The Sacrament of Subway

     Have you ever had the Holy Spirit completely and unapologetically explode into your life?  Such an explosion happened to me a few weeks ago and there is a part of me that will not rest until I share it with you.

     Tuesdays are my busiest days this semester at Columbia Theological Seminary.  My identities as student, teaching assistant, preacher, and musician seem to converge (and sometimes collide!) on this particular day of the week.  It usually looks something like this....

     I wake up around 7:30 and have breakfast and run through my Hebrew vocabulary.  At 9:00 A.M. I have Hebrew plenary and then immediately leave at 10:00 A.M. to spend a couple of hours at one of two of my favorite coffee joints to get some reading done.  After grabbing a quick bite to eat for lunch I usually spend an hour or so preparing for choir rehearsal at 3:30 (I am the Choir Director here at the seminary).  Just as rehearsal finishes, I serve as a teaching assistant and lead a one-hour practicum on the art of reading scripture aloud.  Finally, I then serve as a teaching assistant for the introduction to worship class from 6:00 to 9:30.  I'm sure that this schedule would be exhausting for anyone but the rather strong introvert inside of me often finds itself retreating to the fetal position by the end of the day!

     I have found a particular ritual that has helped me during the chaos of my Tuesdays.  I have a very small window between 5:30 and 6:00 where, every Tuesday, I drive to the Subway that is in the Walmart a mile or so away from the campus.

     On this particular Tuesday in question, I was even more frazzled than what is normal on such a day.  I ran out of Campbell Hall after dismissing my fellow colleagues, my steps deliberately leading me towards my silver Ford Fiesta.  I was on a mission and I would be damned if I let either God or man deter me from my goal.  As I stepped on the clutch to bring my engine to life, I sped out of the parking lot, causing a group of innocent squirrels running for cover.  As Murphy's Law would have it, I got stuck behind one of those God-forsaken MARTA buses.  The squirrels had probably just begun to cautiously poke their heads out of their holes back on campus as I frantically pulled into a parking spot at Walmart, cursing the people who had left their empty shopping carts in the two spots closer to the building.

     As I power walked into the Subway, feeling important with my green Society of Biblical Literature tote bag over my shoulder, I approached the counter of the Subway to receive my nourishment to finish my day.  I had finished the race, I had fought the good fight!  

     But....(there's always a but!), a woman with her two children had preceded me in line and, of course, there was only one person working the place.  As I muttered some rather non-reverent words under my breath, I watched as the woman working the counter slowly, methodically, and perhaps even lovingly placed each slice of meat, each dash of pepper, each portion of tomato, on the three sandwiches.

     Really!?!? I thought, you've got to be kidding me!  Can't you see how important I am?  Can't you see I'm in a rush so I can go continue to do the work of the Lord?  

     And then....it happened.  A feeling which I find hard to explain erupted within me.  I caught myself (or, perhaps better said, I was myself caught).  I stopped.  I looked at the sandwich and a voice inside of me said, wow, that really is a beautiful sandwich.  A beautiful, grace-filled calm surrounded me as a warm smile crept upon my lips.  For the rest of the evening, tired though I was, a peace that passes understanding fell upon my shoulders.  A peace rained down on my frantic mindset because it really was a beautiful meal prepared by loving hands.

     In the weeks since this explosion of the Spirit, I have come to interpret this event as a sacramental one.  John Calvin speaks of the sacraments as moments when we, as God's people, are lifted up by the Holy Spirit to gain a grace-filled glimpse of the Kingdom of Heaven.  This explosion of the Holy Spirit into my very being on this evening at Subway was a sacramental one for I was rather physically lifted out of myself and placed within a larger narrative.  As I watched this one worker prepare sandwiches for a mother and her family, I was reminded that she was not the first person to break bread with loving hands.  Christ invites us to the table to give us broken bread offered with loving hands, hands that lift us out of ourselves and into one another.

     Friends, the presence of the Holy Spirit in the moment of the sacraments forces us to reinterpret and re-imagine the narrative of our lives.  Perhaps, then, a normal piece of bread amid the chaos of our lives might even place upon us the grace we need to continue the call.  

                           Grace and peace,

                           Stephen

     

A Darkness Perished

Mark 10:46-52

They came to Jericho. As he and his disciples and a large crowd were leaving Jericho, Bartimaeus son of Timaeus, a blind beggar, was sitting by the roadside. When he heard that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to shout out and say, ‘Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!’Many sternly ordered him to be quiet, but he cried out even more loudly, ‘Son of David, have mercy on me!’ Jesus stood still and said, ‘Call him here.’ And they called the blind man, saying to him, ‘Take heart; get up, he is calling you.’ So throwing off his cloak, he sprang up and came to Jesus. Then Jesus said to him, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ The blind man said to him, ‘My teacher, let me see again.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Go; your faith has made you well.’ Immediately he regained his sight and followed him on the way. 

http://matthewpaulturner.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/light.jpg

            It had been years, years, since he had seen the light of day, sitting by the side of that dusty, unforgiving road.  Beauty, he had once seen.  Color, he had once tasted.  Sunsets, he had once embraced.  His legs, once strong and stable, now lay surrendered beneath his feeble frame, withered by the long march of time.  He used to cherish his long walks, especially this time of year.  His eyes would marvel at the beauty of the fall leaves beside the silver streams.  He would follow the path as his eyes guided his feet, which in turn guided his thoughts and his prayers.

            But then….darkness.  He didn’t know why.  Some told him it was because of some terrible transgression that he must have done and others thought it due to an even greater sin by his parents.  But whatever reason, to him it didn’t matter.  Gone was his sight, lost was his light, empty was his life. 

            It’s true, what they say, about the other senses sharpening when another dies.  His ears and nose began to shoulder the weight that his eyes had so long carried.  They taught him, after years and years, every note of the symphony that surrounded him as he sat by the roadside.  Each morning, as he shook off the chill of the night’s darkness, the song began with a solitary rooster, calling out of the emptiness, ushering the orchestra to life. 

            From a distance, off to his left, he could always make out the clanging of dishes as a mother prepared breakfast for her children.  Soon after, the smell of spices and incense crept up his nostrils as the street vendor next to him opened shop.  As the city awakened and the footsteps began to shuffle past him, the priests would walk by, muttering their prayers, heading off to the temple to be nearer to God.  He pulled his cloak tighter around him for the morning had yet to shed its chill.  He always eagerly awaited the splash of warmth that the sun brought as it emerged from its hiding.  He did not, however, greet the dust with the same gratitude for the symphony of feet always kicked dust in his face as the intruder caked his lungs and throat.  Coughing and sputtering, his wiry fingers embraced the cup that he extended daily in the hope of mercy.

            Bartimaeus was his name.  Bar-timaeus; literally, “son of honor.”  The title just rubbed salt in the wound.  He had once had honor, purpose, direction.  But no more.  Now the Son of Honor sat by the roadside and begged, his eyes glazed over.  What he wouldn’t give to see again, to walk again, to have purpose again!

            A sharp curse and a biting pain in his leg interrupted his thoughts.  A man (a priest, Bartimaeus presumed from the prayers that had preceded him) had tripped over his feeble legs.  No doubt having had his eyes gazing reverently upon the heavens, the priest recovered from his stumble and continued his walk and followed along his way.  As the curses disappeared in the distance, the blind beggar continued listening to the surrounding symphony.

            His ears had grown accustomed to the content of the conversations that journeyed past him day after day, month after month, year after year.  Another shooting had happened a few days ago.  Some more politicians are promising salvation.  High unemployment and low job growth.  It was all part of the same round sung in endless repetition.  Same today as it was yesterday and most likely the same as it will be tomorrow.

            But lately whispers have been creeping into the scripted symphony of his surroundings.  These new conversations, barely audible to all but the most trained ear, bring forth a note of improvisation and curiosity to his life.  Amidst the din of sound, he has heard whispers of a man who silences demons, who touches, actually touches, a leprous person and makes him whole.  Whispers of a man who heals withered hands, and lifts seizing children, and raises dying daughters, and feeds fields of people.  The other day, he even heard a whisper of this person who opened the ears of a deaf man and brought speech back to his tongue!  Why, just this morning, he had overheard a woman speaking of a man who spit in the dirt and made mud and rubbed it in the eyes of a blind man just like him, who was then able to see everything clearly!

            And then, it happens!  The symphony changes key, the tempo quickens as the feet of the crowd surrounding him scurry off in the distance.  Suddenly, he is left alone.  Quietness, at this time of day, was unheard of.  He straightens up as he sat on the road to better listen in the direction he had heard the people go.  Two whispered words he had manages to capture before the swarm of people excitedly ran off:  he saves. 

            In the silence, he wonders:  could it be?  Could he be? 

            Then his ears detect the silence being pushed away.  The echoes of the crowd bounce off the sides of the buildings and he hears excitement, shouting, curiosity, and wonder.  The tempo quickens again as the people approach his corner of the roadside.  As they round the bend and the chorus erupts he sees it, something he hasn’t seen in what seems like countless years:  light!  A light, however small and faint, explodes into the darkness that has so long covered his eyes. 

            As the crowd surrounding the glimmer of brightness comes ever closer, a primal cry erupts from his breast with a voice that he did not know that he possessed.  “Mercy!” he cries, “mercy on me!”  An uncomfortable hush silences the crowd that is immediately replaced with harsh voices of rebuke.  Hush!  Shut up!  Be quiet, for God’s sake! 

            Without hesitation he cries out with an even more passionate fervor:  “Mercy! Mercy on me!!!”  And before the crowd can begin its next wave of reproach the light freezes.  The next three words he hears come directly from the light, not words of rebuke or rejection, but three words of a curious grace: “call him here.”

            A power, not of his own, raises him from the dusty ground.  He has been called; no one has ever called him!  Others begin to cough and wheeze as his cloak is thrown from his body and flies into the wind, shedding its deep layers of dust.  The light suddenly becomes stronger as he hears the question he never could have imagined ever being asked:  “what do you want me to do for you?”

            He didn’t even have to think.  The reply arrives naturally and passionately from his lips:  “My Teacher, let me see again!”  He can’t even pay attention to the next words that come from his teacher’s mouth for his eyes are too caught up in the mystery.  The light that had exploded into his darkness begins to dance playfully around the darkness, perishing its captivity.  The sounds of the crowd disappear as he watches the light splash colors of deepest blue and brightest yellow and wondrous orange. 

            Blinking, he adjusts to the light, the warmth, and tears begin to wash the dust that has too long made its home in his eyes.  Standing before him, the light welcomes him. But this light is a light that he doesn’t remember ever witnessing even before the days of his blindness.  This light is not what it had been before.  This light brings forth more questions than it does answers.

            “Go!” the light tells him, “your faith has made you well!” 

“No!” he replies, “I will not go, I cannot go.”

The light again begins to move and the man who had been blind follows.  He follows with a strength and a courage that he did not know that he had. 

And as his eyes begin their abundant feast, he knows that he must follow this light. 

For it will take no less than his lifetime to proclaim the mystery of this sight. 

A Call to Worship, Opening Prayer, and Confession inspired by Mark 10:46-52

A Call to Worship, Opening Prayer, and Confession Prayer inspired by the story of the Healing of Blind Bartimaeus (Mark 10:46-52, 22nd Sunday after Pentecost, Year B).

Painting by Scott Anderson.  http://www.artobsessions.com/Scott-Anderson.html

Call to Worship

One:     Take heart!  For we are gathered in the Father's presence

Many:   to proclaim the wonders of the Lord.

One:      Get up!  For we are beckoned by the Risen Son

Many:   to respond to grace undeserved.

One:      God is calling us!  For we are united by the Spirit

Many:    to follow Jesus on the way.

One:      Come, let us worship God, as we pray together saying....

Opening Prayer (unison)

Creator of all, Redeemer of all, Sustainer of all,

we are gathered in your presence

to stand side by side with those who have gone before us,

who have lived the mystery of your grace

and responded by following you on the way.

May your Holy Spirit guide us as we follow you

to the places that you are calling your church to be.  Amen.

Prayer of Confession (unison)

Merciful God,

our thoughts and deeds too often

do not reflect the grace you show us.

Our speech and actions too often

do not proclaim your salvation.

Forgive us, Lord, for the sins that we bear

both as individuals and as your Church.

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us.

Our teacher, let us see again!

Give us the courage to take heart in your grace.

Give us the strength to get up.

Give us the wisdom to hear your calling.

Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us.

A Song of Bartimaeus - my imagining of Mark 10:46-52

It had been years, years, since he had seen the light of day,
     sitting by the side of that dusty, unforgiving road.
Beauty he once consumed, vistas he once felt, eyes he had once known,
     Eyes...
          the very word drove pain into his breast;
          Not his eyes, but others.
Sitting by the road, coughing up the dust that tortured his lungs,
his ears whisper to him that which his dark eyes cannot:
     that other eyes are blind to his,
     that the symphony of sandals which shuffle past him year after year
     hold the descant of eyes that soar above him,
     eyes that choose not to see the eyes that are choosing
          to yearn, to crave, to seek...

He had long memorized the song of his place on the road,
     the laughter of a child running to catch up with her father,
     the gush of water being carrying past his withered shell of a body,
     the sharp curses of the men who, with their eyes upon the future,
          trip over his fragile legs and never look back.

And then, one day, the symphony changed without warning.
The whispers surround him as his ears adjusted to the change of key,
     a modulation which challenges his monotonous life.
     Two words he manages to capture:  he saves.
Quickly, intensely, abruptly, the feet scuffle off and he once again
     is left alone.

In the silence, he wonders, could it be?  Who hadn't heard the rumor of the man
     who stills waters,
     who perishes demons,
     who grabs hands and lifts.
With a grimace the shrunken muscles of his arms
force the hunch of his back to straighten his posture.
He turns his face to align his ears to prod the silence.

And then, it came.  The silence began to be pushed away,
     the feet returned but with a different tone.
     What was different about this crowd?
     What it the shouting,
         the concentration of sound,
         the way in which the sound unveiled itself to him as
         a different crowd approached.
     No.  That wasn't it.

And then the spark happened.  A small but unsettling flash of light
     in the sea of his darkness.
And then, he knew.
A whisper which stirred his heart and
     erupted a primal cry within his breast....

MERCY!!!! he cries.  Mercy on me!  His eyes had never been wider.
     the flash in his darkness stilled but remained bright.
The clash of his cry hushed the crowd as they realized
     that a new improvisation was thrust upon their scripted symphony.
Hush!  Shut up!  Be quiet!

MERCY!!!! he cries again.  Mercy upon me!!!
Then, a word beckons him
    Not a word of confusion and monotony,
    but of grace and intimacy.

Not his strength but a new force within him springs him up.
Others begin to cough and wheeze as the dust is shaken from his cloak,
     caught in the wind and blown to the side.

Let me see again, he says.
The blurry light he had seen began to dance around his head
splattering paint of deepest blue and brightest yellow
His eyes adjust to a new light, a different light.
This light is not what it had been before.
This light brings him more questions and answers.

As his eyes begin their abundant feast
     he knows that he must follow this light
For it will take no less than his lifetime
     to proclaim the mystery of this sight.

Back to the Font: A Sermon on Mark 10:35-45

Fall leaves in Silver Creek, which weaves its way around the campus of Silver Creek Presbyterian Church in Northwest, Georgia.  Date:  October 21, 2012.

         It’s tough being a disciple in Mark’s gospel.  They just don’t get it.  Time and time again in Mark’s narrative, the disciples misunderstand Jesus and his teachings.  They just can’t seem to grasp who Jesus is or what he is doing or what he is telling him he is going to do.  It’s tough being a disciple in Mark’s gospel because it is not the disciples, but a demon who actually first sees who the Christ is. 

I like to think that each year, when the disciples from the various gospels gathered for their annual reunion, that the disciples from Mark’s gospel always looked across the tables with envy at Luke’s and Matthew’s disciples.  In Matthew was apparently just as alarmed as we are at the disciples’ request because he instead read Mark’s account and decided to give the request to the mother of James and John.  Luke was probably even more alarmed at the disciples’ opportunistic self-serving quest for advancement for he leaves out this exchange all together.

But not Mark.  Here the sons of Zebedee don’t get off the hook like Matthew and Luke so graciously do.  Mark has them up front with the spotlight on their misunderstanding.  But of course, we wouldn’t know what that’s like, would we?

In today’s lectionary passage, Mark gives us a somewhat comical image of the two disciples, James and John, approaching Jesus, each perhaps anxiously nudging the other to come out and say it.  Relunctantly, but obviously loudly enough for other ten disciples to hear it, they say “we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” 

Now the parents in the room today have probably heard this request from their children and know that one must proceed with caution when responding to this wide-open petition.  Accordingly, Jesus covers his bases and, rather than responding in the affirmative, tells the disciples to elaborate upon their request.  Perhaps gaining a little confidence at not being completely shut down by Jesus, the sons of Zebedee continue:  “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”

I wonder if the disciples were aware of their body position as they asked Jesus this ironic question with their arms outstretched.  It is ironic because today’s reading comes after not the first or even the second but the third time that Jesus predicts his death to his followers.  Consequently this is not the first or even the second but the third time that they fail to understand the specificity to which Jesus was speaking.

After the first prediction/misunderstanding, Jesus attempts to clarify by naming the very means by which he is to be executed: “All who want to come after me must say no to themselves, take up their cross, and follow me.”  But to no avail.  After the second prediction/misunderstanding, Jesus decides to employ an object lesson and, while embracing a child, say “whoever wants to be first must be least of all and the servant of all.”  But it didn’t catch on; not with Mark’s disciples.

Clearly, though, neither of these attempts rid the disciples of their misunderstanding so after this request to sit at Jesus’ left and right hand in his glory, Jesus decides to change his tactics and instead steers the disciples towards water. 

In the middle of this passage, within two verses, Jesus uses some variation of the word “baptism” six times!  In addition, in the same two verses, he uses some variation of the term cup/drink six times as well.  Listen again for the repetition in Jesus’ reply to the disciples:  “You do not know what you are asking.  Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?”  They replied, “We are able.”  Then Jesus said to them, “the cup that I will drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized…”

Baptism (and water for that matter) is a risky and unpredictable thing in Mark’s gospel.  Through Jesus’ repetition of this term, Mark directs us back to the first chapter of his narrative when Jesus is baptized by John in the River Jordan and the heavens open up and God declares, “this is my child, whom I love dearly, in you I find happiness.”  Immediately afterwards, Jesus is driven from his baptismal waters into the dessert to be tempted by the devil. 

It is on water that the disciples are called to follow Jesus.  It is by the water that Jesus gets on a boat so that the crowds do not crush him and the unclean spirits challenge him.  It is on the water that the disciples fear for their lives on a tiny boat as the waves beat upon it.  It is by the water that Jesus drives the demon into the two thousand pigs who run deranged into the lake.

Clearly, Mark saw water as a place of drama, uncertainty, and improvisation.  Mark knew that baptismal waters sometimes force us to get more than a few drops of water upon our heads.  Mark’s disciples, I think, were scared of getting wet and perhaps we are too.

My preaching professor at Columbia Seminary tells a story of how at the first church in which she served as a solo pastor, she quickly got the reputation for being rather liberal with the amount of water she used during baptism.  In fact, as a gift, one of the congregants gave her a picture frame with three consecutive photographs of a baptism at which she presided.  The pictures show her holding the child, splashing the water from the font on the child (and the surrounding area!).  The progression of the three photographs shows the elder who presented the child for baptism moving consistently further and further away from the abundant torrent baptismal waters.

Baptism, or, more accurately, what it calls us to do, can be a scary, messy thing.  I think Mark knew that and I think Jesus knew it too because, if you listen closely enough, you can hear a hint of fear in Jesus’ remark when he says, “you don’t know what you are asking.”  Jesus was scared, make no mistake about it.  But rather than move away from the waters of his baptism he does quite the opposite and heads back to the font. 

            Jesus knew that he came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.  He knew that the time would come when he would stretch out his arms and embrace all of humanity.  He knew tough times were ahead.  I think it is exactly because of that that Jesus brings himself back to the waters in that moment when God looked upon him and said this is my child, whom I love dearly, in you I find happiness.  Jesus, in his uncertainty, and fear, and humanness, leans on that promise that was made to him in the waters of his baptism.

Silver Creek Presbyterian Church near Rome, Georgia.  The church was founded in 1875 and is a member of Cherokee Presbytery.  Silver Creek Presbyterian Church Website

            It’s tough being a disciple in Mark’s gospel.  It’s tough being a disciple, period.  We just don’t always get it.  So let us, you and I, lead by Christ’s example and head back to the font.  As we forge ahead into uncharted territory, we will head back to the font.  As we journey with Christ, we will head back to the font.  As we journey together surrounded by the waters of Silver Creek, we will head back to the font.  As you and I both move forward from our respective faith communities splitting apart, we will head back to the font.  We will head back to the font to remember the promise that God makes to each and every one of us to sustain us as we drink the cup that Christ drank and walk with him to wherever he is calling his church to go.  And wherever Christ is calling us to go, and however chaotic the waters may seem to be, we will come to the font to remember that when God looked down and said “this is my child, whom I love dearly, in you I find happiness,” he wasn’t just talking about Jesus.  

A Frat Party, the KKK, and the Empty Tomb - A sermon on the first chapter of Esther

          The year was 1946 and the Ku Klux Klan, that oppressive and shadowy organization of terror, hatred, and ignorance, was as deadly as it ever was.  Its influence spanned from coast to coast and brought millions into its ranks to infect the nation with fear and mistrust and violence.  African Americans, homosexuals, Catholics, anyone who did not fit the image of the “ideal American” walked the streets and lived in their very homes in fear.  An alarming number of politicians and law enforcement officials, who otherwise would have stood up to the Klan, instead remained silent due to fear of waking up with a burning cross in their front yard.  A man by the name of Stetson Kennedy, however, did not remain silent.

            Instead of running away from them in fear, he decided to learn more about this mysterious, hate-filled organization and, therefore, donned that dreaded white hood and became one of them.  He learned their secrets.  He memorized their passwords and shadowy rituals.  He immersed himself in their culture in hopes to one day expose their secrets and rid them of the oppressive power that kept this nation in fear.  After months of observation and research, he took the insider information he had and presented it to the local law enforcement agents.  However, they were too scared of the KKK influence to do anything with it.  So Stetson Kennedy had to look elsewhere. 

            It just so happened that another influential power was sweeping the nation at this time in the 1940’s, a hero by the name of Superman.  Every week, countless numbers of children laid in front of their families’ radios to hear of this week’s adventure with that wonderful hero who was faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive.  There was, however, a problem:  the war was over, Superman had already defeated the Nazis, and was in need of a new villain to bring to justice.  Stetson Kennedy approached the writers of the sensational radio broadcast with the perfect offer.

            For the next several months, Superman had a new villain to bring to justice:  the Ku Klux Klan.  Each week, millions of children around the country listened with wonder and fascination as Superman defeated the Klan as the program exposed the secrets and rituals that Stetson Kennedy had risked his life to obtain.

            Soon after, people began showing up at Klan rallies for the sole purpose of mocking them.  Klan members came home from their meetings to find their children laughing at them, having just heard of Superman’s victory.  The membership of the Klan, not surprisingly, plummeted as the nation began to laugh at the absurdity of their rituals, their culture, their ignorance.

            There is a power to be found when absurdity is revealed for what it is.

            But I don’t believe that Stetson Kennedy was the first person to figure this out, for the Jews living in exile, the very community from which the Book of Esther comes to us, knew this well for they paint King Ahasuerus as very absurd.

            King Ahasuerus was the king of 127 provinces from India to Ethiopia.  One would think that he would have a lot to do with all that land and people to govern.  However, apparently he believes that the best use of his time is not managing his enormous provinces but rather by throwing a party.  And this is no sophisticated wine tasting event.  This is a drunken party that lasts, according to the text, 187 days.  Drinking was by the flagons, without restraint for the king gave orders for everyone to do as they desired.  The Book of Esther paints this King, Ahasuerus, as larger-than-life, absurd, over-the-top, and irresponsible.  A man interested, not in the upkeep of his kingdom and the people therein, but only in the arrogant display of his wealth and majesty so that others might be reminded that it is not theirs.

            And after 187 days of drinking and debauchery, there is only one thing left that he has not displayed for others to covet; his beautiful wife, Queen Vashti.  Therefore, in his drunken state, he orders his wife to parade herself before the hungry eyes of his fraternity party while wearing the royal crown and, as others including myself believe the text suggests, wearing (quite literally) nothing but the royal crown. 

            But then something goes terribly wrong (or right, depending on who you ask):  this woman, Queen Vashti, says no.  And she doesn’t say no to just anyone; she says no to the King.  And she doesn’t say no just anywhere; she says no to the king in front of everyone.  And as we learned from Stetson Kennedy and the Klan, when someone brings to light the absurdity, things tend to fall apart.  And fall apart, they did.

            King Ahaseurus doesn’t know exactly what to do:  “No one’s ever said no to me before.”  I’m sure the 187 days of drinking was not helping his judgment so he brings in his advisors and sages to instruct him.  They give him a stark warning.  They tell him that if he doesn’t nip this in the bud, then Queen Vashti’s action will inspire other women to stand up to their husbands and refuse to be submissive before them.  To use the words of the text, “there will be no end to the contempt and wrath.”  For Vashti did not just say no to an inappropriate command.  She did not simply refuse to become a sexual object for all to behold as one does a piece of meat.  No, Vashti’s actions bring to light the absurdity of this King Ahasuerus.  Her simple and daring “no” caused such a stir because the king’s officials knew that, if word of this got out, if people heard this on the weekly news on the radio before the Adventures of Superman, that people might show up and begin mocking them for the absurdity that, until recently, had been so cleverly disguised.

            So Vashti is banished.  We never hear from her again.  Most people ignore this story and dismiss it as a simple “prelude” to the rest of the story of Esther.  In fact, many people don’t know what to do with the book of Esther because it is an absurd book with absurd parties with an absurd king and an absurd political structure.  What makes the book of Esther even more absurd is that it is the only book in the bible that does not overtly mention God even once.  Perhaps that’s why Martin Luther himself dismissed the book as having “too many heathen unnaturalities.”  And as much as I appreciate Martin Luther and his undeniable influence in the creation of Protestantism, I cannot help but feel as though his uneasiness with the absurdity of the Book of Esther is, in effect, attempting to silence Vashti just as King Ahasuerus had hoped.  But Vashti will not be silenced.  As the next verse after today’s passage states:  “When the anger of King Ahasuerus had abated, he remembered Vashti and what she had done and what had been decreed against her.” 

For this story reminds us that there is a power to be found when absurdity is revealed for what it is. 

            And such, as we are reminded on this second Sunday of Easter, is the power of the resurrection.  For just as Vashti brought to light the absurdity of the unjust King Ahasuerus, so too does the Risen Christ bring to light the absurdity of Rome.  But unlike Queen Vashti with her refusal or Stetson Kennedy with Superman, the cross laughs at the absurdity of Rome by using an absurdity of its own.  The resurrection itself is an absurd idea, as Benjamin Franklin reminds us, there are two things in the world of absolute inevitability:  death and taxes, as we remember on this 15^th day of April.  What dies is supposed to remain dead.  This much has always been true.  Such is the reason, I suppose, that Doubting Thomas (as he is fondly remembered) refused to believe that Christ was risen. 

I don’t suppose we should be too hard on Thomas for it was well known by all that death, whether obvious death or death disguised as a Klansman or a drunken, incompetent King, has always seemed to have the final word.

But the absurdity of the resurrection assures us that the final word will never be uttered by an incompetent king, or an hate-filled Klansman, or a political regime of any kind.  Even death itself, that enemy that even Rome could never defeat, will not have the final word.  For the Risen Christ says “no” to death and “yes” to life eternal.  The Risen Christ allows Queen Vashti to say “no” to those who would strip her of her humanity, her beauty and “yes” to her own identification as a woman of conviction and strength.  The Risen Christ empowers Stetson Kennedy to say “no” to the absurdity of the Ku Klux Klan and “yes” to truth, justice, and equality.  The Risen Christ gives John Donne the confidence to proclaim these beautiful words: 

“Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so.

For, those, who thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

            So, friends, we have before us a tale of two kings.  A tale of two absurd kings.  One who rules through the absurdity of oppression, dominance, injustice, and coercion and another who rules through invitation, inclusiveness, grace, and abundance.  We have one king who exists in secrecy and thrives on the control of information and power.  We have another king who exists for all and thrives on the community of those he died and rose for.  On the one hand we have a king whose victory is seen as a palace full of material wealth, drunken houseguests, and sexual domination.

On the other hand, we have a king whose victory is evidenced only by an empty tomb.

            So, Sisters and Brothers in the Risen Christ, perhaps on this second Sunday in Easter, if we listen closely enough, we can still hear the resounding “no!” of Queen Vashti.  And perhaps we just might join her in saying “no!” to the absurdity of sin.  “No!” to the absurdity of injustice, racism, to sexual discrimination.  “No!” to the absurdity of drunken kings and hooded Klansmen.

            You and I will follow Vashti’s courage and say “no!” to these lies and “yes!” to the resurrected Christ, that absurd king who defeated death itself, that we might live and learn and love.  So be it!  Amen!

The Defiance of Prayer

              http://www.cpcatlanta.org/worship_music/article204981.htm

      Ever since I began worshiping at Central Presbyterian Church here in Atlanta, Georgia, I have been enchanted by their three-dimensional prayers of the people.  For an extended period every year since 2008, the people who are Central Presbyterian Church elevate an estimated 2000 multicolored paper cranes which dangle from the sanctuary ceiling.  These origami creations are made by the congregants themselves and many of them contain the prayers that were on the hearts of their creators.  On the International Day of Peace, the congregation erects “A Wing and a Prayer,” and for a period of several weeks, the brilliant prayers of the people hover amidst the worshiping body as they literally lift their prayer to God.

        As simultaneously prayer and offering, the creation rises above the pews and grasps the imagination of all those who gaze upon it.  Often throughout worship, I find myself pondering the mysterious beauty of this congregation’s physical embodiment of prayer.

        Like any great piece of art, its presence evokes a diverse range of interpretations.  On some Sundays, I am intrigued by the fact that this congregation has embodied prayer in a very physical, tangible way.  The prayer was created by hours and hours of folding by the people of this community with their hands, the very hands God has given them to be the body of Christ in the world.

       Other Sundays, I am left in curiosity, pondering what each prayer says and I am forced to remind myself that God alone knows our every prayer.

      Yet another Sunday I might be fascinated by the fact that this “prayers of the people” is at once individual and communal; each person (quite literally) lifts up a prayer which becomes a corporate offering to God on behalf of the community that at once both speaks to God and speaks to us on God’s behalf.

        This Sunday, for some reason, I found a beautiful defiance in this prayer as I worshiped directly beneath its mysterious presence.  It is quite remarkable, I thought to myself, how this piece of art inspires a sense of awe while reminding us that we come together as the worshiping body to pray to God who alone is the source of all goodness and grace.  What is perhaps even more remarkable is the fact that we dare raise such a beautiful creation in the midst of what too often seems to be a dark and dismal world.  Despite it all, or perhaps because of it all, we lift our prayers to God.

                As Atlanta continues to serve as a hub for human sex trafficking, we lift our prayers to God.

    As the homeless woman tries to stay warm in the cooler weather, we lift our prayers to God.

                As senseless killings happen around the world, we lift our prayers to God.

                As the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, we lift our prayers to God.

                As we ravage this earth we were called to preserve, we lift our prayers to God.

         What a beautiful image of quiet defiance that we dare raise such beauty to God when we are surrounded by such grief and brokenness?  Such defiance is the voice of Jacob who refuses to let God go until God blesses him.  Such defiance is the voice of the woman who will not let the judge ignore her.  Such defiance is the voice of Paul who is not ashamed of the gospel.  Such defiance is the voice of John who dares to tell us that there will be a day when tears will be no more and God will have the final word. 

         So the next time you are in downtown Atlanta, stop by Central Presbyterian Church.  Lift your eyes upward and gaze in wonder at the mystery of prayer.  Dare to lift your own prayers to a God who listens.  Lift your prayer to God who lifts us from the depths of an empty tomb and raises us to new life in Christ.  And as your eyes traverse the whispers of our prayers, remember that we have never worshiped a God who is happy with leaving us alone.

Prayer of Confession - Luke 24:13-49 (Responsive)

Rob Lively, member at First Presbyterian Church of Dalton, Georgia and former youth adviser of mine, has taken the prayer which I posted a few days ago and turned it into a responsive prayer.  Many thanks for his creativity!  Here it is:

            Holy and merciful God,

            We come before you as a broken people.

            Our sinful thoughts and deeds obscure our focus

            Upon your triumphant “yes!” of Easter.

            Though your grace surrounds us everywhere we go, We say NO

            Though you walk with us on our journey, We say NO

            Though you take, break, bless, and give, We say NO

            To your merciful invitation to live freely for you and one another, We say NO

            O Lord, forgive us our sins.

            God of Easter,

            Help us to recognize, You as the Risen Lord

            Guide us, that we might walk with you

            Cleanse us, that we might no longer be slaves to sin

            Come to us, in the breaking of the bread

            Come to us, as we are but leave us not as we were;

In your mercy, Lord, hear our prayer.

"Taste and See What?" - a sermon on Luke 24:13-49

          “The rising of the sun had made everything look so different-all colors and shadows were changed-that for a moment they didn’t see the important thing.  Then they did.  The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan. 

            “Oh, oh, oh!” cried the two girls, rushing back to the Table.

            “Oh, it’s too bad,” sobbed Lucy; “they might have left the body alone.”

            “Who’s done it?” cried Susan.  “What does it mean?  Is it more magic?”

           “Yes!” said a great voice behind their backs.  “It is more magic.”  They looked round.  There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane (for it had apparently grown again) stood Aslan himself.

            Recognizing Christ is no simple task.  Perhaps C.S. Lewis knew this well for he spent a large part of his life an atheist.  Always the intellectual, Lewis used to describe this phase as a time when he was “very angry with God for not existing.”  I believe that he knew that recognizing the Risen Christ is tricky business even when you think you know what it is that you are looking for.

            In his beautiful allegory for Christ, the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Lewis describes the death of Aslan the Lion, that great Messianic savior of his book.  The young Susan and Lucy, who have followed him until this point, watch in horror as Aslan willingly gives himself as a ransom for them and all who we have met so far in the story, Lucy and Susan’s brothers Edmund and Peter, the faun Mr. Tumnus, Mr. and Ms. Beaver, the Giant Rumblebuffin, and perhaps even those in the army of the White Witch herself.

            Susan and Lucy watch as Aslan is bound and dragged to the stone table that has been prepared for his gruesome death.  Aslan is humiliated as his grand and proud mane is cruelly shaved from his flesh as the White Witch and her ghouls laugh.  Watching from a hidden place, the youngest sibling, Lucy, looks to Aslan’s face in this moment and notices that “the shorn face of Aslan looked to her braver, and more beautiful, and more patient than ever.”

            And then, with her silhouette cast against the moonlight, the Witch raises her arms with the strange and evil knife and plunges it into Aslan’s flesh and Aslan dies.

            Lucy and Susan stay with the body after the White Witch and her army march off to war now that the great Aslan has been defeated.

            But then it happens.  The morning comes and Susan and Lucy notice that the “rising of the sun made everything look different – all the colors and shadows were changed…”  That sunrise of that Easter morning was so blinding that they don’t see what C.S. Lewis so eloquently calls “the important thing.”  Upon hearing his voice, they turn around and barely recognize Aslan for his mane has miraculously grown back but he seems different, larger than life, alive and yet mysteriously something that we hadn’t seen before.  After defeating the armies of the White Witch and crowning Lucy, Susan, Edmund, and Peter as Queens and Kings of Narnia, he quietly slips away only to reappear throughout the Lewis’ larger Chronicles of Narnia.

            The Resurrection often leaves us with more questions than it does answers.  Perhaps like Susan and Lucy, we are left blinking on that Easter morn, our eyes adjusting to the brilliant light, asking “who’s done it….what does it mean?”  Clearly the eyes of the followers on the road to Emmaus were still adjusting to the light for they do not recognize the Risen Christ.  They, for a moment, do not see the important thing.  Jesus, though, apparently seizes the moment and decides to have a little fun.

            “No, I don’t know what has happened.  We have a long walk; why don’t you tell me all about it?” 

            After the long walk, they urge him saying “stay with us!”  Jesus obliges and then does a curious thing:

                                    He takes bread.

                                    He takes bread and breaks it.

                                    He takes bread and breaks it and blesses it.

                                    He takes bread and breaks it and blesses it and gives it          

            And then they see the important thing. 

            Their eyes were opened and they recognized him. 

And then he vanishes. 

The bread quite literally falls into our hands as the One whom we now recognize disappears.  Slips away.  Just when we think we have this resurrection thing down, just when our eyes adjust to the light, just when we see the important thing, that thing vanishes.  Why?  We know that we are to taste and see.  Taste and see what?

            I don’t know exactly what the Resurrected Christ looks like.  But I have seen him and I will see him because his vanishing only draws me in deeper.  Make no mistake, Christ is Risen, he is risen indeed.  But he is on the loose, no longer confined to a cold stone table or a lonely tomb.  No longer restrained to one image or one place, he is on the loose.  The Risen Christ is made known to us in the breaking of the bread not so much because we recognize him as we did before, but rather because we taste and see a glimpse of what Christ is now capable of.  Christ vanishes, slips away, to remind not that he has abandoned us (for that is certainly not the case!), but rather, quite the opposite.  He vanishes to show us that he is out and about.  Christ leaves us wanting more because the Resurrected Christ looks different.

            For C.S. Lewis, the Resurrected Christ looks like a lion who breathes humanity back into persons turned into cold, lifeless statues.

            For the followers of Jesus, the Resurrected Christ looks like one who takes, breaks, blesses, and gives.

For a local congregation, the Resurrected Christ looks like a thousand multicolored paper cranes floating amidst the people.

            For someone who has screwed up, the Resurrected Christ looks like a verse of “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”

            For a congregation emerging from a split, the Resurrected Christ looks like a delicious loaf of broken bread on a broken plate.

For a little girl taking Communion, the Resurrected Christ looks like a morsel of bread that she just has to have.

            Friends, the brilliant light of this Risen Christ makes everything look so different!  As we taste and see, our hearts will burn within us as we look back on where the Risen Christ has taken us, perceive where it is that Risen Christ is with us now, and hope toward that final banquet when the Risen Christ will vanish no more.  Christ is risen!  He is risen, indeed!  Amen.

A Prayer of Confession for Luke 24:13-35

            Holy and merciful God,

            We come before you as a broken people.

            Our sinful thoughts and deeds obscure our focus

            Upon your triumphant “yes!” of Easter.

            Though your grace surrounds us everywhere we go,

            Though you walk with us on our journey,

            Though you take, break, bless, and give,

            We too often say “no!” to your merciful invitation

            To live freely for you and one another.

            O Lord, forgive us our sins.

            God of Easter,

            Help us to recognize your risen-ness

            Guide us that we might walk with you

            Cleanse us that we might no longer be slaves to sin

            Come to us in the breaking of the bread

            Come to us as we are

but leave us not as we were;

In your mercy, Lord, hear our prayer.

Masai Nicene Creed

Masai Nicene Creed

Thoughts?