A Revelation Sermon

Sermon for 5-12-13

Text: Revelation 21:1-6

Dear friends in Christ, grace and peace to you from the one who is, who was and who is to come.  Amen.

The rapture seems to be everywhere these days.  Every time we turn around we hear of another group trying to pinpoint the day of Jesus’ return.  Last fall we watched as the supposed date for the end of the Mayan calendar arrived…and nothing happened.  Many of you have read the Left Behind series and watched the movies, both of which depict the rapture event. 

If you aren’t aware, the rapture describes when a small group of faithful and chosen Christians will be quickly whisked up to heaven (leaving behind eyeglasses, watches, jewelry, etc.) and those who aren’t faithful enough will face seven years of tribulation before Christ’s final return and judgment. 

Those who believe in the rapture don’t know when it will happen, so they’re always looking for signs that it’s beginning.  There’s a website called www.raptureready.com and each day it’s updated with possible new signs of the coming of the rapture. 

The rapture is in our collective conscience.  Armageddon and tribulation are now household words.

The rapture is based on a theological system, not solely on the book of Revelation.  This system takes selected verses from Daniel, Ezekiel, 1 Thessalonians, 1 Corinthians and Revelation (along with other Biblical books) and pieces them all together to create a timeline for how the world will end.  This idea was brought into popularity in the early 1800s by an English writer named John Darby, and some Christian groups claimed it with a fiery passion we still see today.

The rapture is not a Lutheran idea.  If you remember very little from this sermon, I hope you remember that.  

Rather, Lutherans (and most mainline churches) rejoice in the entire book of Revelation.  We don’t worry about the rapture.  Revelation isn’t a mysterious code to be broken.  Rather, it’s meant to reveal to us the character of Jesus, what our future holds, and the sense of urgency that exists as we live in a clearly broken world that needs our help.

Revelation is a letter written to give persecuted people hope.  John wrote it to seven different churches who struggled with many of the same challenges we do.  They knew persecution, violence, great poverty and suffering.  Other churches were wealthy and apathetic--a theme that may hit a little too close to home for some of us.

It’s easy to get swept up in the sensationalism and anxiety that gets drummed up by Revelation and the idea of the rapture.  Yet it’s important to view Revelation as a whole.  Rather than getting caught up in the visions of the broken seals, the bowls, the dragon, the beast, the horsemen, and the creatures with human faces and countless eyes, it’s helpful to look at the pattern and the overall themes. 

Revelation isn’t chronological, but cyclical.  It moves from visions of despair and violence to gorgeous and expansive visions of the heavenly realm over and over.  Every time we feel we can’t take any more terrible and disturbing images, John moves to a vision of worship and glory.  The book ends, as we read this morning, with the most beautiful future vision in all of Scripture.

Revelation doesn’t tell us about the rapture when we might be chosen as the lucky ones who escape the seven years of tribulation.  Instead, Revelation depicts how (as one commentator writes) God “raptures” down to us.  Salvation is not us going to a mysterious place called heaven, but God coming to us.  The book begins by telling us how Jesus Christ is in our midst.  Jesus’ presence is a huge theme in Revelation—as is Jesus’ sacrificial love.  Revelation is ecological.  God has a commitment to the earth, and the earth is where salvation will occur.  God embraces all of creation and changes it for the better.  What we know and love is not abandoned, but transformed.

Revelation 21 tells us of the heavenly city of Jerusalem descending from heaven to the earth.  Everything is transformed and made new—not annihilated, but changed.  In this changed city, there will be no more dying and pain, no more tears, and no more hatred or persecution.  There will be no more injustice.  God’s holy city is made new.  It’s wonderful how this newness is located in the city—a place of community, where all God’s people live together.  This speaks directly against our temptation to live narcissistic lives, and calls us to embrace our community and creation itself.

The tears that are wiped away are not only the tears we have shed, but the tears we have caused.  God will wipe away the pain of sin throughout time, not only now but throughout history.  As another commentator writes, “God will not just comfort us and help us to forget the bad things, but God will redeem the whole sorry story of human history.”

This vision has given hope and life to Christians throughout the ages—from the hymn “Shall We Gather at the River” to Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech:  

“With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.”

This is the ultimate hope of the resurrection—when the lion will lay down with the lamb and creation itself will be completely renewed.

The following is a video of chimps seeing creation for the first time after being in laboratories for many years.  Many of the chimps were in the wild before they were put into research, so seeing the world for the first time is at once familiar and transforming—just like God’s ultimate resurrection of us and all of creation illustrated in John’s Revelation.

To be released from the anxieties of the rapture frees us for life.  We're free to love, to transform, and to work for justice.  We're free to care for creation and to begin God's transformation of the earth today.  All the while, we cling to hope and find strength in what is to come.  

There's a story often told about Martin Luther.  When he was asked, "If Jesus were to return today, what would you do differently?"  He responded, "I'd finish planting this tree."  In other words, the best way to prepare for the coming of the Kingdom of God is to live our lives, caring for creation and one another.  Amen.

Prayers for Boston

What a world we live in.  So many of us suffer from tragedy fatigue--for me, it manifests as a slow realization to the extent of the suffering in Boston.  It's been hard for me to absorb what's happened.  This afternoon I noticed a flag flying half-staff at the house across the street from the church (I have a good view of it from my office window).  My first thought was, "I wonder why it's flying so low?..."  Moments later the sadness of Boston enveloped me once again.  This fatigue connects me to those living in places experiencing continual and unpredictable bombings--I can't imagine the terror and sheer tiredness of it.

In the midst of all of the news coverage (don't get me started on the press reporting premature predictions just because they don't have anything else to say and need to fill air time!) I have found solace in--of all places--Facebook.  I see comforting quotes from Mr. Rogers and Patton Oswalt tick through my news feed and it makes me feel better.  Others have connected me with great reflections and stories.  I have few words this day, so I share the words of others.  Prayers fill my heart, even as I feel afraid to pray--just as it feels counterproductive to get too hopeful about a new job possibility or longed-for pregnancy (and no, that's not self-disclosure).  May God open our hearts to trust and daring hope.  May we be compassionate and may it make a difference.

Here are two lovely reflections from two local pastors: John Keller and Glenn Berg-Moberg.

The Blue Room has some wonderful links.

Holy anger and affirming life.

And this:  

May God's peace and hope reign.

Goodbye, Mr. Ebert

I remember Roger Ebert's Movie Yearbooks sitting on the bottom shelf of an end table in my grandma's basement.  I leafed through them, amazed this man had seen and reviewed what seemed like countless movies every year--and giggled every time I came across a turkey symbol next to a hated film.  Siskel and Ebert felt like regular visitors in my childhood home, and I watched At the Movies each week as Ebert struggled through various surgeries and valiantly tried to return to his seat next to Richard Roeper.

Roger Ebert launched his internet presence about a decade ago, and his website has been on my favorites bar ever since.  Every Friday I looked forward to checking for his new reviews.  Soon he began writing his blog, which became more and more autobiographical as his illness progressed and took his ability to speak.  His writing was candid, breathtaking, wise, and heartbreaking. His perspective on life was empathetic and inspiring.  His 2010 cover photo and article in Esquire made me stand up and applaud.  I was awed by his resiliency and hope in the face of his illness, and the courage it took to reveal his true face to the world.  I feel like I lost a good friend and mentor on Thursday.

Goodbye, Mr. Ebert.

2013 Easter Sermon

Sermon for Easter Sunday, 3-31-13

Text: Luke 24:1-12

Alleluia!  Christ is risen! 

Christ is risen indeed!  Alleluia!

Kevin Kling is a wonderful local storyteller.  I recently heard him talk about a serious motorcycle accident he was in 10 years ago.  The accident left him with a paralyzed right arm and required surgery to reconstruct his face.  A man who witnessed the accident was so convinced Kevin had died that he started telling people about his death.  Even after this man read in the paper about Kevin's survival, he still couldn’t believe it.  Kevin likes to joke that whenever he sees this man on the bus in Minneapolis, the man still turns white and looks as if he’s seeing a ghost.

Resurrection is almost impossible to believe.  It’s outside of our experience.  Death always seems to have the last word in this life.  How can we believe it?

Luke gives women a big role in his gospel.  He has the most women (at least five, possibly more) on the scene when they go to Jesus’ tomb on Easter morning.  The women are perplexed when they find the stone rolled away and no body present.  The first thing the angels say to them is, “Don’t you remember?”  “Don’t you remember Jesus said he would rise from the dead?”

The women remember, and they believe.

The women don’t see Jesus’ resurrected body.  They only have a story, like us.

But they remember.

The women run to the disciples to tell them the news.  Even though there are at least five women claiming they saw the empty tomb, the disciples don’t believe them.  Instead, they think the women are telling an idle tale.

“Idle tale” is a tame translation of the Greek word leros.  This is the only time leros appears in Scripture.  It’s the root of the word delirious.  The disciples think the women are delirious—crazy—out of their minds.  To translate it crudely, the disciples think the women are full of crap—that their story is bull*^%#.

To dare to believe in the resurrection is an act of courage and faith.  If you have trouble believing it, you’re in good company.

Yet Easter is more than simply saying yes to the resurrection; it’s saying no to the power of death and destruction that surrounds us.  By accepting hope we say NO to the darkness. The resurrection puts darkness and death in their place.  When Jesus rose, death’s power was destroyed.

Last week I talked with someone about time he spent in the hospital several years ago.  He was there due to a serious health issue, and he told me his fondest memories are of the overnight nurses and attendants.  They were often immigrants and people he didn't connect with on a regular basis.  The hardest part of being in the hospital is often during the night, when there is time to think and worry and the visitors go home.  The compassion of the people who cared for him carried him through those fearful hours.  They brought him life and hope and pushed the darkness away.  They walked with him into the light of dawn.

The darkness was put in its place, and it was replaced with hope.  

Don’t you remember?

If you’re in the midst of death, stress, grief, depression, anxiety, darkness, self-hatred, disappointment…

Don’t you remember?

Jesus said he would die and would rise again on the third day, for you.  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia!

Don’t you remember the times in your life when death seemed like the only reality, the only option?  And somehow, somewhere, you found life and hope?  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia! 

Don’t you remember?  Someone reached out to you, or you reached out and found someone, and you recognized each other and found compassion and support together?  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia! 

Don’t you remember?  A warm spring day suddenly appeared in the midst of a seemingly endless winter?  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia!      

Don’t you remember? When new green shoots appeared in the middle of miles of the charred and sooty remains of a forest fire?  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia! 

Don’t you remember?  The time the right dosage was found and the medication finally lifted the depression and anxiety?  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia! 

Don’t you remember?  Death and destruction are in their place, and the hope of the resurrection stands firm!  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia!      

WE SAY NO to the powers of death and destruction, even though they surround us, nip at our feet, and try to tell us they have the final word.  WE SAY NO.

WE SAY YES to the power of the resurrection and hope.

WE SAY YES to the resurrection, here and now.  Eternal life is lived out each day in our acts of compassion, recognition and laughter.  Alleulia!

In 2003, the Massachusetts Mental Health Center was about to be demolished after almost 100 years in operation.  Artist Anna Schuleit was asked to create an artistic exhibition to honor the building before it was torn down.  Throughout her work in various hospital settings, she was saddened by the lack of flowers in psychiatric hospitals and centers.  For her exhibition, she filled the old building with 28,000 potted plants and flowers.  The building was opened to the public for four days during the exhibition. 

She left the building as it was, but filled it with new life.  It was the same, but transformed—just like Jesus—just like us.

And my favorite--she took the basement hallways and covered them with sod, which was raked and watered throughout the day and continued to grow:

Some people found great healing in that building, and they found her exhibition to be a testament to their experience there.  Others had suffered greatly in the building, and found profound hope in her expression of joy.  They were given a new remembrance of the building.

She then donated all the flowers to psychiatric hospitals, general hospitals, halfway houses and homeless shelters throughout New England.

Darkness was put in its place, and new life created hope and joy.

We are a resurrection people.  That’s why we’re here this morning.

It’s easy to only see death in the world.  It’s much harder to say no to it and claim the hope and life of the resurrection.  There are days when it all seems like bull*%&#.

But in the midst of all of it we dare to be courageous and have faith.

Yes, the resurrection happened.  AND WE HAVE STORIES TO TELL.

Don’t you remember that Easter morning, when Jesus rose and the powers of darkness and death were destroyed?  Don’t you remember?  Alleluia!!

Amen.

Good Enough

I’ve been intrigued by buzz around Sheryl Sandberg’s book Lean In.  I haven’t read the book (yet), but the conversations about it have been fascinating.  I agree with the idea that in order to survive—even thrive—in life, we have to make choices about where we spend our energy.  I also think it applies to men as well as women.  A balanced life is a myth.  There’s no way we can “do it all” or spin all our plates in the air at once.  A fulfilled life involves prioritizing, hard choices and loving community support.  Better to spend energy and do few things very well than to spread oneself too thin and do a mediocre job across the board.

But--there are times in life when everything seems to fall out of place, and there’s no energy left to put it back together.  For perfectionists, these periods are excruciating.  I know.  When I can’t perform to my perceived utmost best, I’m tempted to not perform at all (note the lack of blog posts for the past month).  Last week I found myself leaving the doctor’s office with a prescription for antiviral meds and a case of shingles.  This isn’t convenient in the middle of Lent.  I had to let go of some important tasks and spend lots of time with an ice pack on my couch.  I was forced to depend on others to care for me as I rested.  I had to settle for less time spent on my sermon.  I couldn’t wait until I felt 100% better before I showed my face again.  I had to admit my weakness and ask for patience. 

Sometimes we can’t strike a perfect balance in life (isn’t leaning in—and out—an attempt at balance?).  There are times when we’re held up by others.  There are times when we have to be good enough.  Good enough because we’re worthy of patience and understanding.  Good enough because we need help.  Good enough because we can’t do our best all the time.  Good enough because we’re beloved children of God.

Sometimes the bare minimum is all we can do.  And sometimes that’s good enough.  I'm feeling better.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”  Matthew 11:28-30 (from The Message)

Ashes

Last night I forgot the oil to mix with the ashes.  For some reason, we pastors never think to get the ashes until the last minute (or maybe that’s just me).  Every Ash Wednesday I feel like I step over a threshold and begin the steep drop to Easter.  Maybe I try to hold off the day because I’m never quite ready for Lent, even though I love it.  Before last night’s service, I found someone willing to go home and grab some oil out of her kitchen.  It felt appropriate to mix the ashes with oil from a partially-used up bottle—oil used to make nightly dinners.  Ashes are earthly and homey, not some mysterious concoction I put together using various potions in my office.  Ashes are us.  

I remember frantically burning leaves on the front stoop of our open country parsonage while preparing to preside over my very first Ash Wednesday service.  I shivered out in the prairie wind, trying to prevent the smoldering ash in my metal pie tin from blowing away.  No one told me leaves don’t make good ashes.  I spent too much time picking out various sticks and chunks of earth before mixing them with the olive oil in my cupboard—because new pastors do hear about the horrors of mixing ashes with water.  Doing so creates lye, which burns skin.  A secret part of me has always liked the image of people leaving the church with little crosses seared onto their foreheads—a Harry Potter-like mark of our sin and redemption.

Marking people with ashes is emotional.  The first few years I held back tears every time I placed them on the smooth foreheads of infants and children.  Each year I wonder who is receiving the ashes for the last time.  While people come forward, time stops and the repetition of the words “Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return” sits heavy on my heart.  I’m humbled by the intimacy of declaring death while people allow me into their personal space.  Some people close their eyes.  Others meet mine, listening intently to my words as I push their hair aside and smudge ashes onto their skin.  The earthiness of it grounds us.  God isn’t far away in some abstract place we hope to see someday.  Oh no—God is in the ashes and my words, on our skin and in our hearts, keeping us tethered to the earth that creates and sustains us.

Sometimes we want God to be abstract, to put God into a box pushed against the wall in the living room, to put God in a crate when we leave the house.  We don’t want to be reminded of the false promises we chase every day—promises of younger skin, a fulfilled life through whole foods and yoga, an easy solution in the next self-help book.  Ash Wednesday takes these promises and exposes them for what they are—empty.  The truth is in the ashes.  We are mortal.  Our days are numbered.  Nothing will change that truth.  Only God gives us hope and salvation as we live day-to-day.  God sits in the ashes with us, in the depression and addiction and hopelessness and broken promises and bad choices and pornography and abuse and SIN.  And out of these ashes—through the cross—rises the resurrection promise and the freedom to give it all to God who has changed your life already through the love and grace and mercy found in Jesus Christ. 

Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Amen.       

Sermon for February 3, 2013

Text: Jeremiah 1:4-10, Luke 4:21-30

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would build me up, but it broke me in half.

I was too young to hear it, but it claimed to create me from the beginning.

When Jeremiah hears God calling him, he claims he doesn’t know how to speak because he’s only a boy.  God says, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’, for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you.”

It would fill my heart with fear, but it terrified me to my very core.

Throughout the Bible, whenever God or God’s messengers appear, they find terrified people.  So often throughout Scripture we hear, “Do not be afraid.”

It would close my mouth in humility, but it commanded me to speak.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would humble me, but it appointed me above the nations.

It would look for someone better, but it found me.

Eula Hall, an Appalachian activist with only an 8^th grade education, founded Mud Creek Clinic many years ago in southeastern Kentucky to provide health care for the poor.  She calls herself “the hillbilly activist.”  She said, “I looked, and I said to myself, ‘taint right like this, no medical service here, taint right. Somebody needs to act.’ I guess that somebody was me.”

It would give me comfort, but it commanded me to destroy and overthrow.

The Freedom Riders risked their lives during the Civil Rights movement by riding public transportation throughout the South and challenging the unjust laws.  They were committed to nonviolent action, and they were regularly beaten and jailed.  Many of them were in their 40s and 50s.

It would leave me in ruins, but it called me to open up a new creation.

The actions of the Freedom Riders led to the credibility of the Civil Rights movement and helped bolster civil rights campaigns, desegregation, and fair voter registration.

It would make me special, but it made me see the outsider.

Jesus’ hometown church thought they were important because they knew him from when he was young.  Jesus deeply offended them and led them to violent rage by saying he came for the outsiders and not only for them.  A good clue: if people aren’t special in our society, chances are they are the most special people to God.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would predict the future, but it gave me the truth about the present.

Prophets don’t predict the future.  Instead they give the truth about right now. 

It would give me visions of the fruits of my work, but it forced me to be patient and rely on God.

It would give me peace, but it made me open my eyes to suffering.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would center me, but it flung me to the outer edges of society.

It would slow me down, but it sent me on a journey to Jerusalem.

It would quench my thirst, but it walked me into the desert.

It would protect me, but it allowed me to go the cross.

Following Jesus means to follow the path of the cross.  We die to selfishness, greed, ambition, jealousy, and consumerism.  We are raised to a new life of joy, promise, hope and justice.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought…

It would stay steady, but it crossed all boundaries, including the tomb.

It would only speak to me, but it became a man who died for me.

It would tell me why I don't deserve to hear it.  It gifted me with pure grace and love.

I thought the Word of the Lord would break me down.  It did.  And it gave me a new beginning—one full of salvation, hope, and a meaningful life.

The Word of the Lord came to me.

I thought...

It would speak and I would listen. 

I became a Living Word.

Amen.