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Title: Control and Faith
Date: August 17, 2008
Texts: Genesis 45:1-16; Matthew 15:21-28

Self-control. It’s important. Without it we would get ourselves into a whole lot of trouble. I’m sure you can remember when you wish you exercised a little more self-control. For me, I don’t have very much control when it comes to food. It’s hard for me to stop eating. I blame it on my parents. They instilled in me the necessity to eat everything on my plate. I do that, and go back for more. I don’t feel very good after eating too much; but I do it anyway.

Self-control. Joseph has it. We all remember the encounter with Potiphar’s wife. She’s wants an adulterous relationship with him. But Joseph resists her pursuits. He’s in control of his lustful desires. That’s good. He may be the epitome of control. But what happens in our passage this evening when he sees his brothers?—he loses control. Genesis 45:1, “Then Joseph could no longer control himself before all those who stood by him… And he wept so loudly that the Egyptians heard it, and the household of Pharaoh heard it.”

He lost control. And that’s not so bad in this circumstance, especially for Joseph. He needs a breakthrough. Joseph needs something to crack open his controlled Egyptian façade, and breakthrough to his repressed Israelite soul. Up to this point in the story, we wonder if there is any Israel still left in Joseph. Have his heart and passions gone Egyptian cold? Has Egypt successfully assimilated this child of Israel? Or, does Joseph still long for his people and the God of his ancestors?

His tears speak volumes. The tears keep alive our hope for Joseph. The tears show us a Joseph who is not entirely in control, a Joseph who hasn’t yet mastered himself—and that’s a good thing. Because the tears reveal a Joseph who, as much as he tries, cannot become Egyptian. For Egypt is the land of control—control of the self, and control of the cosmos.

This is why Egypt and Israel are worlds apart. [Read more →]

Title: Jacob’s struggle with God
Date: August 3, 2008
Texts: Gen 32:22-31

It’s dark, Jacob is alone, and he wrestles with God. They are bound together in a struggle. If we want to talk about spirituality, that’s the best image we have—a struggle with God, wrestling with God in the dark; we know there’s something there, but we just can’t quite see it.

If we turn to Jacob as a model for our spirituality, we soon discover that he shatters all our images of spiritual superheroes. Jacob doesn’t do anything to earn this mountain-top experience with God. He’s no Mother Theresa; nor is he a contemplative monk. He’s not even someone I would trust as a friend. He is known as a deceiver, a liar, a trickster. His name, Jacob, literally means “deceiver.” In his youth he tricked his brother out of his birthright, and lied to his father. He played ticks and deceived his father-in-law, Laban.

There is nothing about his story that would make us wonder if he’s good man, someone who God wants to hang out with. But there he is, confused, desperate, alone in the dark on a mountain, and God wrestles with him. They are bound together in a wrestling match.

Spirituality is this kind of struggle with God. It’s not always pleasant. Intimacy with God isn’t necessarily a reward for those who do everything right. The story of Jacob teaches us that God can always sneak up on people who live life as if God doesn’t matter. And Jacob also teaches us that intimacy with God may often look and feel like a wrestling match, a struggle in the dark.

I think that’s why I like Graham Greene’s novel, The End of the Affair. It’s a story of a man who is angry with God. Maurice Bendrix doesn’t have any space for God; in fact, most of the time he considers himself an atheist.

There’s nothing good about Maurice. He betrays his friend Harry’s trust by committing adultery with is wife—he’s a deceiver, just like Jacob. It’s not a pleasant story; his life isn’t something to imitate. He is not an example for us to follow. He is like Jacob: there is nothing good about him, other than that he struggles with God. Let me read the very last lines of the book, it’s Maurice:

I wrote at the start that this was a record of hate, and walking there beside Henry towards the evening glass of beer, I found the one prayer that seemed to serve the winter mood: O God, You’ve done enough, You’ve robbed me of enough, I’m too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone for ever.

I wrote a little piece on my friends for the Mennonite. I called it “Re-membering Communion.” But the editors like to change things around. Here it is: Are memories our communion?

Here’s a piece of it if you want to get a sense of it:

In worship we open our arms to receive the intimacy of God’s communion found when eyes meet—or when we shake hands, or share meals, or speak prayers, or exchange words. The eternal love of the Holy Spirit breathes through these gestures, knitting us together into the body of Christ.

Title: Spirituality from Prison
Date: July 20, 2008
Texts: Gen 32:22-32; Matt 11:25-30

Alone.

It was night, and Jacob was alone. He left his family and possessions behind on the other side of the stream; now he was alone, surrounded by darkness. And the wrestling begins.

Jacob isn’t a spiritual superhero. He hasn’t mastered the spiritual disciplines; nor has he celebrated them. He isn’t known for fasting. Nor for meditating on Scripture—obviously, since it wasn’t written yet. And he isn’t a prayer warrior.

Jacob isn’t known for any of those spiritual practices. Instead, he’s known for his trickery and tenacity. He will get what he wants no matter what. His name, Jacob, Ya’aqov, means heel catcher and deceiver. His name remembers his struggle with his brother, Esau, in Rebekah’s womb (Gen 25). And his name remembers his trickery and deception later when he steals Esau’s birthright blessing. Jacob, his very name, testifies to his devious ways.

Now his past catches up with him. Due to his deceptions and trickery, Jacob is no longer welcome in the land of his father-in-law, Laban. As Jacob is on the verge of returning to his homeland, he must meet his brother, Esau, again. Jacob knows this won’t be a pleasant reunion since he stole Esau’s blessing when they were young.

His suspicions are confirmed when he hears how Esau is preparing for Jacob’s arrival: “When the messengers returned to Jacob, they said, ‘We went to your brother Esau, and now he is coming to meet you, and four hundred men are with him’” (Gen 32:6). That’s not exactly a welcome home party to look forward to. Esau is coming to meet his brother with a small army! And Jacob foresees the mass slaughter of his people.

Jacob is now alone, feverish, his head swimming with images of the death of all he has. The night is haunted with his ghosts. Tomorrow he will face his brother-turned-enemy. But for now, he is alone, it’s dark, and the wrestling begins.

Jacob proves true to form. He’s tenacious. He won’t let go. God and Jacob, struggling, caught in each other’s embrace, two bodies bound together, flesh upon sweaty flesh. They wrestle through the night.

(pause)

When I was little, I would spend a lot of time with my grandparents on weekends. They took care of me when my parents worked. Despite my mom and dad’s protests, my grandfather would let me watch boxing matches with him on the television. My scrawny grandfather loved to watch these big men beat one another to a pulp. And he was very good at picking the winners.

Now, if my grandfather was watching this fight in Genesis 32, I’m pretty sure he’d put all his money on God. It’s not even a match. But Jacob does pretty well for himself, fighting against all odds. He takes God to the last round. Daybreak is approaching, and God strikes Jacob below the waist and wounds his hip. He tells Jacob to let him go. “But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me’” (v. 26).

Jacob wins by hanging on. He doesn’t put God in strangle-hold, or some painful, arm-twisting pin. No, Jacob wins by hanging on. If we want to talk about spirituality, that’s the best picture we’ve got—it’s about hanging on to God.

(pause)

The stories of Mennonite beginnings are all about what it means to hang on to God no matter what the cost. If there’s anything unique about Mennonite or Anabaptist spirituality, it’s that it is born in prison. We are entrusted with a spirituality of the tortured, passed down through the centuries. Our songs and prayers come from places of darkness and loneliness, from dungeons where people sang to sustain their souls as they awaited the next round out beatings. Our confessions and theologies come from places that look more Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay than our universities and seminaries. [Read more →]

Title: Joseph and Slavery
Date: July 6th, 2008
Texts: Gen 41:41-57

In a lot of ways, the story of Joseph feels like a ‘rags to riches’ story. He’s in a dungeon, but not for long. Soon he’s discovered; Pharaoh hears about his gifts and takes Joseph to the very top of Egyptian power—from a filthy prison to the top of the world. It’s everyone’s dream. It reminds me of a friend in LA who works in restaurants while waiting for his acting skills to be discovered. There’s a certain part of us that loves it when some no-name finally gets their break. That’s Joseph.

Despite things going from bad to worse, the storyteller reassures us. We are told that “the Lord was with Joseph.” We hear that sentence four times in chapter 39 (vv. 2, 3, 22, 23). The Lord was with Joseph. There’s still hope. Maybe he’ll get his break. God won’t abandon him in the pit of Egypt—that godforsaken land.

It finally happens. Pharaoh calls Joseph from the pit to interpret his dreams when no one else dares. Joseph not only makes sense of the dreams, but also offers a plan for Egypt to prepare for a famine. 41:35—“They should collect the food of the good years and store up the grain under the authority of Pharaoh, to be kept in the cities.”

Pharaoh likes his plan so much that he names Joseph as the man for the job. In a matter of minutes Joseph goes from a dungeon, to wearing royal clothing while riding in Pharaoh’s chariot, with everyone bowing down before him. In Egypt, he is second only to Pharaoh. And he ends up saving countless peoples from famine.

Is Joseph our model for how we relate to government and society? That’s what we’re focusing on today. We’re thinking about Article 23 in our Confession: “the church’s relation to government and society.” Is Joseph our model? Like us, he is in Egypt through no fault of his own. We didn’t have a choice to be born into our nationalities. Citizenship just happened to us. It’s what we’ve got; it’s where we are. So, since we’re here, at the heart of the most powerful empire in the world, why don’t we make the best of it and save some lives? That’s what Joseph did, right? [Read more →]

Title: Companions without paychecks
Date: June 29, 2008
Text: Genesis 22:1-14

Just in case you happen to forget, people need a paycheck to survive. We do work, sometimes we enjoy it and sometimes we don’t, so we can get a paycheck. Everyone has bills to pay. My dad has never enjoyed his work; but he works hard for the family. And he’s good at what he does. But it’s work—and he works for a paycheck. Sure, he’s made some friends along the way. But at the end of the day, at the end of the week, at the end of the month, it’s a paycheck. When it’s time to retire, he will not return to the factory and put in a few hours on a machine for the heck of it.

Isn’t that how we think about salvation sometimes? Seriously, think about it. All this following Jesus stuff, all this Christianity, don’t we do it for a reason? Isn’t there a payoff? Don’t we do all this church business, all this discipleship stuff, for a paycheck? Isn’t heaven or salvation our paycheck? We make our investments now—call it ‘discipleship’—so we can get paid at the end.

To rip off some words from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, we give to the needy so that our heavenly father will reward us. And we don’t spend our time padding our bank accounts and investment portfolios because we’ve got a more important fund: it’s called heaven. “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy… But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.”

We do it all for a payoff at the end—something that will make it all worth while. Isn’t this what we believe?

That’s why the story of the binding of Isaac is so difficult to figure out. Abraham does everything he does because of one promise—that God will make of him a great nation. “Leave your country, your people and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you. I will make you into a great nation and I will bless you.” That’s what God says to Abraham in Genesis 12. God gets Abraham to leave everything behind for a promise, a future paycheck—to be a great nation.

Abraham makes a cost-benefit analysis. He’s got a decent life in Haran. But if he invests his life in God’s project, then Abraham will have an unbelievable life. He’ll be the father of a great nation. So he goes. The investment is worth it. [Read more →]

Title: Nests and Hope, part III
Date: June 8th, 2008
Texts: Gen 12:1-9; Ps 33:1-12; Rom 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

“If I knew that tomorrow was the end of the world, I would plant an apple tree.”

—Martin Luther, a legendary saying

What is hope? And what does it mean to have hope? Jessamine asked some questions during church a few weeks ago that keep these questions on my mind. And it is especially on my mind this week given the recent developments with my blue birds.

Some of you haven’t been here for my recent sermons on my blue birds, so let me recap. I put up a blue bird house at the edge of my front yard, near the street. And despite all the dangers that come with my neighborhood—like cats, cars, and people—some blue birds started a nest in that house. Because that’s what birds do: they build nests that provide space for birth, for new life, right smack in the middle danger and threats to their lives.

And that’s what we do. We build nests of Christ’s love. We surround and sustain one another with the Holy Spirit—the embrace of God’s love. We are God’s nests of hope, nests for the birth and re-birth of life. And our nest-building becomes a reason for hope—that God is still at work, breathing and speaking life through us.

Then there was a problem. I told you the bad news. The eggs hatched, but a cat killed all the babies. The nest became a grave. Very sad. But, after a few days, the two blue birds came back to the site of the massacre and started nesting again. It was amazing. They couldn’t be stopped. That’s what hope looks like, stubborn hope. Death will not have the last word.

And I told you how that’s what our hope looks like too. The story of our hope is the story of a man named Jesus who made nests everywhere, surrounding people with the love of God, offering abundant life. And that life gets killed. But death does not have the last word. God turns a grave, a tomb, into the site of new life. Our hope is born in an empty tomb. The grave is the birthplace of resurrected life. We are now like those blue birds that return to their nest, despite the stench of death, and discover new life. Through that same Holy Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead, we are at work in this world making space for life.

Now, a lot has happened since that last sermon. And I think this will be the last one on the blue birds. Last week I peaked in the house. And I saw three eggs. Yes, that grave turned into a place for life. Three eggs waiting to hatch. I was so excited. I felt vindicated. I was right. Death didn’t have the last word. Life won. Promises of hope turned into reality. That bird house is now a sign of good news.

On Tuesday I was lucky enough to see a baby bird struggling to get out of an egg. It was late in the afternoon. I happened to peek into house and saw one little guy. It looked like an alien, or what I imagine an alien would look like. Pretty exciting stuff. I went back inside my house. And whenever I needed a distraction, I would get up from my desk and walk over to the window and check out the house.

After 30 minutes or so, I started to worry. Usually the blue bird parents are darting in and out of that house all day long. I realized that I hadn’t seen them all day.

I went back out there to check out the newborn bird. When I opened the house I saw the baby bird alone with two unhatched eggs, opening his mouth as wide as he could, waiting for food. I started to panic. I quickly did some google research on the internet and discovered that newborn blue birds need to be fed every half hour, or something like that. My mind kept repeating that image of the blue bird with a wide open beak, dying for food—literally. [Read more →]

I wrote a piece for The Mennonite last year. They published it in the recent June 3, 2008 issue. The editors introduced some errors into the text, but for the most part it’s what I wrote. For example, despite what the article says, Chapel Hill is not in Durham N.C.—they are different cities.

You can read the article here: Radical Ecumenism

I use Lesslie Newbigin to talk about how Christian unity takes place on the ground, at the grass roots—as he put it, ecumenism needs to be about “organic unity.” Here’s a quote from the end to give you a feel for the article:

If ecumenism is to be truly radical, then it’s not something that distant leaders can create in the branches and leaves. Rather, this kind of rooted ecumenism emerges from the local soils where our churches grow. Congregations test their soils and decide how and where to sow ecumenical seeds that produce plants bearing fruit of the Spirit for all the neighbors to enjoy. That’s when we find that our ecumenical church is also our missional church—one embracing movement of God’s love.

Congregational Prayer: 5.25.2008 (lectionary text: Isaiah 49:8-16)

Here we are God: the same building, the same time of the week, with the same people. We are here because we can’t remember your promises on our own—that you promise new life, redeemed life, holy life, abundant life. God of life, breathe through us the life of your Holy Spirit—your comforting and forgiving Spirit. Surround us in your loving embrace, flowing through our sisters and brothers sitting next to us, in front of us, behind us, across the room from us. These are the people who show us that you, O God, will never leave us nor forget us.

As our passage this evening from Isaiah says, you are a mother who can’t forget her nursing child. And like hungry children, we will continue to cry out, because we hunger and thirst for your righteousness, for your justice, for your peace and mercy. God, may your reconciling grace flow throughout the earth.

This weekend we pray for your grace to move in people and places we aren’t used to praying for since we are a peace church. We aren’t used to praying for soldiers; we’re not used to remembering them. But, as it says in Isaiah, you are a God who remembers—and that means we should too, even if it’s confusing and strange.

God, tomorrow is Memorial Day. And when our country remembers the women and men who serve in the armed forces, we also remember them. We pray for all those people who have been taught to do things that no human being was ever meant to do: to kill. God heal them. They have wounds too—deep wounds, down to the soul. Wounds that make it difficult to return from war and love their spouses, and children, and friends; wounds that make it difficult to be loved, to receive love. When they kill, they also kill parts of themselves. Presidents and generals and recruiting officers don’t tell them that. In your great mercy, make a way for life to have the last word, not death; a way for grace and peace, for justice and forgiveness.

We pray that your Spirit would fall upon all flesh; and when your Holy Spirit falls, we ask that we will be moved toward repentance and forgiveness, toward the joy found in reconciled peoples, toward peace and mercy, toward your kingdom.

And that’s why we pray the prayer your Son taught us to pray, “Our Father…

Title: Image of God
Date: May 18, 2008
Texts: Gen 1:1-2:4a

I preached my first sermon, here, 5 years ago this past April. And it was really bad. Hopefully no one remembers it. I do. And over the past 5 years, I haven’t had to preach on the creation stories in Genesis. That’s something I’ve counted as a blessing. Until this week.

Sure, I’ve studies the creation accounts. And I’ve read some of the other creation myths—the ones from Mesopotamia, from Egypt. I’ve had casual conversations about the troubling similarities and strange differences among the different accounts. But how does one begin to think about preaching the passage? It reverberates with so much mystery. And I have more questions than answers.

So, tonight I’ll share with you a question I have. It’s something I can’t stop thinking about. There’s something in this story that I’ve never noticed before—maybe you have and can help me think through this strange passage. I’m haunted by what I discovered this week when I read Genesis 1.

I’ll have to read some parts of the text again so you can see what I’m talking about. Genesis 1, verses 3 and 4: “God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good.” Verses 9 and 10: “God said, ‘Let the waters under the sky be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear.” And it was so. God called the dry land Earth, and the waters that were gathered together he called Seas. And God saw that it was good.” The next verses are about vegetation—plants, trees, flowers. Verses 11 and 12: “Then God said, ‘Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed, and fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.’ And it was so. The earth brought forth vegetation… And God saw that it was good.”

The creation account goes on and on like this, with the same pattern. God creates something with his spoken word, and then sees that it is good. “And God saw that it was good”—that’s the constant refrain. It’s good. Creation is good. Everything is so good. Light, water, plants, the sun and moon and stars, birds that fly, sea creatures that swim, and animals that walk and run and creep on the land. It’s all so good. The passage says that over and over again, like a mantra, so we don’t forget it. Good, good, good, good.

Then we come to verse 26, and the trouble begins—at least for me: “Then God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.’” The passage goes on to say more about how God commissions the humans to be fruitful and multiply, just like all the rest of creation is fruitful and multiplies. And then, at the end of the creation of the two humans, we get this: “And it was so”—that’s at the end of verse 30. [Read more →]