God Loves You (or why a story about famine, hunger, and loss needs to be told to children)

NOTE: During the next five weeks, the pastor will follow the same texts selected as part of the 2005 VBS curriculum. The scripture text for today is the first chapter of Ruth.

When you wander the bookstore next, go over to the children’s books and check out what kids are reading nowadays. Undoubtedly, you’ll find a few familiar friends: Mother Goose is gathering together little nursery rhymes and stories, Nancy Drew still the teenage sleuth after decades, Dorothy Gale is still from Kansas but really happier in Oz. But you’ll also notice the newcomers: Harry Potter and his stories about defeating “You Know Who”, the irrepressible barn yard animals from “Click Clack Moo”, and then there’s depressive Lemony Snicket and his books chronicling “a series of unfortunate events.”
Have you hear of Lemony Snicket? He tells stories of three orphans, the Baudelaire children, whose parents died in a house fire, no suitable relatives to take them in, and the rather eccentric villain Count Olaf, who wants their money but doesn’t want them.
Snicket is the pen name of Daniel Handler, who started writing these books with the idea that children need stories that deal with the fact that the world is difficult, complex, and rather scary. He claims that if a child can grasp irony, that child begins to see how the world really works. In an 2005 interview, Handler comments

“I think that as you grow up you begin to look critically at the world and
you note the disparity between what people are saying and how it goes.
The way the books run is contrary to what everyone says all the time. In
many children's books good people are rewarded and bad people are
punished, and you see when you are very young that the world just
doesn't go that way. I think that's something akin to irony, though it's not
a textbook definition of irony. The idea that bad behavior is always
punished will begin to ring false if you're actually in a schoolyard.”
http://fictionwriting.about.com/od/interviews/a/lemony_3.htm

Hence, Handler’s writing as Lemony Snicket is sometimes edgy and less conventional than some children’s books out there. These orphans feel the brunt of feeling lost, alone, and without much help from anyone. The world is filled with heartache, and while we hope for children a much better life than our own, the reality is that kids need to know that things go awry.
Now at this point, you might be wondering why this has much to do with a sermon that is billed as “God loves you.” When we come to church, we hope to hear about faith and hope and love. Yet, when we spend time reading the opening of the book of Ruth, or most anything from the book of Job, or even the story of Christ’s journey toward the cross, there is a terrible encounter with pain and suffering and loss in the biblical narrative that is not incidental; it is a primary concern within the biblical stories.
We inadvertently reduce the Bible to “happy thoughts” if we do not wrestle with the edgier stuff well. We can read Noah’s Ark with visions of a happy little family on an ark full of happy little animals, if we conveniently overlook the serious note that Noah’s ark building adventure begins on: the world had grown so wicked, God decides to destroy everything and everyone, save this one righteous fellow named Noah. That’s a sobering little tale! Thus, we have to wrestle with stories like Ruth without making them so “happy” that we forget that they are written to help sad and frustrated folks find hope by letting them know that the life of faith is not removed far away from the frustrations and heartache of this world. In hearing these stories with all their twists and turns, we honor the biblical narratives’ radical assertion that God is not removed from this world and neither are we. There will be salvation, but there will also be brokenness with which to contend.
Lemony Snicket could have easily written the book of Ruth. It sounds like a series of unfortunate events, embroidered throughout with irony upon irony. The book of Ruth starts out with a famine in Bethlehem. Most of us would read this and think not much of the location, other than that it is usually sung about around Christmas. Actually, the irony is that a famine (a lack of food) strikes even the town called “House of Bread”.
Naomi and her husband Elimelech load up the truck and move to Moab, where it’s supposedly a better place to be. Yet, it isn’t, as Moab is considered a less desirable place, given some historical baggage between the Israelites and the Moabites. In other words, the only place that this family could go was “on the wrong side of the tracks” as they used to say.
During the time in Moab, her husband dies. Moreover, her two sons die, leaving her daughters-in-law Orpah and Ruth equally without much hope. Given the understandings of women in those days, if you did not have a husband, male heirs or another male relative who would marry you, a woman had very little left in the world.
Given that Ruth is a product of a long ago culture, perhaps we just take the names as “those unpronounceable words” in the text, but there’s significance in these names. Elimelich means “My God is King”, so it is a dreadful thing that a person like this dies in a foreign land. There’s great celebration in a name like Elimelich, and here he is being mentioned and then he dies. Then the two sons are Mahlon and Chillion, names that mean “sick” and “frail”. Moreover, what happens? They die, too.
This sounds so sad, doesn’t it? Yet, it gets even more complex. Naomi is the midst of all this loss, and her name means “Pleasant”. Oh, what irony! Moreover, it is not lost on Naomi, who declares herself embittered against her lot in life and against God. She winds up changing her name to Mara, which means “bitterness”.
Now, if Lemony Snicket were here, he would beg you to put away the book. See, how horrible it is--this story of three widow women off in a strange land and with no seeming way out? , Snicket pleads. Just put it down and don’t look back. You will thank me for it.

Thus, the book of Ruth opens with three women, widowed and alone, in the midst of a very grim time of famine. When you read these type of stories in the Bible, it is important to feel them as much as you spend time reading them. There’s hunger, lament, and great hardship. Indeed, a series of unfortunate events....

Yet, my friends, even as the Baudelaire orphans and the widows stuck in Moab seem to be painted into a corner or without any hope left, there are signs that things will turn around.
While the stories of great suffering in the Bible do not belittle the hardship endured by various biblical characters, the Bible also holds out hope that there will be rays of hope shining through. Most popular conceptions of faith talk about the goodness of God but don’t know what to do with suffering, hardship, and calamity. When the tsunami hit a couple of years ago, gifted theologian and current Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams wrote an op-ed piece for the London Telegraph, a prominent British newspaper. Archbishop Williams commented,

Faced with the paralyzing magnitude of a disaster like this, we naturally feel
more deeply outraged - and also more deeply helpless. We can’t see how this is
going to be dealt with, we can’t see how to make it better. We know, with a rather
sick feeling, that we shall have to go on facing it and we can’t make it go away or make ourselves feel good....

Later in this editorial, Williams observes,

The reaction of faith is or should be always one of passionate engagement with the lives that are left, a response that asks not for understanding but for ways of changing the situation in whatever – perhaps very small – ways that are open to us. The odd thing is that those who are most deeply involved – both as sufferers and as helpers – are so often the ones who spend least energy in raging over the lack of explanation. They are likely to shrug off, awkwardly and not very articulately, the great philosophical or religious questions we might want to press. Somehow, they are most aware of two things: a kind of strength and vision just to go on; and a sense of the imperative for practical service and love.
Somehow in all of this, God simply emerges for them as a faithful presence.
Arguments "for and against" have to be put in the context of that awkward, stubborn persistence.
http://www.archbishopofcanterbury.org/sermons_speeches/2005/050102.html

“Faithful presence” is indeed what changes the story of Naomi, so embittered she becomes “Bitter” by name as well as disposition. Naomi’s return to a better state of mind and lot in life is brought about by the least likely person: her daughter-in-law Ruth. Ruth is a Moabite, in other words, a complete outsider. In her rage and grief, Naomi tells Ruth and Orpah that they don’t have to endure this grief any longer. She releases them from having anything to do with her fate.
Yet, despite being told to turn back three times, Ruth persists in wanting to go with Naomi, who is bound for Bethlehem. Ruth is a foreigner whose status in life is in jeopardy because she is widowed without children. Ruth is given “an easy out” by Naomi, yet she wishes to go back with Naomi.
At this point, perhaps your general Bible knowledge kicks in, as we tend to tell the positive parts of the story first. Ruth and Naomi make it back to Bethlehem, set up a life again. Ruth meets Boaz, a man who fulfills the marital needs that restore Ruth to a societally acceptable status. It is a love story, and therefore, we love telling Ruth and Boaz’s courtship. Yet, it is profoundly more important than a Hollywood ending because you see the bigger story that shapes how an impossible situation (loss of family, food, and security) can find its way towards a more pleasant outcome. It takes Ruth, whose name is “compassionate friend”, to help Naomi have the courage to see that “Mara”, bitterness, was not to be her name for life.
Despite losing hope, which for Naomi begins with the death of Elimelich, whose name is “My God is King” in Hebrew, she changes back to “Pleasant” (her given name of Naomi) thanks to the faithfulness to God demonstrated by the complete outsider Moabite Ruth, truly a compassionate friend who endured hardship, loss, and yea, even the chance to get out of the predicament altogether. Indeed, we are graced with people like Ruth along the journey of faith, for whom, as the Archbishop commends, there is “a kind of strength and vision just to go on; and a sense of the imperative for practical service and love. Somehow in all of this, God simply emerges for them as a faithful presence.”
And for those of us who are tasked with raising children in the faith, either as parents or as members of this congregation called to tend the spiritual lives of the young, we tell them the wonderful story of Ruth and Naomi, the whole story, famine, bitterness, and impossible grief. We could feed them little platitudes, but if we are to raise them up in a world that is broken and unpredictable, the task of teaching the faith means telling them that life is impossible, but also, with every due reverence, that with God, the broken and unpredictable may be part of life, but it is not the last word. We must help our children learn that in their lives, they will be Naomi (pleasant), Mara (bitterness), and most hopefully, they will also be Ruth, a compassionate friend. And that is why the book is called Ruth.
The story doesn’t end on tears. It ends on great hope. The last verses of Ruth read:

So, Boaz took Ruth and she became his wife. When they came together, the Lord
made her conceive, and she bore a son. Then the women said to Naomi, "Blessed
be the Lord, who has not left you this day without next-of-kin; and may his name
be renowned in Israel! He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your
old age; for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven
sons, has borne him." Then Naomi took the child and laid him in her bosom, and
became his nurse. The women of the neighborhood gave him a name, saying, "A
son has been born to Naomi." They named him Obed; he became the father of
Jesse, the father of David.

And as the book closes, Naomi, once called Bitterness, is holding that child tight.

And the blessing goes on and on and on and on and on and

And the blessing goes on and on and on and on and on

Letter writing seems to be a dying art. While MTV bragged that “video killed the radio star” on its opening day back in the 1980s, there seems to be a few brave souls, despite the convenience of email, who are willing still to write letters. I checked the other day, and in one week’s time, I sent fifty email messages, some related to church business, some to family or friends. Yet, I would be hesitant to call them “letters.” You can dash off a quick note to somebody, but very rarely do I consider an email message to be like a letter. To me, letter writing involves a desk, some stationery, and a nice pen. Letters say a lot. Emails tend to be “by the seat of your pants” communiqués. Letters take time and a sense of craft. (As Radar O’Reilly once said in a letter back to his mother in Ottumwa, Iowa, “Dear mother, I am writing slowly as I know you don’t read quickly.”)

Just like other forms of correspondence, you write a letter to communicate; yet there’s something intimate about getting a letter in the mailbox. (Not the junk mail from Ed McMahan or the bills we get.) Letters that arrive with the familiar handwriting of someone close to you, and you notice these in the pile of today’s mail. That whiff of perfume to a love letter, that loving spidery handwriting of grandmothers writing grandchildren a little note. These are the letters you prefer to get everyday (not that pile of unwanted stuff). You open the letter and begin to read.

Now at this point, you could probably guess what’s going to occur: you will read a salutation or opening line (Dear Fred: or Hi Mom! or My beloved). Then will come a few personal notes, some thoughts on various matters, and then a closing line (Sincerely yours, or Later! or Until we meet again). Perhaps the letter goes for a few pages, and another will run just under one page at best. Nonetheless, letters just guide you through what’s on with another’s mind or heart. Letters. What a joy to receive!

When you read Paul’s letters, we make the mistake of treating them just as chapters and verses. Now that sounds a bit funny at first, so let me clarify. Paul’s epistles are just that: epistles, or letters that are written by Paul to another, usually a group of Christians far distant. We tend to dissect Paul’s writings and dissemble them with our need to work through them as “chapter and verse” rather than reading them for what they are: letters. They have become part of sacred writings for Christians, each epistle enjoying centuries of interpretation and understanding. They are scripture, but you also have to read them as letters.

The standard outline of an epistle (and remember, most of the New

Testament is written in the form of an epistle, so listen up if you want to understand these books of the New Testament better!). Basically, you have a salutation, words of thanksgiving, paranesis (the technical term for “teaching” and indeed, most of the epistles are taken up by these moments of teaching the faith and giving counsel on whatever ails the recipient), then there’s a word of closing (and this is full of inquiries about mutual friends and words of encouragement) and then Paul closes out the letter.

So, it is with some interest that we have an epistle here that starts with a salutation, and then before those words of thanksgiving, there’s a word of blessing in between. Now, you might look at Ephesians and wonder what’s the problem. Well, nothing really, other than this is the exception to the rule, this word of blessing. You don’t expect to see it there, but still, it’s a wonderful word to receive. It’s like hearing even better news than you expected in a letter or getting an extra word of support during a time of need from a friend.

A few years back, there was a temporary craze for greeting cards that played a little message to the recipient. You could record your own greeting with some of these cards, up to twenty seconds if memory serves. Whatever you want to say: funny, sad, thoughtful, silly. All in twenty seconds and then drop it in the mail. The card gets to its destination; the person opens it, and out comes these words that you wanted to send this person in your own voice.

It’s like that, this word of blessing of Ephesians. A riot of words. Paul has barely finished “hello” before he launches into this blessing. And it’s a lengthy utterance, literally one continuous sentence in the Greek text. It’s a blessing that cannot stop.

Why is Paul so enthused? One clue is found within the early church itself.

Throughout the New Testament epistles, there are scattered various phrases thought to be drawn from the worship life of the first Christians: bits of early Christian prayers, hymns, confessions, and liturgical phrases. (I’ve spent some time learning about this, so I must admit this is a bit of a scholarly interest.) Here, this blessing seems to be indicative of the early Christians drawing upon the worship life of Judaism. Ralph Martin, a leading scholar on Paul’s use of such material, observes that Jewish practice of that time and going would ascribe “blessing ( berakah ) to God for creation and redemption” as well as “fulsome descriptions of God’s character as initiator of blessings bestowed on the people.” ( Interpretation commentary, p. 13)

In other words, Paul is writing not so much about his own joy or the joy of the people of Ephesus. He is celebrating what God is doing to make all this joy possible. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow”, we sing that text every week as the offering is brought forward. Perhaps the over familiarity causes us to launch into singing these words without stopping to ponder why we sing it. The old “doxology” is really a radical statement on the part of a congregation living in a consumer-driven society. While credit cards promise to make our needs and wants be fulfilled, we know all too well the consequences (and perhaps up close and personal) of thinking Visa or Discover can make life easier. The doxology’s insistence that our real hope and supplier of that which sustains us is not plastic but God is a radical notion. When Heather has launched us into the doxology each week, and the congregation rises, we sing a text that draws us into the praise of the One who blesses us. It is meant not to be just part of the worship order’s woodwork but part of our theological grounding. When the organ rumbles and the voice of God’s people cries out, we give ourselves to the right praise of God “from whom all blessings flow.” Just like Paul and the early Church, we launch into praise to God, who makes possible all things that bless.

As you look over this passage, the blessing is very much about God’s good work in the world and the lives of the people who call upon God. This is a very Trinitarian blessing, drawing in the Father who acts, the Son who redeems, and the Spirit who seals all these things close to the heart of God. As you read this blessing, elements of creation, covenant, Christ, church, and consummation are blended together (as per the analysis of Fred Craddock and Eugene Boring, The People’s New Testament Commentary ). This blessing draws together the sum of belief, as near to the definition of orthodox, which is “right praise” as one can get. A blessing whose words draw us the very heights of heaven above while helping us remember who put us on earth below.

We were jostling across the railways of Ireland when I saw such blessing happen. There was a young couple, perhaps in their early twenties, in our railcar.

They had a baby, just about toddler age, who kept the entire carload of people charmed throughout the trip. Not a child ready to cry for miles upon end. No, this child had a warm diaper and milk, all one could ask for at such a young age. He sat on the little table between his parents and gurgled.

About that time, an old Irishman, near perfect image of what you would imagine an old Irishman to look like, came into the car. He was moving towards the dining car, which was just behind us. He didn’t make much eye contact, just kept his head down.

Then he caught sight of the little baby, and he stopped in his tracks. With every bit of solemn reverence, he reached out to the baby, tweaked him on the chin, and said, “Long life to you and God be praised” in that thick Irish brogue.

The baby gurgled with glee, the young parents smiled, and the old timer just kept moving onwards to the dining car.

Not too many folks paid much attention. They went back to their lunch, working the crossword puzzle in the daily paper, or chatting on their cell phones.

Yet somewhere in the midst of all the noise of a clattering railcar, I could have swore I heard the very heavens and all the saints singing, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing, just as he chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love.”

And the blessing goes on and on and on and on and on and on and.....

Seeding Faith

A few years ago, the writer Anne LaMott was invited to speak at an annual writer’s conference sponsored by a community college in the Kansas City metro area. LaMott has made a name for herself in writing circles as well as the religious realm. LaMott was asked to give part of her lectures on how one goes about creating a writing process. As LaMott took the stage, people awaited with eager anticipation. The previous years had been quite stimulating as authors like John Updike had held court. She began with a few pleasantries, then she read out loud the question for the evening, “how does one write?” She leaned into the microphone, and the audience leaned forward. She said, “Get a comfortable chair.” It wasn’t what we had anticipated as an opening line. Perhaps something more cerebral, more complex. But, her answer was “get a comfortable chair.”

I suppose you would be correct in feeling a little befuddled by the teachings of Jesus from time to time. When someone comes to him asking a question of faith, he responds with parables. And in case you haven’t noticed, Jesus’ stories of what the Kingdom-Reign of God is like are often perplexing. Jesus leans in, looking from side to side, almost as if revealing a big secret, and the listeners crowd in to hang on his every word. And Jesus gives his response....

A seed. A seed? What in the world do stories about a seed have to do with matters of the divine?

As I read these two parables, I cannot help but think of my dad. (It’s Father’s Day, so I suppose this would be an appropriate time!) Dad would hear this first parable, the one about the farmer who plants the seed, and wonder if the farmer was out of touch. The parable talks about the farmer just not doing much to push the seed along. Just wait for the harvest, ‘cause God’ll take care of the rest.

This sort of logic would be antithetical to farmers. Dad would be deeply concerned from the minute that it was the beginning of planting season. Which seed to buy and plant, what fertilizer will be best (or better said, can I afford to buy it?), will there be rain (or too much rain), will I be able to keep the critters away, will I avoid a hail storm or drought, will I be able to get a loan from the farmer’s bank (and somehow avoid winding up with it becoming the banker’s farm?).
Did I mention that TUMS might be helpful? Farming is not for the faint-hearted!
So to hear the story of a farmer who doesn’t hover obsessively over the seed becoming a bumper crop (or we hope at least a profitable one!), this seems a little out of touch on Jesus’ part.

But, then again, we’re in the “other” world of parables, where a prodigal can come home to welcome arms, the wisest person around being the guy with the sense to build on high and solid ground, and so on. The parable about a farmer who leaves a crop well enough alone sounds different, but then again, it’s a parable!

Farming can be all about the technique and the worry, but at the end of the day, a good farmer is more likely the type that allows for a little bit of “patience, prayer, and perseverance.” You can have all of the “trade knowledge” about what seed is best on the market, but again, it’s all down to the stuff that one ultimately cannot control. For the parable, it’s not about your skill. It’s about how well you allow God’s timetable to be kept! The seed will grow and flourish, but there’s only so much that the farmer can do. Trust God could be part of the lesson this parable imparts.

As this congregation looks at what it means to change and transition into a new chapter in life, we will need to be attentive to the fact that not every moment of this process can be micromanaged. Going for the quick fix, the quest for the easiest route, the temptation to give up or force things along. Not routes to growth, my friends.
When I was a preschooler, my dad used to host these “exhibitions” for seed companies. In exchange for free seed, my dad would plant different types of seed so others could come and decided whether they would like to plant that seed next year on their own farms. Just to be helpful, I would go over to some wheat and tug it out of the ground and bring it over to the assembled farmers.
Dad wasn’t crazy about that one bit. “Why’d you do that?” he would ask.
In my preschool age way of thinking, I honestly thought that if you pulled on the plants, you would help them grow. The fact that they uprooted seemed a little lost to me. Nonetheless, despite my best efforts, an uprooted plant, out of its soil doesn’t quite grow.
There will be times that you will want to “see” the change, but the reality is that it will happen in small, sometimes near impercepitble ways. I must admit that there’s a lot less anxiety than some churches I have served. Anxiety comes from the word “to cause to squeeze.” How congregations handle times of conflict and change is often governed by how well we handle the “unknown” and the fears of “what if.”
In three months, we have dealt with a pastoral transition, the issue of a property acquisition, and now we will be in a process of discerning “what’s next” as we go through a change of director of music.
Allen billed me up front to the search committee as “a straight shooter” (which means that Allen and I come from country roots, and we both know that “straight shooters” can be honest, but sometimes to the expense of being sensitive. Thus, I try to be a straight shooter shaped by Paul’s injunction to “speak the truth in love.”) The way I see it is this: we have dealt with three months of big stuff, and we’re still here. In part, the decisions that are being made are nearly incidental to what really matters. What really matters is how we go about making decisions and talking to one another. A church that is in conflict oftentimes forgets the little things like patience, prayer, and perserverance. Church is a place where we learn to trust God. God alone governs the growing process. We are warned against trying to force the issue, or worse, uproot things.

The other parable, regarding a mustard seed, is another exercise in not taking your first guess as the best one. The mustard seed is the smallest of seeds. If you take one look at it, you’ll still have to take another. They’re the tiniest things!
Yet Jesus claims that this mustard seed will grow up into a huge bush, indeed, like a sturdy tree! This little seed will provide so much more: indeed, the birds will find a place to call home. Such a small thing, this mustard seed, yet out of this tiny bit comes something great.
I am reminded of the university debate team when I attended college. The team almost went under, until a group of students stepped up to save it from being disbanded. The image that they chose was rather cute: a rather defiant little pig with feathery angel wings. In other words, the debate team would succeed when pigs fly. The debate team’s success at saving the program was quite remarkable. Pigs did fly! That’s the sort of faith of that mustard seed.
Nora Gallagher, an Episcopal writer that I respect, tells the story of her congregation that nearly went under. Well, until the congregants decided to make a go of it. They brought the church back from oblivion. Indeed, she writes that over the period of a year spent intentionally working toward new life, “we felt grace, learned compassion--for ourselves and others--and sometimes, even sensed rebirth.”

Recently, I came back to the church office after a pastoral visit in the late afternoon. A young couple was sitting underneath a tree just outside Colgate Hall. I had this sermon text on my mind, and I found myself saying, “This is a mustard seed moment!” This couple was out enjoying the beauty of the day, using our front lawn. Persons can find a place here, even if it is for a brief moment’s respite, a time of crisis or need, a desire to learn more about God, a conduit for grace to flow in their lives--all of these things.
When the transition team met on Monday evening, part of our time was looking at ways that just four of your members could see this church in a new and life-affirming light. And with Carolyn, Greg, Lisa, and Cindy, let me tell you that there’s a degree of passion that I hope that they will spread around the congregation, kindling and fanning to flame the notion that this church isn’t just biding its time as if it’s “business as usual” or on a path towards closure.
We often look at this as a “big old building” and ourselves as a “small congregation.” It could be time to say, “Behold! A tree where the birds of the air find their home” and “hmmm....a bunch of mustard seeds.”

Pilgrim Ways (2nd Sunday of Easter)

Pilgrims. For some of us it invokes images of the founding of this country, or at least the people with the funny hats with buckles on them. Pilgrims. It’s a good Christian word that describes those who are on a journey for religious purposes, usually devotional in nature. Pilgrims. Through the ages, Christians have trod to various holy places: the Catholic goes to Rome, the Episcopal go to Canterbury Cathedral, and the Baptists go to wherever the potluck is. (No, seriously, as a congregational movement, we have no sacred site that inspires pilgrimage on the same level Perhaps for American Baptists; we might go to Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, where the denomination’s main mission center is located. It’s a circular building, forever known as “the Holy Doughnut,” though it’s debatable how well a pilgrimage might go as you’re always walking in circles.)

Kerry and I have been to Rome and to Canterbury Cathedral (no; we weren’t church shopping!). One of the things that impressed me about Canterbury was the long flight of steps into the building. Well, it was impressive until I tried to walk up them. For years turned to decades and centuries, this old set of steps has been walked by generations of the faithful. Thus, the stone of the steps had started to wear a groove in the steps, a smooth, nearly polished surface that spoke well of the historic devotion but nearly dangerous to walk on nowadays. I gripped the railings at the side for dear life!

The disciples who walked to Emmaus were gripping the railings when Jesus found them. They were leaving Jerusalem with heavy hearts and did not know how to journey on. In the biblical narratives, there are affirmations of how great it is to travel towards Jerusalem, where all of the religious hope is centered in the worldview of the scriptures. Festivals, sacrifices, great celebration. Jerusalem was a place as much in the heart as it was on the map.

And yet, here are two pilgrims traveling AWAY from Jerusalem. As far as they were concerned, Jesus was killed by the powers that be. They haven’t picked up a water bottle for the last leg of the journey; they’ve thrown in the towel.

Yet, this stranger encountered on the road is the Lord himself that they mourn. As Luke notes, they did not see him, for “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” That’s an odd little statement. Jesus is standing there right in front of them, and yet they do not see him. It sounds puzzling, yet it is not a physical ailment, but one more of the heart. When they tell “this stranger” about Jesus, this is what they say: “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

At first, one might take these particular words and see the beginnings of a confession of faith. Christians throughout the centuries have taken words to shape their faith and give praise to God, and some of the hopes held by the Emmaus disciples might be the beginnings of a pattern to help shape a confessional statement: Jesus as a prophet, redeemer of Israel, yet in the midst of all these words, there’s an impasse when they get to the notion of the crucifixion. The disciples speak to Jesus’ teachings and acts, yet they find an impasse at the cross. They have heard of the women who come from the tomb proclaiming the resurrection (and in Luke’s Gospel, these women in his telling “get it” atthe outset and go forward proclaiming—yes, it’s different than Mark’s ending, but then again, this is Luke’s story, so we live in the tension of four Gospels that nonetheless tell the story differently). They have heard the story, yet they have not made the connection with what really matters. They have not yet seen the risen Christ with their eyes or their hearts!

Pilgrims. One might wonder why somebody would take a week off from work, get in the car or board a plane, and just go walking towards a place that is considered sacred. What brings some people to church? In the ancient cathedrals of Europe, there’s never a quiet moment in the tourist season. People flock to see the ancient treasures, take pictures, buy a postcard in the gift shop, but few are spotted lighting a candle or pausing in the summer’s day for a time of prayer.

There are many people who pass by a church, yet they never realize that they are on holy ground. Nora Gallagher, a religious writer that I like, spoke of being “outside” the church for many years, until she went to a place where she felt something different. Her wonderful line is that she came to the church “as a tourist, but stayed a pilgrim.” Over time, her time in church became less of attendance and became participation, and her faith less a matter of inquiry and more of belief. The beauty of her writing is not skill but of depth: the depth of belief and experience growing in the faith in the care of a congregation that did likewise. Jesus takes these disciples to task and begins a time of “bible study” while walking alongside them. He guides them through the texts that speak of what God had in mind through the patriarchs, prophets, and other writings. Jesus walks them through these narratives so that when they have made the trip, they will see the Savior who weaves all of these threads together.

When I was in seminary, I helped with a congregation in transition. They had endured a nasty church split, and the folks who “left” formed a separate congregation. The immediate problem, however, was the fact that they had no place to worship in. They were fortunate to find an old church that had been turned in a community outreach center. The current occupants had kept the pews, pulpits, and the stained glass, so it was quite a good rental opportunity. However, as the church folks settled, they realized that they were missing more than (literally!) a roof over their head. They had to create and recreate a number of things that they didn’t realize one took for granted, including curriculum. How could they teach the young children without what they used to have? I sat in on a Christian education meeting where they wondered what direction to go. I suggested that they could do something without spending any money. The congregation had these beautiful stained glass windows with a bible story in each one. And so the next Sunday, the children got led around the sanctuary of this old church, the stories of Adam and Eve in the Garden, Noah’s Ark (a crowd pleaser for the tots), Abraham being called to sacrifice Isaac (not a crowd pleaser for the tots!). Moses on the mountain with the two tablets, and so forth. As they rounded the sanctuary, the kids were asked who this person was in the last stained glass. They said, “Jesus!”

That’s the sort of work that Jesus did on the road to Emmaus, building up the knowledge among those who needed to be acquainted with the texts that led them to this point on the road to Emmaus. It’s drawing close to evening by this point, and the disciples invite him to stay for dinner. Jesus consents, though he is ready to go on the way. (Another sly Gospel shorthand: if the disciples cannot “see” Jesus, they also cannot go “on the way” with Jesus either!) They gather at table and have a simple meal. It’s when Jesus breaks bread that these disciples finally “see” Jesus. For those perplexed why food and not words get the message across finally, read Luke and its companion, the Book of Acts. There is a great deal of eating that happens in these two books. There are scholarly books that trace the importance in Luke/Acts of the Christians and their meals, because in the breaking of bread, something so simple, the abundance of God becomes clear. In particular, recollect how Jesus breaks bread in the Last Supper, and notice the repetition here at Emmaus: Jesus takes bread, gives thanks, breaks it, and gives it to them. In the Last Supper, Jesus foretells of his broken body in the symbolism of the last supper. In the Emmaus meal, the same words and actions are used. And over in Acts, when the early Christians break bread as part of their prayers, proclamation, and sharing in common, they call it not “suppertime” but “Church.” And when it happens at that table in Emmaus, it’s not just a meal. It’s “belief!”

“Were our hearts not burning eagerly within us?” these disciples ask. This experience of the risen Lord prompts them to get up from their table and head back to Jerusalem. They went home despondent, and now they run back to Jerusalem with the news.

Pilgrims. You go to a church service, and you see them out there in the pews at worship. They might light a candle, read the pew Bible, or sit or kneel in prayer. They come in all shapes and sizes, all walks of life. But there’s one thing that sets them apart from the tourists. What is it that does that? They have seen the Lord.

Rembrandt on Pentecost Sunday

A portion of Rev. Hugenot's sermon on Rembrandt during our Pentecost service on 6/4/06:

When Rembrandt died in 1669, an inventory of his possessions was made. The only book noted was “an old Bible.” Rembrandt spent much of his career returning again and again to its narratives. The Bible was a part of his journey of self-discovery. Indeed, Rembrandt's faith was not secondary but foundational to his work as an artist. John Durham, a biblical scholar who has written a very informative book on the “biblical Rembrandt”, notes that “he began entering the biblical world in ways that made that world a part of his experience.” For Rembrandt, his world and that of the Bible’s “became entwined...to such an extent that the gulf between the two often became blurred.” (84-5)

Of the various etchings at the Bennington Museum, look for the biblical scenes that appear in the display. You will encounter a lot, however, here are a couple that caught my attention:
**The Abraham story-->**As you begin the section where all of the biblical material is grouped, you encounter first two images of Abraham. One is rather like that of a proud father posing for the artist, sort of absentmindedly tousling the young boy Isaac’s hair. It’s a very homey scene, almost like a page out of the family album, that time years ago when you dangled on your parent’s knee, clutching a favorite toy or stuffed animal. Yet right beside it is another scene, Isaac a little older, Abraham’s warm paternal spirit given away to a stern yet resolute posture, telling his son to take the sticks up the mountain, where there will be a sacrifice offering. (The lack of a goat makes the beholder even more aware of the drama of what will unfold on the mountain.)

The sacrifice of Isaac is probably hands down one of the most troubling passages of the Old Testament. Abraham is asked to sacrifice his son Isaac, the one to whom much is promised. At the last minute, an angel appears, saying that the sacrifice can stop. A ram is offered instead. Rembrandt painted and etched this scene a number of times. Yet each time, he changed the way that this scene appears. In one version, you’ll note that the angel is struggling to restrain Abraham’s knife, such is the zeal in Abraham’s eyes. In another, the scene is the same, but the moment depicted has the angel holding back Abraham, who looks dazed, sort of disoriented and meek. Rembrandt read this text two different ways, demonstrating a zeal for fidelity to God by Abraham’s fierce (if still rather twisted-sounding) devotion and then in contrast, the angel in the other depiction demonstrates the side of the story where the same God who asks for Abraham’s devotion through the sacrifice of a beloved son will stop this from taking place. The ram is not pictured, but in the moment of the angel stepping in and taking away the startled Abraham from the task, there is another moment of faith: God will provide the ram.

It is a disturbing story, yet Rembrandt is drawn to this narrative, helping those who behold his work to see the story in a couple of different ways. Rembrandt’s painting and etching, taken side-by-side, help us engage the biblical narrative in a new manner, more than just words on a page, but as a way of blending the world that we know (one of ambiguity and where faith can sometimes lead us on harrowing journeys) with this otherness of the biblical narrative’s world (where the same shadowy world that seems so unnerving can still be a place where the most unexpected twist is that of hope and grace).

The Prodigal-->The Return of the Prodigal was among Rembrandt’s last major projects. Writer Henri JM Nouwen says that he finds his life, the life of his friends, indeed, all of our lives in this one painting. The embrace of the father in the painting that is better known is quite comforting. The father stands and holds the kneeling prodigal son, the father’s hands upon his child in such a paternal embrace, that of a parent who welcomes the wandering child home, no matter the cost. The etching, however, shows another variation, as the father and son become clasped together in an embrace that honors the pain of their separation and yet celebrates the reunion of the two. Rembrandt takes the same story, and in different versions, he is able to bring forth unique and beautiful images of what the life with God brings about.
Walk the Bennington exhibit these next six weeks. Join the clergy as they help folks reconnect with the stories. See in this old etchings the contours of your life sketched out before you. As Nouwen said, it’s all there. You walk through the gallery just up the street, taking in the spiritual wanderings and wonderings of a Dutch artist from centuries ago, you might just find your own life hanging there on the wall.