creation care

Water Into Wine

Water into wine. When in your life have you experienced water turning into wine?

Maybe one night you have a bad sleep. You toss and turn, fretting about something that you just can’t shake – maybe a financial concern, or a conflict in your family, or the increasingly hellish war in Iraq. Feeling utterly defeated, somewhere before dawn you finally haul yourself out of bed, pull on your clothes, and go outside. The last stars are shining, the morning air is cool on your cheeks, you breathe in the tang of frost and grass, and for some reason your worry and preoccupation fall away. You take a deep breath and you know you can go on – and not only go on, but go on with fresh energy and hope. Standing there in the front yard, you are inexplicably happy, for suddenly it comes to you that life is good, life is a gift. The day ahead of you is wide open, full of possibility. You can’t help but rejoice.

Water into wine.

Or maybe it happens one evening after a long hard day at work, or a long hard day at home. It’s that strenuous period in the late afternoon, early evening, when everyone is tired, everyone is hungry, and everyone is getting on each other’s nerves. You feel so tempted to lash out, so ready to give someone a piece of your mind and just let loose with all the pent up frustration of a difficult day. But instead for some reason you contain yourself. You remember how much you love these dear people, how much you want them to be happy even if they bug you sometimes, and all at once your turmoil drops away and the path ahead of you is clear. Out of your mouth come words that are gentle; you say something kind or you make a little joke, and before long everyone is laughing and your household is at peace.

Water into wine. When in your life have you experienced water turning into wine?

Here is when it last happened to me: last Wednesday. I spent a week at a wonderful writing conference in California and then came the time to to fly home. Before I got on the plane I called my sister from the airport, and she warned me about the high winds moving up the East Coast.

“You’d better take some Dramamine,” she suggested, very kindly. “It will put you right to sleep so you don’t worry about a thing.” She knows I can be a bad flyer – I’m the type who notices every little bump and air pocket, and peers anxiously out the window and clutches the armrest.

I decided not to buy any Dramamine but I did keep in mind the possibility of ordering a glass of wine once I got on board – something to take the edge off my anxiety. I got on the plane and we took off, and I began reading a book about God’s creativity. The flight was smooth, so I forgot about ordering any wine, and I put the book down and began to think about my life. You know how it is on a plane sometimes, when you are above the earth and from that height you seem to see your life whole, so that you can look back into the past and ahead to what comes next? I surveyed my life and all the things I was grateful for – all the people I loved, the dear friends I’d left behind in California and the dear friends and family I looked forward to seeing in Massachusetts, all the work I had done in the past and the work I still hoped to do in the future, and before long I was launched into that prayer of thanksgiving that I’d grown up saying in services of Morning Prayer – “Almighty and most merciful Father, we thine unworthy servants do give thee most humble and hearty thanks for all thy goodness and loving kindness to us and to all whom you have made. We bless thee for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life…” [BCP, p. 58]. I know that some of you know that one by heart.

I was completely immersed in the desire to thank God, completely filled with expressing love and praise. It was as if my eyes, my attention, my whole spirit was fixed on God and filled with God. We began to make our descent into the Hartford airport, and sure enough, the gusts of winds became very strong. The airplane began to bounce around violently, up and down, side to side, and it got very quiet in the cabin. I knew that the passengers around me were nervous, and I heard the man across the aisle say to his friend, trying to sound nonchalant, “I sure hope the pilot has both hands on the steering wheel!”

But for once the turbulence didn’t bother me. I was completely absorbed in gratefulness and joy, completely caught up in praising God. My only regret was that if the plane crashed, my family would think that I had died full of fear, and I wanted somehow to tell them, “Don’t worry – I died happy! I died giving myself to God, and I died full of joy!”

Water into wine.

Well, as you can see, the plane didn’t crash, and I’m here to tell you what you already know from your own life: Jesus turns water into wine. He did it not only once, in that long-ago wedding at Cana when the wine ran out and Jesus took the six large stone jars of water and turned their contents into the finest, most delicious wine anyone could imagine. He also does it today, in my life and yours, in all those occasions when we find ourselves caught up in that mysterious, unlikely transformation of despair into hope, of fear into gratefulness, of sorrow into joy.

There must be a river of divine creativity at the very center of things, ready to pour into the most ordinary moments of our lives so that we are filled again with reverence and wonder and fresh possibility. I wonder if we are rather like those stone jars in the story, standing in place full of plain, everyday water, stuck in our habits and fixed ways of thinking, repeating our endless stories of argument, worry and lament, and then along comes Jesus to quicken our hearts and wake us up and fill us with his wine. It’s better than drinking hard liquor, that’s for sure, and I wonder, as Carl Jung once suggested, whether an alcoholic’s addiction to spirits isn’t a misplaced search for the Holy Spirit, that delicious and intoxicating presence that gladdens our hearts and draws us out of ourselves and gathers us up in love.

Water into wine.

Today’s passage from the Gospel of John is the first of seven so-called “signs” that John offers his readers to reveal who Jesus is, to disclose his true nature and divine glory. The image of turning water into wine isn’t original to John. The Greek god Dionysius – also known as Bacchus – was said to turn water into wine, and the Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria wrote that the Logos, the creative power of God, gave the people wine instead of water. But I find it fascinating that this story is central to Christianity, so that the story of Jesus turning water into wine should have such primacy of place. John’s Gospel makes it the opening event in Jesus’ public ministry.

What does that mean? Among other things, it means that the Christian life is a life of ecstasy. “I have come that they may have life,” says Jesus elsewhere in the Gospel of John. “I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly” [John 10:10]. “These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full” [John 15:11]. As I learned from Henri Nouwen years ago, Jesus calls us to live the ecstatic life, a life in which we move out of the static place. That is the meaning of the word: ex-static. Jesus calls us to live away from the same old place, that tired, dead, fixed place where nothing new can break forth, nothing new can be born. If we don’t expect anything new to happen, life soon gets flat and dull and loses its vitality. We feel utterly defeated, we turn cynical and sour, and life becomes “the same old same old.”

But Jesus turns the water into wine. God intoxicates us with new life and new hope. The ecstatic life is the creative life, a life that is open to surprise.

There are disciplines that open us to the ecstatic life, practices that make us available so that when the Spirit comes, the water of our lives can be turned into wine. I’d like to mention just two of them.

One is to learn to praise God. We hear it all the time at the Eucharist – “it is right to give God thanks and praise” – but I want to add, it is not only “right,” it is not only “right and good and our bounden duty” as we say in the Rite 1 version of the Eucharist – it is also the secret of joy! There is nothing that opens us so quickly to God’s presence as the practice of giving thanks and cultivating a grateful heart. I can’t explain it, but finding a way to praise God and give thanks is like priming the pump of joy: before long our empty places are filled and what was once just another ordinary day has turned into something vibrant and alive. Prayer is the secret place where our inner waters turn into wine.

A second practice that opens us to the ecstatic life is the practice of healing. The question we need to ask ourselves is: Does what I do bring healing? Does what I do bring new life? Does what I do make new connections among people or encourage other people to open to new life? An ecstatic life is a life in which our focus is not so much on ourselves and the state of our own inner “waters,” but a life in which we plunge into the possibility of turning other people’s water into wine.

Take, for instance, the possibility of creating peace with every word you speak, so that what you say is so accurate and true, so filled with God’s loving Spirit that communication opens up with everyone around you. That’s a way to live an ecstatic life, and if that appeals to you, I hope you’ll show up on Wednesday night for the first in our series of evening programs on non-violent communication.

Or take the possibility of healing the Earth. You know that 2006 was the hottest year ever, and that 2007 is right on track to top that scorching record. OK – water into wine. What if we created the biggest demonstration against global warming in U.S. history? What if we decided that 2007 was going to be the year that American citizens reached the “tipping point” and finally pushed their political leaders to lead? That’s exactly what we intend to do with the Interfaith Walk for Climate Rescue, an interfaith pilgrimage that will begin in Northampton on March 16 and end in downtown Boston on March 24. I hope you’ll sign up to walk. I hope you’ll invite your friends and neighbors to sign up to walk – just go to climatewalk.org. You can sign up as an individual or as part of the “Grace Church, Amherst” team. You can walk for an hour, a day, a weekend, or the whole nine days. But I invite you to walk with us for at least a little while as we step very literally into an ecstatic life and move out of the static place.

I like to think that Martin Luther King, Jr. would be walking with us, if he were alive today. On the eve of his birthday, maybe he is the man to lift up as an example of what it means to live an ecstatic life, as you and I explore what it means to praise God in our own lives, to work for healing, and to give ourselves wholeheartedly to that mysterious, marvelous, God-centered alchemy of turning water into wine.

Birth Pangs

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering,
for he who has promised is faithful.” Hebrews 10:23

Have you ever read a Bible passage that spoke so directly to you that it went straight to your heart like an arrow?  That’s what happened to me 20 years ago when I first read this morning’s Old Testament story of Hannah and the birth of Samuel – or, as today’s Collect puts it, when I first began to hear, read, mark, learn and inwardly digest this section of Scripture.  I was 35 years old, newly married, and childless.  I badly wanted a child, but like a good number of women I was struggling with infertility.  During the long bout of medical treatments, I read with great interest the biblical stories of barren women who through the grace of God conceived and bore children late in life – Sarah, for instance, and Rebekah, Rachel, and Elizabeth.  But it was the story of Hannah that most captured my imagination.

Her story may not be familiar to you, since today’s reading is a new passage that we have been given because of our transition to the Revised Common Lectionary, so let’s take a moment to review it.  The first character we meet is Elkanah, who goes every year to worship in Shiloh, the city where the Ark of the Covenant and the tabernacle are kept.  Elkanah has two wives.  With one wife, Penninah, he has children, but the other wife, Hannah, is infertile.  Elkanah feels a special love for Hannah – he brings her a double portion of the sacrifice.  But the other wife, Penninah, is making Hannah’s life miserable, provoking and irritating her because she can’t bear a child, so that Hannah weeps and will not eat.  Elkanah tries to encourage Hannah, asking “Hannah, why do you weep?  Why do you not eat?… Am I not more to you than ten sons?” [1 Samuel 1:8].

But this doesn’t console her, and one day, “after they had eaten and drunk at Shiloh” [1 Samuel 1:9], Hannah goes to the temple and brings her suffering to God.  Weeping bitterly, she asks God for help and makes a vow: if God will give her a son, she will dedicate him to God’s service as a nazirite.  (Scholars don’t seem to know exactly what a nazirite is, except, as the story tells us, they don’t drink wine and don’t cut their hair.)

The priest, Eli, can see her distress, for she is weeping and moving her lips, but because she is praying in silence he misunderstands what is going on and accuses her of being drunk.  Hannah stands up for herself and tells him that she has been “pouring out [her] soul before the LORD” [1 Samuel 1:15], and Eli tells her to go in peace, assuring her that God will grant her request.

And so Hannah leaves the temple happy.  She believes him.  She believes that God will be faithful to her.  And sure enough, after Hannah and her husband worship one last time and return home, “the LORD remembered her” [1 Samuel 1:19], and before long she does conceive and bear a son, whom she  names Samuel.

When God grants you your heart’s desire, what can you do but sing?  And that’s what Hannah does, praising God in the Song of Hannah that we used this morning in place of a psalm: ‘My heart exults in the LORD; my strength is exalted in my God…There is no Holy One like the LORD, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God” (1 Samuel 2: 1a, 2).  She praises the God of justice who has the power to cast down and raise up, the power to break the bows of the mighty and give strength to the feeble.  If the Song of Hannah sounds familiar, that is because it became the template for the Song of Mary, the Magnificat that Mary sings when she is pregnant with Jesus and praises God’s power to overthrow every expectation, to raise up the lowly and bring new life into the world [Luke 146-55; BCP pp. 91-92].

When I read Hannah’s story 20 years ago, I identified very literally with Hannah’s frustrated longing for a child.  I felt that I was sharing in her suffering and sorrow.  Like her, I didn’t feel that anyone, not even my beloved husband, could console me, and that the place to bring my grief was ultimately to God.  Like Hannah, I too made a vow: if God gave me a child, I would entrust that child to God – not that the child would be a nazirite, for I had no idea what a nazirite was – but in the sense that I would try not to cling to the child.  My child’s soul would belong not to me, but to God; the child would be a child of God, even more than he or she would be my own.

You can see why – after several years of infertility work came to nothing, after my husband and I decided to give up any further medical treatment and to relinquish our hope for a biological child – when I suddenly and almost miraculously conceived and bore a child, a son, we decided to name him Samuel. 

Twenty years later I come back to this story with a deep sense of gratefulness for how it carried me through a dark time and pointed me toward hope.  From Hannah I learned something about facing my pain and frustration, and bringing everything to God.  I learned something about persistence and passion, and about entrusting the outcome to God.  I learned about God’s power to bring forth life, though obviously it may not come in the way that we expect.  A Christian friend of mine who went through her own struggle with infertility recently decided to adopt a girl from China, and in gratitude for God’s power to bring new life, she named her daughter Hannah.

Now you may be sitting here thinking, “Well, fine, but this doesn’t relate to me since I have no interest in bearing or raising a child.”  But isn’t it true that in whatever stage of life we are, we sense deep within us a longing to bring forth life?  Psychologist Erik Erikson spoke of a middle-aged person’s drive toward generativity – the desire to encourage and support the younger generation and to pass on what we have learned – just as he spoke of an elderly person’s drive toward wisdom – the desire to look deeply into life, to make peace with one’s place in the big scheme of things.

Artists know the longing to let their creative powers be expressed.  A teacher standing in front of a classroom, wondering how to engage her students; a parent considering what to say to a cantankerous child; a doctor trying to diagnose and treat an illness; a consultant trying to untangle the dynamics of a dysfunctional workplace — each one knows the longing to say or do whatever will move the situation forward and create fresh possibilities so that new life can be born.

We are each like Hannah, standing before God and asking to be a channel for life, a vehicle through which God can tend and bless the world.   And we don’t bring just our personal longings — we also bring to God our longing for a renewal of the earth, a renewal of our human societies.  We ask for life to flow through us, so that through our own hands and words and deeds, new life can come into the world. 

For so many people these are such uncertain and anxious times.  Melting ice caps.  Erratic weather.  The prospect of peak oil and the eventual collapse of a petroleum-based economy.  The news that we have exceeded our planet’s carrying capacity, its ability to replenish the resources that are being used up. No wonder so many of us look to the future with some degree of dread.  Are we heading toward catastrophic climate change and social upheaval?

We want to turn things around.  We want to bring into being something new.  We want to stand up for life, to protect life, to bring new life to birth.  So, like Hannah, we stand before God in our helplessness and need, asking God to come with great power and to make a way where there is no way, to bring new life when maybe all we can see just now is only frustration or despair. 

Hannah didn’t know it, but when she finally brought her personal pain to God, she opened the path for God to change her country’s history. “The story of the birth of Samuel comes at a key turning point in the history of Israel.” (1) Samuel would be the last of the so-called “judges” – inspired leaders of Israel – and would move the nation out of a period of anarchy and chaos [cf. Judges 21:25] into a monarchy.  It was Samuel who anointed the first kings, Saul and then David.  Without Hannah’s persistence and passion, “there would have been no Samuel, and some other way would have had to be found to establish Israel and the monarchy.” (2)

We’re not looking for any monarchy, but many of us are hungering for new ways to organize communities, new ways to shape our economy so that is based on sustainable principles. Hannah’s story – and our Gospel passage, too – challenge us to live into these violent and uncertain times as if they are the inevitable pangs that accompany a birth.  They challenge us to live with the courage and endurance and patience and even the excitement that attend any birth.  That’s what Jesus tells us in today’s Gospel reading from Mark: “Do not be alarmed,” he tells us, when we “hear of wars and rumors of wars,” when nations rise up against nation, and kingdom against kingdom, and there are earthquakes and famines.  “This is but the beginning of the birth pangs” [Mark 13: 7, 8].

God’s Spirit, God’s energy, is calling us to new life, and isn’t it true that even now something new is being born?  We see small signs of a new economic order and of people relating to each other in new ways. We see people supporting small, locally owned businesses and participating in community-supported agriculture.  We see people trying to live more simply, to waste less and to consume only what they need.  Even now, 6 weeks before Christmas, some people have decided to opt out of buying a bunch of stuff that will only end up in the landfill.  Right here at Grace Church we see small groups of people resisting the loneliness and alienation that seem to be part of this post-industrial society and starting up “pastorates,” gathering on occasional evenings in each other’s homes to pray and talk and build real friendships.

Signs like these are very small, but they are signs that something new is being born.  Of course we can always throw up our hands, say it’s too late to stop climate change – that we’re going to have to settle for a future of tribalism and fear, of extreme weather events and millions of refugees. 

But like Hannah, we turn to God in longing and in hope.  We want to bring new life into the world.  We want to create a world that is socially just and environmentally sound.  We want to pass on to our children the life that is here.  We want to be able to say to future generations: “Look! I give you polar bears.  I give you coral reefs.  I give you an intact ice sheet that is the size of a continent.  I give you seasons.  I give you moderate weather.” (3)

Like Hannah we want to say, ‘My heart exults in the LORD; my strength is exalted in my God…There is no Holy One like the LORD, no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God.”    (1 Samuel 2: 1a, 2)

  

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(1) Fred B. Craddock, John H. Hayes, et al., Preaching Through the Christian Year, Year B, Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, p. 467.

(2) Ibid, p. 469.

(3) Eban Goodstein of Green House Network used these images in October, 2006 in a talk at UMass Amherst about his new initiative, Focus the Nation.

 

“What God has joined together, let no one separate”

I had an aha! moment a week or two ago, just as the seasons changed and we began heading into fall.  I was eating supper with my husband on the porch of our home in Northampton, and as we sat there chatting about our day and digging into greens and raw vegetables that I’d picked up at the Food Bank Farm in Hadley, I had a sudden revelation.  It wasn’t a formal meal, so I had put down my fork and picked up a carrot in my fingers, and I was just about to take a bite when it suddenly came to me: this carrot had been planted, grown and harvested just a few miles from my house.  I felt a sudden sense of kinship with that carrot.  We were connected.  We’d lived through the same summer heat and the same summer downpours.  We’d felt the same wind blow across the valley, experienced the same warmth of the sun, the same cool of the clouds.  We were creatures together, this carrot and I: neighbors of a sort, some kind of kin.

I don’t suppose that human beings actually share very much DNA with a carrot, but in that sudden moment of illumination on the porch I realized that this carrot and I were creatures connected to the same soil, growing under the same sun, sprung from the divine Source.  

“Brother Carrot,” I might have called it, before I took a bite.

I know this is a rather fanciful way to start a sermon, but my story has a point: we human beings are on a long journey back to understanding our connections with the Earth.  “What God has joined together, let no one separate” (Mark 10:9). That’s the task before us, as I see it: how to find our way back to union with God and all God’s Creation, how to reclaim our partnership not just with our human fellows but also with all living creatures.  I savor every moment of ecological consciousness that is given to me, and to you, because every such moment is a moment of healing. 

All week we’ve been celebrating St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of ecology, whose Feast Day was on Wednesday and whose vision of God’s presence in the biophysical world we will honor again this afternoon at 4 o’clock in a service of blessing the animals.  Heaven knows that in many ways we human beings do not live in right relationship with the land and sea and sky, to say nothing of our relationship with our brothers and sisters who are four-legged, feathered or finned. 

I don’t think I need to belabor the point.  Some of you are fresh from seeing “An Inconvenient Truth,” when on Friday about 85 people packed the Parish Hall to watch the movie.  We are one of 4,000 congregations across the country that showed the film this week, as people of faith take hold of the urgent need to curb global warming. 

Even if you haven’t yet seen the movie, you may know that climate scientists reported at the end of September that the Earth may be close to the warmest it has been in the last million years (1).  At the end of the summer scientists also reported that Greenland’s ice sheet is melting much more quickly than they had anticipated, and that in a drastic and unprecedented thaw, this summer an area of Arctic sea ice that normally stays frozen all year briefly opened a channel that was “big enough to allow a ship to sail to the North Pole… Polar bears have drowned and receding Arctic glaciers are uncovering previously unknown islands.” (2) The effects of global warming are being felt not only in far off places but right here in our beloved Pioneer Valley.  Maybe you read the front-page news this week about the new study “projecting that the Northeastern climate will become like that of the deep South by the end of the century unless greenhouse gas emissions are lowered.” (3) 

We all know we’re living in an unsustainable way.  Depending on non-renewable energy and resources is by definition unsustainable.  Consuming more resources than the planet can provide is by definition unsustainable.  Producing a killing level of greenhouse gases is by definition unsustainable.

So what are we to do?  As Christians, one thing we do is dive into Scripture and tradition, looking for wisdom as we struggle to articulate what a religious environmental worldview might look like.  We read familiar texts with a new ecological eye, pressing them to deal with questions that human beings have never faced before. 

Today’s reading from Genesis is a good case in point.  It’s a section of the mythic story of our creation, and the first time I read it through in preparation for this sermon, all I could see was a justification for human alienation from nature.  I interpreted it like this: God says, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper as his partner” (Gen 2:18).  OK, fine, but God apparently creates animals only to relieve human loneliness.  In other words, man is supreme and is created first, and animals exist only to serve his purposes and needs.  God then trots the animals out to the man, who slaps a name on each one – cow, bird, crocodile, whatever – as a way of expressing his dominance and control — there is power in assigning a name.  The animals prove to be inadequate companions for the man, so God decides to create woman. 

The moral?  Well, I decided, this text could be read as a Judeo-Christian rationalization for human dominance and exploitation of the natural world.  Taken alongside Psalm 8, with its lines “You give him mastery over the works of your hands; you put all things under his feet: All sheep and oxen, even the wild beasts of the field, The birds of the air, the fish of the sea, and whatsoever walks in the paths of the sea” (Ps 8:7-9) – well, I thought, now there’s a mandate for plundering and spoiling the natural world.

But we can’t settle for interpretations like that – they’re not adequate today, if they ever were.  I went back to the Genesis text and considered a different way to read the story.  God says, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper as his partner.”  OK, I thought. Humanity is built for relationship.  We can’t exist by ourselves or for ourselves alone. God has created us to seek connection. 

Out of the ground God then forms “every animal of the field and every bird of the air”  (Gen 2:19).  You may remember that in an earlier verse Adam himself was formed “from the dust of the ground” (Gen 2:7).  It’s as if the storyteller wants to show that humans and non-human creatures are intrinsically linked, because we spring from the same soil.  We’re made from the same stuff.

Then God brings the animals to the man “to see what he would call them.”  Clearly human beings have a special role in God’s creation, but is it one of domination and exploitation?  Naming a living creature, or discovering the name that it’s already been given, requires care and curiosity, not high-handed authority. From this perspective I imagine Adam contemplating each God-given creature one by one, and taking time to get to know and interact with it before deciding on its name.  How can you know the name of one plant or another, or distinguish one bird from another, until you’ve looked at it closely? 

Last week a naturalist took my husband and me on a walk around our land in Ashfield, teaching us how to identify wild edibles and healing plants.  Unlike many of you, I am clueless when it comes to naming trees and birds and mosses and plants, so I had to work pretty hard.  She had us comparing the edges of leaves, to see if they were wavy or rounded or sharp.  She had us squatting to examine mushrooms, and scraping birch bark to catch the root beer scent, and peering through a magnifying lens to study the patterns of veins on a plant and the spores on the underside of ferns.  She had us look and smell and touch so that we could notice the difference between one plant and another, and perhaps begin to remember its name.  As we walked out of the woods at the end of the afternoon, she remarked, “If you don’t remember the names, never mind: now you know how to look.”

So I like to imagine that Adam’s naming of the creatures had something of the same gentle, inquisitive, appreciative spirit that I saw in her.  I like to think that he knew how to look – that his naming of the animals was a sign of his willingness to abide with them and learn from them.  The best words for anything come only after we’ve experienced it deeply, not before.

And when Adam finally finds his partner, bone of his bones and flesh of his flesh, their shared task as human beings is to “to till and keep” (Gen 2:15) the Earth – that is, to exercise a “mastery” or dominion over non-human creatures that is marked by benevolence, not exploitation.  Some theologians define dominion not as domination but as “the mediation of divine blessings to nonhuman creatures.” (4) That’s our vocation, that’s our job – to mediate divine blessings to nonhuman creatures.  Imagine!

In a time of planetary crisis, we need to reclaim an ecological consciousness, to perceive and celebrate the sacredness of all Creation.  You may or may not be drawn to nature mysticism, and I’m sure that some people think it impossibly sentimental or eccentric to imagine speaking, as St. Francis did, of Brother Wolf, Brother Sun, or Sister Moon – to say nothing of feeling any kinship with a carrot!

But I would argue that one of the most urgent tasks of our generation is to move from a spirituality of alienation from the natural world to one of intimacy with it.  And we don’t have much time- for instance, some experts say that we have about a decade in which to avert – or not – the most catastrophic level of climate change.

The good news is that there are many things we can do right away, as you will see if you come for coffee hour in the Parish Hall and take a look at our little eco-fair.  We hope you’ll stock up on compact fluorescent light bulbs, which save both energy and money, and get off junk mail lists, since junk mail gobbles up the equivalent of 100 million trees every year. (5)

Like many of you, I’m trying to make changes at home.  A few weeks ago I set up a composter in the back yard and I’m figuring out that whole business of when to put in leaves, when to throw in food.  We’ve been driving a hybrid car for a while, we became members of Co-op Power, and soon we’ll set up photovoltaic panels to heat our hot water and produce some electricity. We’re trying to turn off unnecessary lights, and next week we’re getting a home energy audit.

 Personal actions are important, but participating in regional and national initiatives may count for even more.  Here in the Pioneer Valley we have a unique opportunity this month to participate in a public planning process to create a regional Clean Energy Plan.  During the month of October, all citizens of Franklin, Hampden, and Hampshire Counties are invited to join an online conversation that will help us set goals and develop action plans for how to increase our energy efficiencies and how to generate more clean, renewable energy right here in the Valley.  At the eco-fair we’ll have little cards like this one that will show you where to sign on. (6)

I’m also excited about two other initiatives.  Focus the Nation is a project to create a national dialogue about stabilizing the climate that will culminate on January 31, 2008, when teach-ins will be held simultaneously across the country.  Inspired by Earth Day 1970, this event will be held early in the presidential primary season. (7) Focus the Nation could help generate the political will to make our national government freeze carbon emissions and take the lead in curbing global warming.  I’m hoping that Grace Church will want to be a part of this effort.

I’m happy to tell you that Grace Church has already signed on to be a co-sponsor of another event: a global warming walk I’m helping to organize that will head from Northampton to Boston next spring.  The Interfaith Walk for Climate Rescue will begin in Northampton on March 16, and end in Boston on March 24, with an interfaith prayer service and rally. (8) You can walk for an hour, a day, or a week.  We’ll sing, we’ll pray, we’ll walk in silence, and we’ll bear witness to our commitment to the God “for whom and through whom all things exist” (Hebrews 2:10) and who connects us one with another and with the whole Creation. 

What God has joined together, let no one separate. 

And when I see you on November 4 at Grace Church’s Hundred-Mile Meal and we share a potluck feast of local foods, I’ll be the person bringing a pot of carrot soup.

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(1) “Earth May Be at Warmest Point in One Million Years,” by Deborah Zabarenko, Reuters, September 26, 2006.

(2) “Thaw and Storms Opened Channel to North Pole,” by Francois Murphy, Reuters, September 21, 2006.

(3) “Heading South? Reports: N.E. faces big climate changes,” by Richie Davis, The Recorder, Daily Hampshire Gazette, October 5, 2006, p. 1.

You can visit the Union of Concerned Scientists’ new, interactive website to review findings from the new report by independent scientists and researchers on climate change in the Northeast and to consider how the choices we make today will determine our children’s and grandchildren’s future.

(4) 18^th century theologian John Wesley is one example cited by James A. Nash in Loving Nature: Ecological Integrity and Christian Responsibility, Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1991, p. 103.

(5) New American Dream calculation from Conservatree and U.S. Forest Service statistics.

(6) Sign up at: http://forums.e-democracy.org/pioneer-valley.

(7) For information and to sign up your school, college, church, or business, visit http://focusthenation.org .

(8) For information or to volunteer, contact Mathilda Cantwell, (413) 534-6488, email: walk@religiouswitness.org . 

Feasting on God

A few weeks ago a reporter from the Daily Hampshire Gazette invited me to be the subject of the newspaper’s weekly column “Hampshire I.D.”  Along with questions such as asking you to describe your funniest memory or your strangest job, the column asks you to name your favorite movie. As you might expect, I felt honor-bound to list An Inconvenient Truth because of its urgent message about global warming, but I also decided to mention a movie that has lingered in my mind since its release almost 20 years ago: Babette’s Feast.  Maybe you remember it.  Based on a short story by Isak Dineson, the film tells the story of a superb French chef who moves to a village on the desolate coast of Denmark and begins an anonymous, humble life as housekeeper and cook for two elderly, pious women.  For a long time Babette cooks nothing more exciting than boiled codfish and ale-bread soup, but one day she wins the French lottery and decides to spend every last franc on creating the most memorable, delectable, mouth-watering feast that anyone has ever consumed, even though her guests – the simple villagers – will have no idea what they are eating. 

Part of the pleasure of the movie comes in watching how the abundance flowing out of the kitchen transforms the rigid, anxious villagers.  As the guests feast at this banquet table of endless bounty, their feuds and quarrels are healed and their sins forgiven.  The wine flows freely, one delectable dish after another is presented and consumed, and gradually the guests’ mutual rancor turns into friendship, and their melancholy into joy.  When the feast is over, the guests walk out into the village square and there, under a starlit sky, they spontaneously join hands in a circle and dance.  Their happiness is complete.

The Hampshire Gazette never asked why I enjoy “Babette’s Feast” so much, but I will tell you: it is a story about the power of the Eucharist, and Babette is a figure of Christ.  Like him, she arrives mysteriously among her community, she takes the humble role of a servant, and then she gives away everything she has to provide a banquet that fills the deepest longings of the human heart. (1) As in the Eucharist, her feast transforms everyone who shares in it. The banquet’s food expresses the overflowing mercy of God, and in the course of this marvelous meal, everybody’s fear, hostility, and shame melt away.  The guests awaken to what we might call a higher consciousness or a deeper level of awareness: they discover that the ordinary things of this world – bread, wine, figs, a platter of meat, and – most wondrous of all – even each other, even themselves – are signs of the presence and mercy of God.  For them, ordinary reality – what we see and smell, what we touch and taste and hear – has become sacramental, all lit up with holiness.  What else can they do after such a meal than walk out under the stars, join hands, and dance?

Babette’s Feast comes to mind, of course, because of today’s Gospel passage from the sixth chapter of John, the last section of Jesus’ discourse on the bread of life.  In the very stark, even shocking, words that we just heard, Jesus invites his friends to share in the Eucharistic feast: “Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink” [John 6:53-54].

This is a very emphatic invitation to the Eucharist, but I have to say that these words may sound repugnant to us – as primitive and brutal as an invitation to cannibalism.  We may flinch when we hear them, for why would anyone want to eat a person’s flesh or to drink his blood?  If it’s any consolation, these words shocked Jesus’ listeners, too, and in the verse immediately following the passage that we heard this morning, many of the disciples reportedly say, “This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?” [John 6:60].  Commentators point out that “if the idea of eating a man’s flesh would [be] repugnant to a Jewish audience, the idea of drinking blood would be even more so, because blood as food was forbidden under the Law.” (2)

One obvious thing to say about this passage is that Jesus does not mean the words in a literal sense. “Just as Nicodemus thought of rebirth in a purely physical sense [John 3:4] and as the woman at the well first thought of only natural water [John 4:11],” (3) so we too would be mistaken if we took the reference to Jesus’ flesh literally.  But in acknowledging that, I don’t want in any way to blunt the energy behind Jesus’ words and their insistent vigor and clarity: “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them” [John 6:56].  In a way that words can never adequately express, Jesus is giving himself to us fully in the Eucharistic bread and wine. 

Maybe Christ’s presence in the Eucharist is something like the image that caught my eye this week as I stood at the checkout lane of Whole Foods.  One of those health-oriented, granola-crunch magazines had a peaceful cover photo of a mother nursing her baby.  Mother and baby were gazing steadily into each other’s eyes, and the baby was cradling its palm against the mother’s cheek.  Clearly the baby was not just taking in physical nourishment from the mother’s body; it was also drinking in her presence and the love that was shining from her eyes and smiling face.  Mother and baby were caught up in a love that embraced them both.

 That may seem an unorthodox, even irreverent image for what is going on at the Eucharist, but I am not the first Christian to have considered it.  Back in the 2^nd century, Clement of Alexandria compared God to a nursing mother and wrote of “the Father’s loving breasts” and of “the milk of the Father.”   In the 14^th century, the female mystic Julian of Norwich similarly spoke of Jesus as “our true Mother” from whose breasts we drink.  Again, this is metaphorical language for God, who is no more male than female, masculine than feminine.  We grope to put into words the intimacy of our union in Christ with the divine.

I think that some part of us does come to the Eucharist with the helplessness of a baby, knowing that we cannot feed ourselves with the bread of life, and that God alone can nourish our deepest hunger.  This is not to say that the Eucharist infantilizes us, for our task is to grow up in Christ.  Sometimes when we come to the Eucharist, it is our warrior self that needs to be fed, the part of us that takes initiative and takes a stand.  It’s all about growing into our maturity in Christ.  As Paul puts it, “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways” [1 Corinthians 13:11] – or, as we heard in today’s admonition from the book of Proverbs, “Lay aside immaturity, and live, and walk in the way of insight” [Proverbs 9:6].  But maybe it is only in the presence of the unwavering love of God in Christ – as steadfast and tender as a mother’s love – that our basic loneliness and narcissism can finally be healed and that human beings can grow up into the cognitive and spiritual maturity that we must attain if we are to heal our planet.

This week I have been reading again some of the work of Joanna Macy, the Buddhist teacher and deep ecologist who speaks and writes so eloquently about the social and ecological crises of our time.  Macy leads workshops around the world that explore what she calls the Great Turning, the transition from the industrial growth society to a life-giving society, the shift from a path of folly, a path, as she puts it, in which economic success is measured “by how fast materials can be extracted from Earth and turned into consumer products, weapons, and waste,” (4) to a path of wisdom, the path that moves us toward living in harmony with the Earth and with each other, and the only way of life that can endure for the future.  The Great Turning – the shift to a socially and environmentally sustainable way of life – is, she says, “the essential adventure of our time.” (5)

So this morning I think of Joanna Macy’s concept of the Great Turning when I hear in Proverbs that Wisdom is inviting us to visit her house and to sit at her table and to walk in the way of insight, not of folly, or when I hear the injunction in the passage from Ephesians, “Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time” [Ephesians 5:15]. 

And when it comes to the adventure ahead, I consider the Eucharist our greatest spiritual resource. 

Why? Three reasons.

First, the Eucharist teaches us to live with gratitude – the very word “Eucharist” itself means “thanksgiving.” Gratitude is the wellspring of all religions and one of the shortest paths to intimacy with God.  It is when we are grateful that we are most fully alive, and in the Eucharist we begin to learn, as we heard in today’s second reading, how to “[give] thanks to God the Father at all times and for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” [Ephesians 5:20].

Second, the Eucharist teaches us reverence not only for the consecrated bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ, but for the whole creation. Wendell Berry, the poet and farmer, put it this way: “To live we must daily break the body and shed the blood of creation.  When we do this knowingly, lovingly, skillfully and reverently it is a sacrament.  When we do it ignorantly, greedily, clumsily and destructively it is a desecration.” (6) Through the Eucharist, we learn to treat the whole creation with reverence and with restraint.

And third, the Eucharist teaches us to celebrate, to keep our vision alive even in the darkest times, to trust that new life can be born even in the midst of what looks like loss and failure.  “Praise the Lord, rise up rejoicing” – that’s what we will sing before we share Eucharist this morning and celebrate Christ’s victory over death.

A life of gratitude, of reverence, and of celebration – there are worse ways to live, and no better way I can think of to face into the challenges that are set before us.  In the joy of living such a life and of being sustained and fed by the one who comes to us in the bread and the wine, perhaps, like the villagers in Babette’s Feast, we too will find ourselves wanting to take hold of each other’s hands and to go outside and dance under the stars.

 

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(1) Drawn from “Babette’s Feast: A Religious Film,” by Wendy M. Wright, Journal of Religion and Film, Vol. 1, No. 2, October, 1997, Section #22, posted at http://www.unomaha.edu/jrf/BabetteWW.htm

(2) The Jerome Biblical Commentary, ed. Raymond E. Brown et al (Prentice-Hall, Inc.: Englewood Cliffs, NJ, 1968), Vol. 2, p. 438.

(3) Ibid, p. 437.

(4) Joanna Macy, “The Shift to a Life-sustaining Civilization,” http://www.joannamacy.net/html/great.html#wheel

(5) Ibid.

(6) Wendell Berry, The Gift of Good Land, quoted by Sean McDonagh, To Care for the Earth: A Call to a New Theology (Santa Fe, NM: Bear & Company, 1986), p. 130.

“Open Your Hand”

I’d like to say a few words about generosity.  It’s a topic that made headlines this week when Warren E. Buffett announced that he would give 31 billion dollars to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to support the foundation’s effort to find cures for the world’s 20 leading fatal diseases — including a vaccine for HIV/AIDS — and to ensure that every American has a chance at a decent education.  I’ve been trying to imagine what it might be like to have $31 billion – to experience that sense of fullness, wealth, abundance, and plenty – and then to give the money away so that it could go to work in the world to heal the sick and to bring life and hope to the poorest of the poor.  I don’t know what Warren Buffett has been feeling this week but what I want to imagine he’s feeling is joy.  I imagine him sensing a fresh sense of connection with the poor – and actually with the whole human race – for he has stepped beyond the bounds of his own small self, past that tendency to hoard and hold back and look out for Number 1, and has opened his hands to share himself and his possessions with those in need. 

As far as I know it’s unlikely that any of us in this room has had – or ever will have — $31 billion to give away.  But generosity is a powerful energy and it seems increasingly clear to me that one of the best ways to navigate these turbulent times, when so many people are so justifiably anxious about so many things, is to cultivate a spirit of generosity within ourselves, our community, and in our country as a whole.

Generosity is obviously a basic value of the Judeo-Christian tradition, and it runs like a thread through three of today’s four readings.  The passage from Deuteronomy is an extended meditation on the importance of giving generously to the poor. “If there is among you anyone in need, a member of your community in any of your towns within the land that the Lord your God is giving you, do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor.  You should rather open your hand, willingly lending enough to meet the need… Give liberally and be ungrudging when you do so… Open your hand to the poor and needy neighbor in your land.” 

The psalm picks up the theme, declaring that “Light shines in the darkness for the upright; the righteous are merciful and full of compassion.  It is good for them to be generous in lending and to manage their affairs with justice… They have given freely to the poor, and their righteousness stands fast for ever; they will hold up their head with honor” [Psalm 112:4-5, 9]. 

The whole eighth chapter of Paul’s Second Letter to the Corinthians is an appeal to be generous to the church in Jerusalem, and in the excerpt that we heard this morning, Paul praises the churches of Macedonia for their exemplary generosity. “…During a severe ordeal of affliction, their abundant joy and their extreme poverty have overflowed in a wealth of generosity.  For, as I can testify, they voluntarily gave according to their means, and even beyond their means” [2 Cor 8:2-3].  Paul goes on to say, “I do not mean that there should be relief for others and pressure on you, but it is a question of a fair balance between your present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance” [2 Cor 8:13-14].  And then Paul remembers from the Book of Exodus how God provided just the right amount of manna every day to feed the people in the wilderness, and he adds, “As it is written, ‘The one who had much did not have too much, and the one who had little did not have too little'” [2 Cor 8:15].

I’d like to say 3 things about generosity. 

1) True generosity begins with God.  Even if we’ve worked very hard for every penny we own, everything we have – everything that is – is ultimately a gift from God: this breath, this moment in time and whatever moments we have until we die, our capacity to think and feel and remember and hope, the family and friends we’ve been given to love, the whole living breathing planet with its goldfinches and cougars, its foxes and salmon and birch trees – all of it is gift.

The generosity of the Creator flows into the generosity of the Redeemer, who in the act of self-emptying that we call the Incarnation, came down from heaven to become one of us, and gave himself to us on the cross so that we might share in his divine life.  Here is how Paul puts it in today’s reading from 2 Corinthians: “…You know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich [that is, equal to God], yet for your sakes he became poor [that is, human], so that by his poverty you might become rich” [2 Cor 8:9].

God is infinitely generous, and acts of Christian generosity spring from the grateful awareness of how much we’ve been given.  At the same time, remembering the generosity of God can be a wonderful antidote to compulsive giving, the temptation to think that we have to give and give and give without asking for anything in return.  As Henri Nouwen pointed out, “We may think that this is a sign of generosity or even heroism.  But it might be little else than a proud attitude that says: ‘I don’t need help from others. I only want to give.'” (1) Knowing that generosity begins with God gives us grateful hearts and the humility to recognize that yes, we too, need to receive.  Giving without receiving is like breathing out without breathing in.  We won’t last long.

So that’s the first point: true generosity begins with God. 

Here’s the second.  

2) Authentic generosity expresses kinship.  The root of the word “generosity” is the Latin word “genus,” which means “race, kind, or kin.”  To be generous is to make others kin.  This is a very different notion of generosity than what we might call patronage or noblesse oblige, in which a powerful person or group of people deigns to share a little of its abundance with the poor and dispossessed but does not experience, or want to experience, any direct contact with the poor.  Giving in this spirit can actually function as a power play, in which the rich congratulate themselves on their supposed generosity, while the poor remain dependent and disempowered. 

True generosity, it seems to me, expresses kinship.  It recognizes that rich and poor alike are the beloved children of God, equally human and equally worthy of respect.  Human societies tend to concentrate power and wealth in the hands of a few and to relegate the poor to the margins, but a religious vision of our kinship with one another calls us to a generosity that inspires us to struggle for social and economic justice and not to settle for giving charity and handouts.  And if generosity is all about kinship, maybe in this time of ecological devastation we’re ready to expand our notions of kin to include not just our two-legged relatives but also the four-legged kind, those with fins and those with wings.

Here on the brink the Fourth of July, I want to lift up some of the new social movements that are calling our country back to a vision of mutual generosity and interconnectedness.  I think, for instance, of Jim Wallis, founder of Sojourners, a Christian progressive community in Washington, who just a few days ago launched what he calls “A Covenant for a New America,” whose goal is to overcome poverty with religious commitment and political leadership.

As Jim Wallis puts is, “Poverty is not a family value! …If the gospel that we preach does not ‘bring good news to the poor,’ well then, it is simply not the gospel of Jesus Christ – and it is about time that we said that.” [www.sojo.net]

I think, also, of Rabbi Michael Lerner, founding editor-publisher of the liberal interfaith magazine Tikkun, who is forming a national interfaith initiative, The Network of Spiritual Progressives, whose goal, among other things, is to create a New Bottom Line for American society. The Old Bottom Line in this country, says The Network of Spiritual Progressives, is materialism and selfishness.  The New Bottom Line that the Network wants to be build is “love, caring, generosity, kindness, ethical and ecological sensitivity, and awe and wonder at the grandeur of creation.”  No small vision there!

And here’s my last point:

3) Generosity may be one of the key spiritual practices that can keep us sane and connected with Spirit in a time of turbulence and anxiety.  Generosity has the power to ward off despair.  I remember the response of some of you who came with me on Wednesday – almost 50 of you! – to watch Al Gore’s movie “An Inconvenient Truth.”  Many of us were shaken by the powerful images of melting glaciers and drowning polar bears, of disrupted seasonal cycles and intensifying droughts and storms.  Is it too late to save the precious web of life that our species is so wantonly destroying? As Al Gore pointed out, when it comes to the ecological catastrophe already upon us, it can be easy to move directly from denial to despair.

I wonder if generosity is a practice that can guide our actions and help heal that despair.  Skipping one car trip a week can be an act of generosity.  So can deciding to walk or carpool or to ride a bike.  Buying locally grown food can be an act of generosity, since the average bite of food travels something like a thousand miles – releasing who knows how many pounds of carbon along the way – before it reaches our lips.  Replacing incandescent bulbs with compact fluorescents can be an act of generosity, as can reducing the use of our clothes dryer or air conditioner.

I do not know whether our individual and corporate acts of generosity will be enough to stop the most catastrophic effects of climate change, but I do know that when we are generous, we become a living sign of hope.  When despair comes calling, I invite us to go back to point #1: true generosity begins with God.  And so we turn to God and notice the gifts of the moment.  We recall our belovedness to God in Christ and the power of the cross and resurrection.  We let ourselves fill up again with the presence of the Holy Spirit and discover within ourselves an interior abundance and sense of plenty.  What God has given each one of us is much more precious than billions of dollars!

We can also remember point #2: generosity expresses kinship, our connection to each other and to all beings.  We are not alone. 

Our gratefulness to God and our awareness of connection to all beings can help us re-connect with the flow of divine love.  Generosity becomes possible again.  And with every act of generosity, a little more love becomes visible in the world.

I am no easy optimist when it comes to solving climate change or any of the other daunting issues that beset us, but I do put my trust in the creative, redeeming, and sustaining love of God.  In the words of the American poet, W.S. Merwin, “On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree.”

 

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(1) Henri Nouwen, Bread for The Journey (HarperCollins, 1997)

Wounds of Creation,
Wounds of Christ

O dwellers in the dust, awake and sing for joy!
For your dew is a radiant dew,
and the earth will give birth to those long dead.
-Isaiah 26:19

Every year on the Sunday after Easter we listen to that marvelous and mysterious story we just heard from the Gospel of John, the story of Jesus showing himself to the disciples on the evening of Easter Day and then returning a week later to reassure and convince the disciple we call Doubting Thomas that yes, the Risen Lord is real. 

“Put your finger here and see my hands,” Jesus says to Thomas, showing him the wounds.  “Reach out your hand and put it in my side.  Do not doubt but believe.” And then Thomas finds his faith, saying, “My Lord and my God.”

Today, across the country and around the world we are also celebrating Earth Day – rain or shine.  What happens when we hold Earth Day and our concern for God’s Creation up to the light of this particular Gospel story of the wounded and Risen Christ?  Here on Earth Day 2006, what word of hope or comfort or challenge might God be speaking to us in this Gospel text?   What might the wounds of Christ have to say to us about the wounds of God’s Creation?

And maybe that’s the place to begin: with the wounds of God’s Creation. To me, at least, and maybe to growing numbers of Americans, those wounds have never seemed so clear.  Take, for instance, global climate change.  You know that burning fossil fuels such as coal and gas and oil produces carbon dioxide and other gases that create a blanket around the Earth, making the climate hotter and more unstable.  You also know that what scientists are telling us with increasing alarm is that climate change is not some future event, something that only our distant descendants will deal with.  It is with us.  It is already here.  Maybe you saw the recent issue of Time magazine that proclaimed in big bold letters on the cover, “Be worried.  Be VERY worried.”

Here are some of the items that scientists reported in just the first two weeks of April.

“Dreaded warm air hovers over Antarctica,” reads a headline in The Los Angeles Times. “In the winter sky over Antarctica, scientists have detected a vast cap of steadily warming air, in the first sign that record levels of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere may be trapping heat above the ice sheets of the South Pole” [Friday, March 31, 2006].

On April 1, an Associated Press article is headlined “Caribbean coral in hot water.” “A one-two punch of bleaching from record hot water followed by disease has killed ancient and delicate coral in the biggest loss of reefs scientists have ever seen in Caribbean waters. ‘It’s an unprecedented die-off,’ said [a] National Park Service fisheries biologist [Jeff Miller] … ‘We’re talking colonies that were here when Columbus came by [that] have died in the past three to four months.’  In the same article, another scientist [Tom Goreau of the Global Coral Reef Alliance] called what’s happening to coral worldwide “‘an underwater holocaust.'”

On April 3, ScienceDaily reported “Greenland’s Glaciers Pick Up Pace in Surge Toward Sea.” 

On April 4, BBC News reported “Europe’s Alps could lose three-quarters of their glaciers to climate change during the coming century” [‘Major Melt’ for Alpine Glaciers, by Richard Black, BBC News].

On April 11, scientists reported “Global warming will become a top cause of extinction from the tropical Andes to South Africa with thousands of species of plants and animals likely to be wiped out in coming decades… The scientists said their study broadly backed the findings of a 2004 report in the journal Nature that suggested global warming could commit a quarter of the world’s species to extinction by 2050… ‘It isn’t just polar bears and penguins that we must worry about any more,” said the study’s co-author [Lee Hannah, senior fellow for climate change at Conservation International in the United States].

Are you still with me?  Have you tuned out yet?  It’s hard to listen to even a quick sketch of the devastation that is going on around us without wanting to cover our ears.  It is painful and scary to face this die-off, this crucifixion, and if we don’t have moments of wanting to hide out, then I don’t think we’ve been paying attention.

That’s where the Gospel story comes in.  Just think about those disciples huddled fearfully in that locked up room.  We can say this about them: at least they were no longer in denial.  They had seen the crucifixion; they knew the reality of the violence and the wounds.  They were not about to tell you that Christ’s wounds on the cross were not real, any more than we can pretend that the wounds to God’s Creation are not real.  Like we who face global warming, the disciples had looked death in the face, and they were scared. 

I find it interesting that the text tells us that they locked the doors “for fear of the Jews.” Maybe they were afraid that the Jewish authorities would round them up as accomplices of an executed criminal and that they too would be killed.  We know what that’s like, the impulse to hide because some external force seems out to get us, whether it’s global warming or anything else.  But the irony is that the disciples who hid out “for fear of the Jews” were themselves Jews.  I wonder if it was also themselves that they were afraid of.  I wonder if, in the events surrounding Jesus’ crucifixion, they had learned some things about themselves that they never wanted to see – perhaps their own violence, their own impulse to do harm, as when Simon Peter drew his sword during Jesus’ arrest and cut off a man’s ear.  I’m sure the disciples felt guilty as they huddled in that locked room, for they knew they had abandoned the very one they held most dear.  One of them had denied him three times.  Maybe they were whispering fearfully to each other, “What have we done?”

Well, here’s the truth: sometimes it is me who is sitting in that locked room, and maybe sometimes it is you, too: guilty as sin and knowing it.  When it comes to climate change, we North Americans bear more than our fair share of the responsibility, because it is our cars and trucks, our appliances and computers, our airplanes and factories and power plants that are sucking up fossil fuels and churning out 25% of the world’s global warming emissions.  Historically our country is responsible for something like 80% of the extra carbon dioxide that is now circulating in the atmosphere, so when we look at the unraveling of the web of life, when we look at dying coral and melting ice caps, when we look at raging floods in one part of the world and growing deserts in another, we are looking at the consequences – unintended, to be sure, but very real, all the same – of the way of life that gives us such privilege and comfort.  No wonder many of us feel a twinge of guilt when we look at that, and maybe more than a twinge.  It’s a lot to face.  And so we lock ourselves in, paralyzed sometimes by guilt and sometimes by the fearful sense that it’s too late, the deed is done, death has already had the last word.

And then:

“When it was evening of Easter day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you'” [John 20:19].  Can you feel the impact of that moment? The Risen Christ comes to his guilty, worried, frightened friends and says “Peace be with you.”  It is peace that he gives them.  Forgiveness.  Acceptance.  However much they’ve abandoned and denied him, he loves them still.  In fact, in this one short passage Jesus says those words three times, as if the disciples need to soak up that message, to hear it again and again – not only to undo Peter’s three-fold denial but also so that all of them, all of us, will experience that forgiveness deep in our bones.  Maybe that is the beginning of our resurrected life: the moment we hear and take in how much God loves us and how completely we are forgiven.

And then Jesus says “Here.  See my wounded hands and side.”

I wonder what the disciples see as they look at his wounds.   I think they see the harsh reality of violent suffering and death, but now those wounds are radiant – they are lit up with love, as if light were pouring from Jesus’ hands and side.  I wonder what it would be like if we could look at the wounds of Creation in the same way.  I wonder if we could learn to see the wounded Earth as expressing not only the reality of suffering and death, but also as lit up with God’s forgiveness and love.  I wonder what it would be like if, in tending to the wounded body of Creation, we knew that we were also ministering to the wounds of Christ – so that in every act of love for Creation, in every compact fluorescent light bulb that we installed, in every decision we made to walk rather to drive to a car, in every push we made for a national energy policy that promoted renewable energy and tougher fuel standards, we were responding to the deep reassurance and forgiveness of the wounded and yet Risen Christ.

Fear and guilt can take us only so far in motivating our efforts to care for Creation.  It is only the forgiving love of God – that endless, self-sacrificing, hidden outpouring – that can sustain our efforts to become healers of God’s Creation and to share in what today’s Collect calls “the new covenant of reconciliation” [c.f. 2 Corinthians 5:17-20].

For it is not only peace that Jesus gives the disciples.  He gives them a commission.  “As the Father has sent me, so I send you,” he says, breathing into them the Holy Spirit, the same creative wind and energy that moved across the face of deep at the very beginning of creation.  Jesus not only loves and forgives us – Jesus also wants us to share in the divine life of the Trinity that expresses itself in acts of generosity and compassion.  Like Jesus, we too have been sent here on a mission.  We too have a job to do.

And that, believe it or not, is where we can have some fun, where we can share in the joy of the Risen Christ.  There is nothing more satisfying than living out your deepest values.  Making the switch to more efficient lighting, healing, and cooling can be an act of praising God.  So can supporting renewable energy technologies or becoming a member of a local group such as Co-op Power.  While you drink your cup of coffee after the service, take a look at the display that our Greening the Church group has set up in the Connector of products to “green” your home, from compact fluorescent light bulbs to environmentally friendly cleaning supplies and 100% post-consumer-waste recycled paper.  Find a member of the Vestry and thank him or her for agreeing to make this parish one of the National Council of Church’s Environmental Justice Covenant Congregations – a mouthful of a name meaning that as a parish we’ve made a commitment to care for God’s Creation.

We don’t want to huddle in fear.  We want to embrace the world with the love and peace and exuberance of the Risen Christ.  I am grateful for Doubting Thomas, for he can express our doubt – doubt that we can stop catastrophic climate change, doubt that we can make a difference, doubt that the Risen Christ will be with us, doubt that resurrection is even possible.  Whatever our doubts today, wherever we’re holding back, Jesus invites us to open ourselves to the gift of his forgiveness and his energizing Spirit.  Today at the Eucharist we will stretch out our hands to receive the body and blood of Christ, just as Thomas stretched out his hands to touch Christ’s wounded hands and side.  Like Thomas, we too want to know that the risen Christ is real and alive, and, like Thomas, when we feel Christ’s presence, we too can’t help but rejoice.

Hope in the Cross

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for [God] who has promised is faithful.”
-Hebrews 10:23

Not too long ago, at the end of a meeting in the Parker Room, a parishioner and I got to talking about the suffering and anxieties that beset the world.

“There’s so much to worry about!” she said, shaking her head. “Suicide bombers. Terrorism. Global poverty. The carnage in Darfur. The war in Iraq. The possibility that Iran will get nuclear weapons or that our government will nuke Iran. And then,” she added, as if all this weren’t enough, “there is global warming. Peak oil. And avian flu! I mean,” she said – and here she turned and looked at me directly, searching my face – “where do you find hope?”

I looked at her in silence for a moment, considering.

“Well,” I told her, testing every word as I said it, to see if it were true, “in the end I’ve found only one place to put my hope: in the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ.”

You and I are here tonight because this is where we place our hope. We are here tonight with all our sorrows and fears, all our guilt and anxiety, everything that torments us, everything that wakes us up worrying in the middle of the night. Tonight we bring everything that is in us, everything that is around us, and here at the cross we put it all down, trusting that Jesus can hold it, Jesus can bear it with us and for us, and that in him and through him we and all Creation will be drawn to new life. We place our hope in the cross of Christ because something momentous happened long ago on that hillside in Golgotha.

It’s a bold claim that we Christians make. Scientists measure the age of the cosmos in billions of years. If I have the figures right – and scientists seem to be making new discoveries about our evolutionary history almost every day – the universe came into existence something like 15 billion years ago. Primitive life forms emerged on this planet maybe 4 billion years ago, the earliest members of the pre-human family showed up around 7 million years ago, and somewhere around 300,000 or 400,000 years ago the first members of our own species, Homo sapiens, began to walk the earth.

Against the backdrop of this enormous expanse of human and cosmic history, Christians dare to say that something pivotal happened over the course of three days early in the first century, something that affected not only human beings but the whole Creation. In a far-off, forgotten province in a dusty corner of the Roman Empire, a man was unjustly condemned, executed, and ignominiously buried – and everything changed. Christ’s life, death, and resurrection exploded into history. (1)

Jesus spent only one week in Jerusalem, his last week, but the story of that week takes up a large portion of the Gospels – a quarter of Luke, a third of Matthew and Mark, and fully half of the Gospel of John. The apostle Paul, who wrote most of the Letters in the New Testament, devotes more space to exploring the meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection than he does to examining Jesus’ life and what Jesus taught. For Christians, the cross and resurrection of Christ – what theologians have come to call “the Paschal mystery” – is like the hinge of history, the turning point, the doorway through which we pass to enter new and everlasting life.

We’ve only had about 2,000 years to experience the reverberations of these events, and for all I know, human beings are just beginning to understand and articulate the power of the cross of Christ. So far, all kinds of images have been brought into play. Sometimes, as in tonight’s reading from Isaiah, we speak of the cross in terms of healing, or sometimes, as we heard in the Letter to the Hebrews, the cross is described in terms of sacrifice. Sometimes we speak of the cross as reconciliation, bringing peace to all who are alienated from God, from each other, and from God’s Creation. Sometimes we speak of the cross as ransom, suggesting that it is the payment that sets us free from being kidnapped by the power of evil. Or we use the image of redemption, to say that the cross purchased freedom for a humanity enslaved by sin. Sometimes we describe the cross and resurrection in terms of a decisive victory in the cosmic conflict between good and evil, life and death. (2) “Sing, my tongue, the glorious battle; of the mighty conflict sing” we will proclaim in the ancient words of our closing hymn [#166, Hymnal 1982], and the victory that takes place on the cross affects not only human beings, but the whole Creation: “From that holy body broken, blood and water forth proceed: earth, and stars, and sky, and ocean, by that flood from stain are freed” (3).

Whatever metaphors we use to interpret the cross, it is here at the cross that we find our hope.

It is here at the cross that all our malice and forgetfulness, all our pigheadedness and small-mindedness and hard-heartedness are continually met by the love of God.

It is here at the cross that we receive forgiveness for what may have seemed unforgivable.

It is here at the cross that we see God’s willingness to be vulnerable, God’s willingness to enter into and to share every pain and loss that we suffer, so that there is nothing we can experience that God in Christ does not experience with us.

It is here at the cross that we share our vulnerability with God’s vulnerability, here that we open ourselves to be found by the One who loves us, and suffers with us, and seeks us in and through all things.

It is here at the cross that we are set free from the power of death, and set free as well from the endless, futile attempt to save ourselves and to earn our own salvation.

It is here that we can throw ourselves into the arms of Christ and receive the inspiration and courage to go forward, for it is here that a dying man shows us the undying love of God.

The love that was let loose on the cross has no limits. When we stand at the cross and watch Jesus suffering and dying for us, we are looking into the heart of God. Christ’s suffering love embraces the lost and the forsaken, the embittered and angry — even someone like you, even someone like me, even someone like Zacarias Moussaoui, who told the courtroom this week that he takes delight in the pain of those who lost their loved ones on September 11.

Christ’s suffering love embraces even the darkest and most tormented places of the human spirit, and Christ’s suffering love can inspire acts of forgiveness that startle us with their power. I do not know whether the Harriott family in Dorchester is Christian, but it is Christ’s suffering and forgiving love that I see in five-year-old Kai Leigh Harriott, the little girl in Boston who wept yesterday on the witness stand as she faced the man who shot and paralyzed her two years ago, when she was 3. In a story reported this morning in the lead article of The Boston Globe and picked up this afternoon on the Internet, the little girl looked at the man who fired the bullet that severed her spine and said through her tears, “What you done to me was wrong. But I still forgive him.”

“We’re not victims here,” said the child’s mother. “We’re victors.” (3)

That is what was released on the cross of Christ: a love without bounds, a love without limit.

Tonight we venerate the cross, and we weep, and we marvel.

---

(1) Grateful acknowledgement is offered to the author – whose identity I do not recall – who used this phrase years ago in an issue of Weavings.

(2) These images are laid out by Rev. Michael L. Lindvall, Senior Pastor of The Brick Presbyterian Church in the City of New York, in an unpublished manuscript, cited with permission.

(3) Quoted by Jonathan Saltzman, “I still forgive him,” The Boston Globe, Friday, April 14, 2006, p. 1.

End-Time and Judgment:
Christ the King

My son Sam is fifteen, and he’s been asports fan all his life.  In the summer, he follows baseball, and whenhe was a kid, I’d hear him shout, “The Red Sox rule!”  In thefall, because his father grew up in Wisconsin, Sam would announce withgreat satisfaction, “The Green Bay Packers rule!”  I alwayssmiled when I heard the exuberance in his voice.  There is somethingin the human spirit that is set free when we proclaim what we love.

Today is the last Sunday of the churchyear, the grand finale.  The sweep of the liturgical year that beginsin Advent and moves through the birth of Jesus, his baptism, ministry,passion, death, and resurrection, the coming of his Spirit and thebirth of the Church – this whole narrative reaches its conclusion andclimax today, the Feast Day of Christ the King.  To put it in termsthat even a child would understand, today’s the day when around theworld the Church gathers to proclaim, “Christ rules!”  Today’s the daywhen you and I get to say: we know where we’re headed – we’re headedtoward God.  We know where we’ve come from – we came here from God. God is our Alpha and our Omega, our beginning and our end. 

It is the ending that we look at today, onthis last day of the church year – the end of time, the moment ofreckoning, the day when everyone will be gathered at last before thethrone of God and everything will be sorted out.  Of all the biblicalvisions of the end-time, I can’t think of any more beautiful than thismorning’s passage from the prophet Ezekiel. Ezekiel was among thefirst deportees to be carried off into exile when the Babylonianscaptured Jerusalem in 597 B.C., and thereafter he lived among afrightened, helpless people who had lost everything – not only theirhomes and belongings, but their very homeland and their temple, theirsecurity and their hope.  Like the slaves brought to this country fromAfrica, they had, it seemed, no future at all.  Into this place ofdesolation and despair a vision came to Ezekiel, a vision of returnfrom exile and restoration in the Promised Land. 

I haveno idea if this passage has ever been set to music, but it ought tobe, for its rhythm and repetition read like poetry – and, when itcomes to describing what God is up to, just look at all the activeverbs!  “For thus says the Lord God: I myself will search formy sheep, and will seek them out…I will seek out mysheep.  I will rescue them…I will bring them outfrom the peoples and gather them from the countries, and will bring them into their own land; and I will feedthem on the mountains of Israel… I will feed them with goodpasture… I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and I will makethem lie down, says the Lord God.” And then comes a longsentence where the pace quickens and the verbs almost tumble aftereach other: “I will seek the lost, and I will bring backthe strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak” – and then, listen!  The prophet sounds anote of judgment.  The fat sheep – or we might say, the fat cats -will be punished: “the fat and the strong I will destroy.  Iwill feed them with justice.”  I wonder what justice tasteslike?  To the hungry and poor its taste must be sweet, but to theunjust and unrighteous its taste is sharp.

These images are carried forward in ourGospel passage, which marks the end of Jesus’ public instruction.  Theapocalyptic vision of the last judgment in Matthew 25 is Jesus’ lastpublic word to his disciples.  At the end of time, says Jesus, “whenthe Son of Man comes in his glory” – or, as one translation puts it,when the Son of Man comes “blazing in beauty” [The Message, byEugene H. Peterson] – he “will sit on the throne of his glory” and”all the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separatepeople one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from thegoats.”

I wonderif this passage was once easier to shrug off than it is today.  Inyears past, we might have dismissed this image of the world coming toa sudden end as something fanciful, a quaint relic of Christianbelief.  Life seemed likely to go on and on as it always had, onething after another: “same old, same old.”  We might likewise haveshrugged off the notion of God’s judgment by saying, “Why bejudgmental?  I mean – heavens!  I’m from Amherst!  I’m not into thisbusiness of God sorting people into sheep and goats, the in-crowd andthe out, the righteous and the damned. Aren’t we supposed to be tolerant?”  So maybe we hesitated, or dropped our voices, when wegot to the part of the Nicene Creed where it says that Christ “willcome again in glory to judge the living and the dead.”  No ending andno judgment – I think that’s what many of us liked to believe. 

But thisyear we hear the Gospel with different ears.  We’ve begun tounderstand endings.  Endings are upon us.  Take, for instance, the endof cheap oil.  Experts are telling us that we’ve reached, or are soonto reach, the moment of “peak oil,” the moment when the world’sproduction of oil reaches its peak and then drops off for good. Whether it comes quickly or slowly, we’re looking at the end of thecomfortable way of life that many Americans, along with the rest ofthe industrialized world, have taken for granted.  Or, as anotherexample, take global warming.  If the so-called “developed” and”developing” nations don’t make a swift transition to clean, renewablesources of energy, we’re looking at the end of the relatively stableglobal climate that the human race has known for millennia.  Maybe yousaw the pictures that circulated this week in newspapers and on theInternet: the polar ice caps are melting.  In two weeks politicalleaders from around the world will be gathering in Montreal for thefirst international summit on global warming to be held since theKyoto Protocol went into effect.  I’ll be heading to that city as partof a delegation of religious leaders from the United States invited tospeak out about the moral urgency of caring for Creation and to pressour own government to take leadership at last.  Along with our littlegroup, thousands of others will be converging on Montreal, and theslogan we share is “Time is Running Out.”

Endingscan be disruptive, even scary, whether it is the end of oil or the endof empire, the end of a stable climate or the end of our lives.  Wecan feel anxious when we realize that time is running out.  ButChristians have always lived in sight of endings.  Scripture is clearthat we live here only temporarily: all flesh is grass; the grasswithers and the flower fades [Isaiah 40:8; Psalm 103:15-16]. Christians always live on the edge.  As preacher Peter Gomeslikes to put it, “We live in the world with our bags packed.”

One wayor another life does come to an end, and whenever it ends, we will beheld accountable for the choices that we made.  There will be a moralreckoning, and today’s Gospel couldn’t be more straightforward andpragmatic in presenting how that judgment will be made.  Did we givefood to the hungry and drink to the thirsty?  Did we welcome thestranger and clothe the naked?  Did we care for the sick and visit theprisoner?   In short, did we reach out in love to those around us whowere in need?  What we do (or fail to do) to those in need takes placenot in secret but in sight of the King, who has authority to judge. What we do (or fail to do) to those in need is done (or not done) tothe King himself. 

Howhumble our King is, and how hidden!  The one who sits “blazing inbeauty” on his glorious throne consents to be mysteriously concealedwithin the single mother on food stamps, the prisoner at Guantanamo,the frail elderly with Alzheimer’s, the homeless African-American inNew Orleans, and the citizen of Tuvalu whose island nation, because ofglobal warming, is now subsiding beneath rising ocean waves.  Whetherwe know it or not, whether we see it or not, Christ humbly,stubbornly, and persistently makes his home within the very peoplethat society would most like to ignore or cast aside. 

This iswhere the vision of the mystic becomes the vision of the prophet.  IfChrist is in all things, but especially in the vulnerable and thepoor, the naked and the needy, then it matters what we do as anation.  It matters whether or not we choose to engage in thetorture and coercive interrogation of prisoners.  It mattershow we choose to structure our federal budget.  When we hurt the poor,we hurt more than the common good – we hurt Jesus himself.

And if Christ is in each person who is inneed, then what we do as individuals matters, too.  When we take astep toward reconciliation or healing – when we give someone a word ofcourage or hope – when we reach out to take whatever action we can,however small it may be, to make the world a better place – then, asthis morning’s Collect tells us, we share in the life of theeverlasting God “whose will it is to restore all things in [God’s]well-beloved Son, the King of kings and Lord of Lords.”

Yes, we live in a turbulent, violent, anduncertain time – but we have everything we need. 

We haveour marching orders. 

We haveour moral compass. 

Like theslave down South making a break for freedom, we have our own NorthStar.  We know who we are and to whom we belong. 

Christis King.

The Blame Game

Today is September 11, 2005, four years to the day after September 11, 2001, and the end of a week in which once again we’ve been shocked by images of extraordinary violence and suffering on American soil.  This time it wasn’t New York but New Orleans.  This time it wasn’t crashing airplanes and falling towers but crashing waves and falling levees.  This time is wasn’t an act of terrorism but a natural disaster compounded by human failure and incompetence.  These two events – what we now call 9/11 and a hurricane named Katrina – are in some ways very different but both of them shake us to the core.  They leave us disoriented and dismayed, groping for meaning.  They are a stark reminder of human vulnerability and mortality, of how quickly an ordinary life, an ordinary day, can be up-ended.  They raise far-reaching questions about basic aspects of American society and our national priorities.  And they are tragedies whose aftermath will be felt for years.

As I thought about all this, I did some wandering on the Internet and came across a video clip that was made after 9/11.  It’s short, lasting no more than 60 seconds, and its graphics are simple, just a line tracing a circle that closes on itself.   Here’s its message:

Terrorism is bred in

FEAR
ANGER
HATRED.

The recent attacks on America have instilled

FEAR
ANGER
HATRED

in otherwise peaceful people.

Vengeful retaliation will also instill

FEAR
ANGER
HATRED

in innocent people who suffer from such attacks

Terrorism is bred in

FEAR
ANGER
HATRED.

Violence breeds violence.

Our mission now is to break the cycle. (1)

 

A Chinese proverb puts it even more succinctly: “The one who pursues revenge should dig two graves.”

Today’s Scripture readings convey the same urgent message: stop the cycle of revenge.  Break the long, bloody chain of recrimination and retaliation.  Relinquish fear, anger and hatred.  Have mercy.  Extend forgiveness.  “The vengeful will face the Lord’s vengeance,” we hear in Ecclesiasticus.  “Forgive your neighbor the wrong he has done… Does anyone harbor anger against another, and expect healing from the Lord?… Set enmity aside….Do not be angry with your neighbor” (Ecclesiasticus 28:  1, 2, 3, 6, 7).  The psalm lifts up the length and breadth of God’s mercy, and if divine forgiveness is that extravagant, shouldn’t human forgiveness seek to be as generous, too?  The passage from Paul’s Letter to the Romans exhorts us not to despise or pass judgment on our brother or sister, “for each of us will be accountable to God” (Romans 14:12).

Or take today’s Gospel reading: “How often should I forgive?” Peter asks Jesus.  “As many as seven times?”  No doubt Peter thought seven a lavish number – after all, rabbinic tradition counseled forgiving three times.  But Jesus says no – we shouldn’t forgive once, or twice, or seven times, but seventy-seven times – in other words, a number without limit, a number beyond calculation.  Some scholars interpret the forgiveness that Jesus proclaims as a reversal of Lamech’s malicious boast way back in the fourth chapter of Genesis that “If Cain is avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech is avenged seventy-sevenfold” (Gen. 4:24).  In other words, in Jesus we come to the end of the path of violence and blood revenge.  That path leads only to death and to the soul’s destruction.  Jesus opens up another way.

In case we missed the point, he tells a parable of an unmerciful servant who is forgiven a ridiculously large amount of money and then turns around and refuses to forgive a tiny debt that amounts to no more than a small coin.  The man’s refusal to show mercy provokes the anger of the king, who hands him over to be tortured until he pays off the original debt.  And then comes the kicker: “So my heavenly Father will also do to every one of you, if you don’t forgive your brother or sister from your heart.”

Are you still with me?  Forgive from the heart – that is what Jesus insists on this morning.  That is what all today’s readings proclaim.  But how do we take in that message against the backdrop of the double catastrophes of 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina?  I’m going to put this bluntly.  Most of us are in no mood to forgive.  Forgive the suffering we’ve witnessed in the last two weeks, the sudden revelation to this country’s astonished eyes and to the eyes of the whole world that large groups of Americans are living in abject poverty?  That in this rich country of ours, there are millions who live as if they inhabited the so-called Third World?  Are we to forgive the racism that plagues the land, the desperate neglect of our African-American brothers and sisters?  Twenty-eight percent of the residents of New Orleans lived in poverty, and 84% of them were African-American.  Surely poverty and racism killed many of the victims of Hurricane Katrina just as surely as did the wind and waves, for it was the black and the poor who had no means to escape.  Are we to forgive the government for the inadequacy of its planning for the hurricane, or for the ineptitude and delay in its response?  Are we to forgive its appalling complacency about global warming, which scientists have long predicted will increase the intensity of hurricanes and storms?   Surely we should be angry.  We should be ashamed.  What can it possibly mean that Jesus also urges us to forgive?  What might forgiveness look like in this situation?  Let me sketch a few possibilities.

Forgiveness is a process that includes accountability. Forgiveness doesn’t mean permitting abuse or violence to continue.  It’s worth remembering that the passage we heard in today’s Gospel about forgiving seventy-seven times is placed after the passage we heard in last week’s Gospel, which invites us first to confront what must be changed. If, after a disaster, political leaders quickly urge critics not to play “the blame game,” we have to wonder whether the process of forgiveness has been co-opted.  If the causes of suffering are not confronted, the suffering is all too likely to be repeated. (2)

At the same time, genuine forgiveness means relinquishing a habit of blame.  It means refusing to find fault endlessly and to point fingers at everyone but ourselves.  Forgiving seventy-seven times means renouncing the delicious itch to judge and criticize, the insidious thrill of playing “Gotcha!”  When we maintain the discipline of a forgiving heart, we refuse to demonize our antagonists or to triumph in their mistakes.  We recognize with humility that they are as human as we are, and that, as St. Paul puts it, “we will all stand before the judgment seat of God” (Romans 14:10b). 

Genuine forgiveness takes our anger and channels it to creative use.  Feeling outrage over poverty, racism, and war, over shortsighted or selfish policies, over all the forces that diminish life, is a splendid thing when it gives us the energy to notice injustice and to change what should be changed.

So I see forgiveness in the campaign launched by Sojourners this week inviting Americans to sign the “Katrina Pledge,” a declaration that the poverty we’ve witnessed because of the hurricane is morally unacceptable, along with a pledge to renew our personal commitment to overcoming poverty in the United States.

I see forgiveness in the campaign sponsored by Sojourners, Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation, and other groups, to fast and pray for bold U.S. leadership to overcome global poverty during this week’s World Summit gathering at the United Nations.

I see forgiveness closer to home, in the efforts of this parish to help mobilize and coordinate hurricane relief in the Pioneer Valley.

I see forgiveness in the piles of donated supplies now rising up in the Connector, the growing stacks of diapers and toothbrushes, garbage bags and soap. 

I see forgiveness in this parish’s interest in exploring a possible work trip to the Diocese of Mississippi to volunteer some help, and in the checks that so many of you have sent to Episcopal Relief and Development, to the Red Cross, and to other agencies. 

Through the grace of God, forgiveness can be born at the very center of our outrage and sorrow, our repentance and compassion.  We don’t “forgive and forget” as if nothing wrong happened.  We “forgive and go forward,” building on what we’ve learned from mistakes made in the past and using the energy generated by reconciliation to create a new future. (3)

Forgiveness takes guts.  It takes work.  It takes commitment.  And it has the power to change lives.  I will close with a true story about forgiveness that is told by Buddhist teacher Jack Kornfield (4):

Once on a train from Washington to Philadelphia, [he writes,] I found myself seated next to an African-American man who… [was running] a rehabilitation program for juvenile offenders in the District of Columbia.  Most of the youths he worked with were gang members who had committed homicide.

One fourteen-year-old boy in his program had shot and killed an innocent teenager to prove himself to his gang.  At the trial, the victim’s mother sat impassively silent until the end, when the youth was convicted of the killing.  After the verdict was announced, she stood up slowly and stared directly at him and stated, “I am going to kill you.”  Then the youth was taken away to serve several years in the juvenile facility.

After the first half year the mother of the slain child went to visit his killer.  He had been living on the streets before the killing, and she was the only visitor he’d had.  For a time they talked, and when she left she gave him some money for cigarettes.  Then she started step by step to visit him more regularly, bringing food and small gifts.  Near the end of his three-year sentence she asked him what he would be doing when he got out.  He was confused and very uncertain, so she offered to set him up with a job at a friend’s company.  Then she inquired about where he would live, and since he had no family to return to, she offered him temporary use of the spare room in her home.

For eight months he lived there, ate her food, and worked at the job.  Then one evening she called him into the living room to talk.  She sat down opposite him and waited.  Then she started.

“Do you remember in the courtroom when I said I was going to kill you?”

“I sure do,” he replied.

“Well, I did,” she went on.  “I did not want the boy who could kill my son for no reason to remain alive on this earth.  I wanted him to die.  That’s why I started to visit you and bring you things.  That’s why I got you the job and let you live here in my house.  That’s how I set about changing you.  And that old boy, he’s gone.  So now I want to ask you, since my son is gone, and that killer is gone, if you’ll stay here.  I’ve got room, and I’d like to adopt you if you let me.”  And she became the mother of her son’s killer, the mother he never had.

Now that’s a story of what it means, and what it costs, to forgive seventy-seven times.  Where in your life is Jesus inviting you today to take a bold step and to forgive from the heart?

 ——————–

(1) http://www.freerangegraphics.com/flash/fl_cycle.html

(2) Robert J. Schreiter, Reconciliation: Mission and Ministry in a Changing Social Order, Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2003, p. 19.

(3) Carolyn Osiek, Beyond Anger: On Being a Feminist in the Church, Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1986.

(4) Jack Kornfield, The Art of Forgiveness, Lovingkindness, and Peace, New York: Bantam Books, 2002, pp. 44-46.

Seeds of God

Today’s parable of the sower brings me back to a crystal-clear summer morning many years ago.  I am standing in the hallway by the front door, trying to get everything organized so that my son will arrive on time for his first day of summer camp.  The lunch-box is ready with the foods that this particular seven-year-old will be likely to eat, there is a change of clothes in his bag, I have found the bottle of sunscreen, I am about to go looking for a towel, and surely Sam’s bathing-suit is around here somewhere.  Just then, Sam gets it into his head that he absolutely must change the shoelaces on his sneakers.  The white ones simply won’t do anymore: they’re too long.  What he needs, he tells me, are the brown shoelaces from his hiking shoes: they are just the right length for his sneakers.  So here I am, standing with Sam in the hallway, the two of us peering down at one of his hiking shoes as I try to untie the knot and pull out the shoelace so that we can thread it into a sneaker.  And suddenly I am overtaken by happiness.  I have suddenly discovered that this is the most wonderful moment in the world.  Here is this son of mine whom I love so much, all freckles and innocence; here are my hands, involved in a useful and simple task; here is a brand-new morning, full of infinite possibilities. 

If someone were to come up to me and ask, “How big is God?” I suppose I could start waving my arms around, make big, sweeping gestures.  I could answer, “Oh, God is huge, God fills the heavens and the earth, God is in everything, and everywhere, there is no way our minds can encompass the enormity of God!”  And I suppose I would be right.  But sometimes God is very small.  I hear that scientists have discovered a particle so small that it can pass right through the earth without bumping into anything, so small that it can pass right through our bodies without touching any part of us.  Sometimes God can be that small, so small that we miss the presence of the Holy One unless we’re paying close attention.  As Jesus suggests in the parable of the sower, God can seem as tiny as a seed, as tiny as a brief moment in a hallway when you look at your son and are suddenly pierced by joy.

Do you want to see God?  Well then, says Jesus, don’t go looking for God only in the high dramas, the big deals.  Look for God in what is small – maybe in the slant of evening light, as the setting sun casts a glow across the grass; in the eyes of a friend, as you pause in a conversation simply to gaze at the face of this person you love; in the last, lingering note of an aria from Bach as it trails off into silence.  Look for God in that quick-silver impulse to pick up the phone and call someone who is lonely.  Look for God in that hint of a desire to give someone a hand or to say a kind word.  Look for God in those moments when an invisible Someone practically tugs at our sleeve, urging, “Wake up now and pay attention!  I’m up to something here!”  God is in the details, Jesus says to us today–in the small stuff, in the seeds.

What are the seeds that God is sowing in you?  What are the little stirrings that signal the presence within you of this exuberant farmer-God who flings seeds so recklessly through the cosmos, hoping that they will somewhere find an answering heart?  Maybe you notice a restless stirring within yourself, some kind of insistent call to new life.  Maybe you feel a gentle coaxing to open up just a crack and to risk trusting, if just for a moment, that really and truly, you are loved just as you are.  Maybe you feel the tiniest of invitations to take a chance, take a leap: there is something that needs to be done, and you are just the person to do it.  Maybe you feel a tug to forgive someone whom you’ve refused for years to let back into your heart, or maybe you feel nudged to admit that the time has come to make someone an apology, and to ask for forgiveness.  Maybe you are suddenly touched by gratitude, overtaken on an ordinary day by the sheer gift of being alive.  These are just some of the many seeds of God, clues of the Holy One who gives the divine Self to us at every moment.

Here’s another story about a seed.  There was once a lawyer who was a good lawyer–indeed a very good lawyer.  But he kept feeling a persistent restlessness, an uncomfortable sense that his life didn’t quite fit, that he was called to do something else.  What began as a slight inner tug slowly began to grow.  One day this man was offered a partnership in a prestigious law-firm in downtown Boston.  That afternoon he walked all the way home to Cambridge, deep in thought–deep, as I imagine it, in prayer–and on that day he decided that No, he would not be a lawyer any longer. He would leave the law, go to Paris, and begin doing what he’d always longed to do: to write.  So that’s what he did.

The man was Archibald MacLeish, an old family friend who became one of the most popular American poets of the late 20th century.  I grew up listening to this story, and I have always loved it, because it speaks to me of a person who was entrusted with the seeds of God–though MacLeish himself might not have named it that way.  To me, it is a story of someone who listened with care to a deep inner call to follow wherever the Holy One might be leading, however disruptive and unsettling that call might be.

And we have to be honest about this: if the God who comes among us is often very small, the divine life that grows up in us will be no tidy little thing that we can tend quietly in our garden like a tulip.  The seeds of God do not grow into nice little posies, fit for a bouquet.  They are more like the magic beans in “Jack and the Beanstalk” that spring up through the floorboards and begin toppling the house.  When we open ourselves to a little rivulet of love, in the end we open ourselves to the whole river – as today’s psalm says, “the river of God is full of water” [bbllink]Psalm 65:9[/bbllink].  And so the divine life begins to travel through us, de-centering the ego and de-throning our claim to belong to no one but ourselves.  Our whole lives can begin to change, so that we become a new person, with new eyes, a new heart, a new way of living in the world.

One more things about seeds: it’s not only God who is a sower of seeds.  Like God, we, too, sow seeds for the future.  A kind word sends out a little more kindness into the world.  A harsh word sends out a little more bitterness, a little more fear.  What are the seeds that we are sowing?  Are we sowing seeds of contempt, selfishness, or anxiety?  Are we sowing seeds of respect, kindness, truthfulness, and courage?  I wonder how my life would change if I remembered that every single moment contains the seeds of the future.  Would I speak more kindly and listen with greater care?  Would I take more risks to love fully and freely, holding nothing back?  Would I learn to trust more deeply that every act of love, however small, has an effect and can bear fruit in ways I might never have imagined?

That’s the great promise in today’s passages from Scripture.  Today Jesus tells us that when we take in the seeds of God and let them root, our lives will bear fruit.  Whether it be a hundredfold, or sixty, or thirty times over, our lives will become a blessing to others, as if God has the power to take our small efforts to do good and to multiply them, grace upon grace.  God makes the same promise through the prophet Isaiah, proclaiming that “as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it” [bbllink]Isaiah 55: 10-11[/bbllink].  Hold on to this promise when your efforts seem futile and everything you’ve tried seems to have come to naught.  The word that God has sown in you will yet bear fruit, even if you know nothing about it.  If you consent, if you say Yes, God will accomplish in you and through you exactly what God has purposed.

This week I traveled to Washington, D.C., to spend a day fasting near the White House with about 30 other activists as part of a three-day event to protest the failure of the United States to act more decisively to slow global warming.  We were an unusual coalition of environmental, youth, and religious groups, conducting what was apparently the first-ever fast in this country to protest global warming.  Some of you took part in a companion fast here at home and some of you prayed with us, and I am grateful for that.

But did this small action make any difference?  Will this seed of an effort have any lasting effect?  In a world of violence and fear, of massive poverty in Africa, genocide in Darfur, war in Iraq, bombings in London, and an environmental crisis almost too large to face, do any of our individual actions make any difference?  Today’s Scripture readings tell us: Yes.  Trust the seeds of God.  Our exuberant farmer-God is casting seeds among us every day.  Notice them.  Give them room to take root and grow.  Cast the seeds that God gives you to cast.  Let God work freely in your life and don’t worry about the results: God will make use of you, and you will bear fruit, and the day will come, as Isaiah says, when “you shall go forth in joy, and be led back in peace; [and] the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands” [bbllink]Isaiah 55: 12[/bbllink].

So today we say Yes: Yes to the love whose power working in us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine, Yes to the mighty love that brought forth the whole creation, Yes to the love that is soft as a whisper, as persistent as a growing plant, as gentle as child’s hand that holds a hiking shoe and a brown shoelace.