all of these instances, the problems didn’t melt away. They remained stubbornly in place. However, folks made adjustments and modifications in their approach to life. They acknowledged some hard facts and realigned themselves to the facts. In the process, they changed reality as it was known and accepted.

So it was with Jesus. He knew he was going to die. After all, he realized he wasn’t going to be the first person to end up on a Roman cross. One ancient writer described a major road in Israel being lined with crosses as far as the eye could see. On each cross was a dead or dying person.

We love to think of Rome as a wonderful place filled with great art, philosophy and architecture. It was. However, it was also a brutal, bloody regime.

So if he continued to speak a Word of peace in a world filled with violence, Jesus knew what awaited him. However, he also knew the cross wasn’t a destiny assigned to him by God. It was an injustice imposed on him by Rome.

But what was he to do about it? Run from it? Accept it fatalistically? Cry about it? Get drunk?

With God’s indispensable help, Jesus decided to transfigure the cross from something punitive into something redemptive, from an expression of the world’s injustice into a demonstration of God’s victory over injustice.

Growing up in the upper Midwest, there was an expression I used to hate as a kid, “Make the best out of a bad situation.” I didn’t want to make the best out of a bad situation. I wanted to make the best out of a great situation. But that Scandinavian, German mind set knew that, in life, we are just as likely to be dealing with a bad situation as a good one.

We are in a bad situation today. Real bad. In the last decade, we fought wars we didn’t need to fight and for which we were unwilling to pay taxes. Questions about the war or taxes were labeled unpatriotic. The values of our stock portfolios and houses were going up so we didn’t ask why. Don’t rock the boat. While the nation as a whole has been slowly opening its heart to LGBT folks, parts of our denomination continues to close its heart to them, claiming homosexuality is a sin. The bible tells us so or so we are told.

A lot of people want to hash and rehash how we got into this situation. A little rehashing is important. It is called learning from our mistakes so we are less likely to repeat them in the future. But ultimately, it isn’t going to help us deal with our current situation.

A huge number of unemployed people, a frightening increase in the number of homeless people nationally (74,000 in Los Angeles County alone), a mountain of national debt, a large group of aging citizens who will shortly need the Social Security for which they paid, these are crosses we face as surely as Jesus faced a cross.

Two thousand years hasn’t changed much. We pretty much have the same set of choices Jesus had. We can cry about our problems, get drunk, blame one another, run away, fatalistically accept our plight or, OR we can transform our crosses into something redemptive. We can see them as an opportunity to think in new and creative ways about what our lives can be.

As Christians, we know what we are supposed to do today. We are supposed to put our nose to the grindstone (By the way, who came up with that one? Why would I put my nose to a grindstone? Some internet research reveals that knife grinders used to lean down near the grindstone as they sharpened blades.).

We can’t dodge our problems so we might as well confront them. They aren’t going away. But they also do not need to deflect us from leading full, meaning-filled, happy lives.

Maybe I want to be a lawyer but can’t get into law school. Time to rethink the plan. I want to be happily married but can’t find the right partner. Time to rethink the plan. I want to live a carefree retirement but the stock market just destroyed that dream. Time to rethink the plan.

And please, let us not think that these crosses were designed for us by God. God didn’t need for Jesus to die to reveal that God’s justice always prevail. But when it became clear Jesus was going to die, God made sure to use Christ’s death as history’s definitive teaching moment.

We aren’t supposed to get cancer. But if we do, we can nevertheless use the illness for redemptive purposes. Maybe we determine that we will live every single hour of the day fully and completely. No more taking life for granted. Maybe we become advocates for cleaning up the environment since a lot of cancer is the result of environmental devastation. Maybe we become a part of a cancer support group and help others deal with their cancer.

The options for transfiguring a cross into something redemptive are almost infinite. However, none of them can involve going into denial. We cannot simply imagine the unchangeable to be changeable, the irreversible to be reversible.

In the next few weeks, we are going to zoom in on Jesus as he deals with the reality of his impending death. He approached Jerusalem certain that he was going to die there. But given his anxiety attack in the Garden of Gethsemane, somewhere in his heart, he was still hoping that God might find a way to divert him from the Cross.

It wasn’t in God’s power to do so just as God can’t save us from having a heart attack or going into a recession. However, God can and will help us find a way to cope with the crosses we bear and direct us to alternative ways to live full, happy and holy lives.

For God’s will is that we live, not die. God does not inflict suffering upon us as some divine means to a spiritual enhanced end. Rather, God walks with us, even as we travel through the valley of the shadow of death.

The world we face today demands realism. We can’t wish things away. However, we do not have to accept these realities in a fatalistic, passive manner. Living in God’s presence, we can fashion new lives and a new world filled with wonderful, fulfilling possibilities.

And as we face some grim realities that won’t go away, let us remember to enjoy some other realities that won’t go away. Because the cherry blossoms will bloom, no matter what. Children will make sublime noise in worship services, no matter what. Artists will create art that moves our soul, no matter what. People will love one another, no matter what.

Such is the world God has created and we are privileged to enjoy.

Let us pray: Gracious God, at times, life can be tough. Keep us from becoming tough in response. Rather, help us to be flexible, adaptable as we follow you on the winding road life is. All this we ask in the name of One who shows us the Way, Jesus of Nazareth. Amen.