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“If Life Is a Journey, How Do We Know When We’ve Arrived?” Exodus 13:17-22 and Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-10, 13-16 November 18, 2007 + Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost Delivered at Pilgrim United Church of Christ, Chattanooga, Tennessee The Rev. Dr. David Brown, Pastor Dubbs Memorial United Church of Christ 457 Allen Street * Allentown, PA 18102 * (610) 435-7281 Every parent here this morning who has ever traveled with children has heard this question at least a dozen times. What question? That’s right: “Are we there yet?” Of course, that’s not just a question that children ask, is it? Everyone who has been on a long or difficult journey has asked themselves the same question. Sometimes we ask those we hold responsible for getting us started on the trip! The Children of Israel must have asked Moses that question hundreds of times on their arduous forty-year trek across the Sinai desert to the Promised Land. But, interestingly enough, the Bible doesn’t record one instance of that question being asked. Why? Because instead of looking forward to the fulfillment of their journey, they were forever looking backward to the beginning of the trip. “Why did you bring us out here to die?” they whined to Moses. “Why can’t we go back to Egypt?” Back to Egypt?! Had they so quickly forgotten the misery, the humiliation, the degradation of slavery in Egypt? Apparently, because the only thing they remembered was the food they missed. We have to assume the Israelites were Southerners because all they talked about was the barbeque in Egypt! (That’s my free translation of the “fleshpots” of Egypt they missed so much.) The Colonel Sanders’ diet the Lord provided for them – quail and manna – wasn’t good enough. If they could only go back to the past they had left behind. But this longing for “the good old days” isn’t unique to those ancient Hebrews, is it? Some years ago when I was a student at the University of Bonn, Germany, one of my teachers was a woman in her late thirties, Frau Schmidt. In contrast to today when there is some interest about Hitler and the Nazi period among Germans, in those days of the 1950’s, few, if any, Germans wanted to talk about the war years. The subject was too recent and too painful. One afternoon I stayed after class and talked with Frau Schmidt. Our conversation ranged over a number of unrelated topics and then I asked her – in German, of course – “Tell me, Frau Schmidt, what was it like to live during the time of Hitler?” “O,” she said, “Das war eine herrliche zeit!” “That was a heavenly time!” My amazement must have been plain because she went on quickly to explain that, of course, everything about that time had not been heavenly: the bombing raids and what she had later learned had been done to a million or more of her fellow citizens in the concentration camps. That had not been “herrliche.” But her best and brightest memories of that period were of her glorious days in the Hitler Madchen, full of hiking and singing and good times. It takes one aback, doesn’t it, to realize that anyone would regard living in Hitler’s Germany as one of the most marvelous parts of her life? But we human beings have strangely selective ways of looking at the past. When I was a pastor in East Williston, New York, in the course of one of my sermons I asked a rhetorical question to which I, in my innocence, assumed the answer was obvious: “Would anyone here this morning really want to go back and live in 1933, the depth of the Great Depression?” From one of the back pews came a resounding “yes!”. We all laughed then, too. That experience taught me something. To begin with, it taught me not to ask questions to which I didn’t want to hear all the answers! But it taught me something even more important. There is a part of all of us that longs to go back to a time we believe was simpler and better than this complicated and difficult world we live in today. We want something settled and certain. Dietrich Bonhoeffer caught this mood perfectly when he recalled this German saying; “It’s a long way back to childhood, and if I only knew the way!” But we can’t go back to the past, can we? But couldn’t we just stay where we are? The problem, if the author to the Letter to the Hebrews is even remotely correct, is that those of us who live by faith are never going to be completely comfortable in any given time or place, nor are we ever going to enjoy a totally settled life in a Promised Land. “Strangers and foreigners” is what the author calls people of faith. Dare I risk saying that as far as scripture is concerned, people of faith are, in fact, illegal immigrants? Our citizenship is not here. We are pilgrims on this earth, always looking for a better country. Fred Craddock says we are “always looking for a better place,” which means, by implication, that the time and place where we are now. . . no matter how lovely. . . no matter how secure. . . no matter how comfortable. . . will ever be the last stop on our journey. One of the biggest changes I have seen in my more than forty years of professional ministry is the tendency to speak about our Christian faith as a journey rather than as a destination. Robert Raines, an outstanding United Methodist preacher, said he had learned “In the yesterday of my life I saw the will of God as a still photo. Today I see God’s will as an unfinished motion picture.” One part of me likes that kind of talk. It sounds like growing edge talk. . . forward-looking talk. . . plowing fresh ground talk. It is very much of a piece with the message found in the books of Doris Lessing who just won the 2007 Nobel Prize for literature. For her nothing lasts; everything changes. But this is the message we have been singing for years in hymns like “Lead On, Eternal Sovereign, we follow in your way. . .” That’s discipleship at its best talk. That’s pilgrim talk. But some other part of me cringes at that kind of talk. Like every one of you, I also have a need for nesting and resting, for rooting and settling, for dropping anchor and finding a place that feels like. . . well. . . “home.” At the end of Leonard Bernstein’s “West Side Story,” set in the midst of urban decay and gang warfare in Manhattan, Tony and Maria (the doomed lovers) sing to each other: “There’s a place for us, Somewhere a place for us, Peace and quiet and open air, Wait for us. . . somewhere.” Then, later on in the refrain, they sing: “Hold my hand and we’re halfway there, Hold my hand and I’ll take you there.” But, even as they sing, we know that they will never get there since one of them is already dying. The scene is so poignant. . . because the dream is as illusive as it is real. The song begins with the words, “There’s a place for us,” and it ends with the word “Somewhere.” Given the fact that Leonard Bernstein is a pretty fair theologian, one suspects that the song represents his comment on the human condition. . . and the last word in life is always going to be “somewhere” but “not yet.” Which is what makes Bernstein’s opera a tragedy. Which is what makes us human beings look back to the past with such longing. And I am sure that is why so many religious groups want us to go “Back to God,” “Back to the Bible,” back to whenever they believe was the golden age of religion. But, of course, that spiritual trip to the past never works and only leaves those who try it even more frustrated and angry. And that, of course, is the point of this sermon: God isn’t back there, anywhere. God never was. God never will be. Our God is not bound up in the past no matter how splendid or how sordid it may have been. The living reality of God is not some musty artifact from a bygone age waiting to be dug up and re-discovered. God is the moving, driving force in and beyond our history. God doesn’t call us to be faithful archaeologists, but courageous pioneers. Those who want to be near God have to walk and sometimes run in order to keep up. Our God is the God who loves and God takes big steps. But what a difficult lesson that is to learn. We get tired so easily. How can we find the energy and enthusiasm and commitment to pick up and move on? And this is the paradox of the Christian faith. We begin by taking a quick look over our shoulder. We look back at the past and we recognize just what sort of God it is that we serve. We look back and see how God has never failed to be a living reality in every new world into which we have moved. If those ancient Hebrews had looked back, they would have realized that their true hope lay not in the fleshpots of Egypt, but in the living God who with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm was leading them every step of the way to the banks of Jordan. That kind of God never quits. Over and over again, the Bible testifies to that same basic truth. Teachers and prophets reminded the people of what God had done before, not to awaken in them a pious nostalgia for the good old days, but to stir up a new courage and dedication to serve the living God in their own time. And as Christians, above all we look back and see Jesus Christ. Jesus, who called people then and who calls us now, to rise up and follow him. We look back and see him and we begin to realize that nothing, not even death itself, could stop him from moving into God’s new world. Today we Christians ought to be reading our Bibles and our history books as never before in recent times – reading and understanding just what sort of God it is who moves through history. If we do that, we will know that we do not need to depend for our security and hope on memories of a fading past or even glorious moments in the present. We will know that a reality greater than we have ever known is beckoning to us from the doorway of the future. We will know that we can seize this new land of tomorrow for our God and for our Christ. Yes, Lord, may your kingdom come among us! When I was a student at Colgate Rochester Divinity School, my professor of preaching was one of the greatest practitioners of the art, David MacLennan. He told us a story that I have never forgotten. To me, it contains the very essence of what it means to have Christian hope for the future. The story took place in the time of Nero and the persecution of the early Christians. Waiting his turn to enter the Roman arena and suffer death for his faith, a Christian was asked by a Roman centurion with a mocking voice, “Well, where is your carpenter now?” And back came the answer of faith, “He’s gone to build a coffin for your emperor.” Such a confidence in the living God, moving ahead of us just beyond our sight, such a faith gives us the courage to look at this seething, changing world of today and not be afraid. We know who we are. We are men and women, sons and daughters of our parent God, brothers and sisters of Jesus Christ, confronting the world with a power it cannot overcome. And so we will go forward to meet the demands of this new world, confident that the God who has brought us so far waits for us on the other bank of Jordan, calling us forward into the kingdom.
Sermon by Rev. D. Janice Mynchenberg Scripture Readings: Genesis 32:22-31, Luke 18:1-8 October 21, 2007 The very first sentence of our gospel reading tells us the point of the parable – that we, the disciples of Christ, “should always pray and never become discouraged”. That seems easy enough to understand, doesn’t it? But it is very difficult to do – this praying without becoming discouraged. Yet both of our readings this morning stress the value of perseverance (against all odds). Jacob wrestles all night, to the limit of his strength, is even injured in the struggle, and yet holds on until he receives a divine blessing. The widow appeals over and over again to a corrupt governmental official – demanding justice from someone who doesn’t understand the meaning of the word – until justice is what she obtains. And these tremendous struggles are linked to prayer, to maintaining a relationship with God however hopeless the struggle seems, because from the Lord comes our help. Now, I have some difficulty with this lesson about always praying and never being discouraged, because in the examples we have here of Jacob and the widow, they got what they wanted. Sure, it was tough for a while, but they were rewarded for their efforts: Jacob got his blessing; the widow won her law suit. But my prayers don’t always turn out that way. At a retreat some years ago I remember one of the participants telling a small group of us a very moving story about her son being hit by a car and a dangerous blood clot developing in his neck. She locked herself in a hospital bathroom and prayed and prayed – And the clot moved. What a wonderful witness to the power of prayer! And yet – I prayed and prayed that my grandmother wouldn’t die before I could say goodbye to her, and she died anyway. I can see why this other woman is able to persevere in prayer without despairing – she got what she asked for. But my prayers don’t always turn out that way. So what does it mean – for me – that I should always pray and never be discouraged? It doesn’t mean that if I keep on praying, I will get what I ask for. It means that I keep on praying even when I don’t get the answer I want – or any answer at all. How can I accept negative answers without being discouraged? Well, here we get into what is the point and purpose of prayer. Prayer is a relationship between God and God’s people. It isn’t always serene and smooth sailing. A relationship involves struggles, a clash of wills and purposes, sometimes disappointment and heartache, sometimes great joy and harmony, sometimes compromises. But whether things are going well or going badly, God and God’s people are always bound together in a covenant relationship. That’s part of why I don’t have to despair over prayers that don’t go my way; because my relationship to God can – and does – survive those disappointments. At the heart of the widow’s quest is justice. Jesus asks his disciple if she receives a just sentence from this corrupt judge, can’t we be sure that we – God’s own chosen people – will also find justice and righteousness in God’s dealings with us? At first I thought that was the same thing as an outcome that I found satisfactory, that God would ultimately see it my way and give me whatever I ask for. But then I started thinking about God’s justice and righteousness. You know, prayers don’t always turn out the way I want them to, but then I don’t always turn out the way God wants me to. I’ve failed to do God’s will over and over again – I haven’t loved God with my whole heart and loved my neighbor as myself. So if God is sticking out this relationship with me when I’m not being cooperative, well, then, don’t I owe God that same commitment? If God meets my failings with love, despite the suffering my sin causes, how can I end our relationship because I’m not getting everything that I want? Praying is working on that relationship – learning to be just and righteous and faithful and loving and patient, despite all the apparent setbacks, because God continues to be righteous and faithful and loving and patient despite our struggles and setbacks. As God perseveres with me, so I persevere in my relationship to God. God restrains anger and despair over my shortcomings and loves me faithfully. And so I can pray without being discouraged. I can be in a loving relationship with God, even if we are wrestling with one another, even if God isn’t setting accounts in my favor, even if God’s goodness seems slow in coming and I grow impatient for the kingdom God has promised me – and all of us. Still God and God’s people love and suffer and struggle together in a continuous prayer of hope and healing.
Sermon by Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg Scripture Reading: Luke 17:11-19 October 14, 2007 The women of the church were gathered for their monthly meeting. It was time to make decisions about their holiday ministries. Some local and national charities were given donations every year – occasionally a new cause was added or an old one dropped. There was a party and gift exchange at which each woman learned who her assigned secret pal for the past year had been. And the women took baskets of food to individuals and families in need. About a week’s supply of groceries, including all the fixings for a turkey or ham dinner. It was a rural community, not many people moving into the area, so people had pretty long histories with one another and an amazingly accurate understanding of who needed this holiday handout. Some households were permanent fixtures; others had suffered a hard year of expected or unexpected trouble with illness or income. The chairperson of the outreach committee read the list of names, one by one, so that each household could be assigned a visitor who would bring them a card and the groceries a few days before Christmas. It was a short list – less than ten names. When a name was read, there was a pause during which a woman volunteered for the job. At the reading of the fourth or fifth name, the president of the women’s organization cleared her throat and said, “I don’t think we should give them a basket this year. I took it over there last year, and they just took it into the house and left me standing on the porch in the cold. They never invited me inside, and they never even said thank you. They just took it for granted that our church would bring them food again they year. I don’t think we should give holiday baskets to people who don’t appreciate them. We shouldn’t waste our time and money on people who aren’t grateful for our generosity.” There was a moment of silence. No one else volunteered. The family’s name was crossed off the list, and the group moved on to the next household. Ten lepers were healed, says the gospel reading this morning, but only one came back to Jesus and said thank you. I wonder if Jesus walked away from this encounter, wanting to tell his heavenly Father that there would be no further blessings for the ungrateful nine. I doubt it, because the biblical testimony and my life experience have taught me that God does not bless us in accordance with the degree of gratitude we offer in return. God is not so petty, so spiteful, and so small in spirit. It’s a dirty, rotten shame that we who are God’s people, made in the divine image, often fail to be as generous and compassionate with our assets, all of which came to us because God is merciful and loving and trusts us to be the same. To use our assets as God would use them; to distribute our resources as God would do; to share the bounty as God would pass it on; to be grateful for the opportunity to carry out God’s will for our lives and the lives we touch with holy reverence and compassion. But, far too often, we focus on being shrewd investors of our time and treasures, looking out for our own best interests, rather than wise stewards dedicated to God’s best intentions. We know this. We regret this. We wish we could do better. We occasionally rise to the occasion. We too often go on as before, knowing that God will forgive us so we can forgive ourselves, and not have to sacrifice more than we can afford to give to and for others. The needs are too great. We could never satisfy them anyway. So we do what little we can . . . . And that’s the rub. We don’t really do all that we can. We do what we choose. Let’s be honest about that. All ten of those lepers could have taken the time to thank Jesus – only one chose to do so. The other nine followed the letter of the law, so to speak. They went directly to the priest as Jesus had told them to do. Yet, even in their obedience, they were focused on the benefits they were receiving – the reward of healing that came as they followed Jesus’ directions. But they neglected the source of their blessing; they failed to go the extra mile to demonstrate to themselves and others how much they owed to Jesus. They could have done that, (What would it have cost them?) but they chose not to. This morning you and I will turn in our pledge cards. We will choose how much we can afford to give to this congregation and its ministries. Now, let me state clearly that this is not our only way of showing our gratitude to God. Nor is it the only way to do God’s work in the world. There are many other paths we can choose for those purposes. But this pledge is one way to demonstrate to ourselves and others how much we owe to God’s steadfast love and compassionate power, the source of all the blessings we may choose to share this day. It is one way to dedicate ourselves to giving God well-deserved recognition - not just in the privacy of our hearts as we go about our daily lives, but publicly and boldly telling the world who God is and what God has done and what God continues to make possible for us and this world in which we dwell. During the orientation week as I began my seminary training, the dean of students gave us this piece of advice. He said, “Decide today that you will go to daily chapel. Make the commitment now, before you’re caught up in all the busy-ness of seminary opportunities and obligations. Don’t waste time and energy deciding over and over, day after day, ‘will I go to chapel today or won’t I?’ Decide today that you will. Clear your minds and hearts for other issues you’ll have to tackle as the year unfolds. Make the commitment to go to chapel and keep it – because otherwise you’ll be tempted every single day to do something else with your time, and you’ll miss the chance to worship the God who put you here in the first place.” In that same spirit, I urge you to make your commitment to financially support this congregation today. Don’t decide week by week whether or not you can afford to give something to this ministry or whether the church deserves your money or whether the members here are thankful enough for the money you put in the offering plate and all the other things you do or whether your treasure ought to be shared with others, or whether anyone else could possibly need it more than you do. Make the commitment now to demonstrate how much you owe to God – and keep this commitment – because otherwise you’ll be tempted to neglect the opportunity you have here at Pilgrim to express your thanks to God and to make provisions for God’s work to done through this community of faith. Choose today to work to do what you can, giving thanks to the God, from whom all your blessings flow in the first place. Amen.
Sermon by Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg Scripture Reading: Luke 15:1-10 September 16, 2007 “What Kind of a Car Would Jesus Drive?” It took me a moment to realize that this was a real question, and a real answer was expected. At that time I didn’t remember that, just this past summer, the Vatican had issued a pastoral letter on car ownership. In it, people were cautioned not to allow their cars to become “an occasion for sin” – which some people took to mean that we shouldn’t be making out in the back seat, or driving drunk and that sort of thing. But it also talked seriously about not flaunting our wealth, not flattering our egos, not ignoring the effect our vehicles have upon the environment, when we chose the cars we will own and drive. I can’t say that I took all of that into consideration when I was shopping for my current vehicle. I wanted something comfortable, reliable, easy to get in and out of, pet friendly – with enough cargo space to transport the sort of loads a pastor is often asked to carry. And I didn’t want it to cost more than I could afford. That’s as far as my stewardship training affected my car search. I didn’t think about it nearly as deeply and comprehensively as the Vatican folks had. “What kind of car would Jesus drive?” That was the question. And here’s what I said: “I don’t think Jesus would even own a car.” “So,” the person responded, “you think Jesus would ask other people to take him places.” “No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I think he’d use public transportation when he had to. Otherwise, I expect he’d walk or ride a bike. He would care too much about the environment, and about other people’s basic needs to use a large portion of his income to buy something so expensive and unnecessary as his own car.” My answer surprised me, but then I’d just been to the conference’s stewardship workshop and so had been pressed to really think about the differences between luxuries and necessities, about spending priorities and practices – which had recalled to in my mind the notion that much of our American lifestyle is about non-essentials. A few years ago I watched an evening of television to pay attention specifically to all the commercials – and realized that not a single one of them advertised anything that was a basic necessity for human existence. Not a one. Apart from the occasional “milk is cheaper at our grocery chain” advertisement, our commercials are about junk foods and fast cars and looking beautiful and buying new gadgets we’d never think of owning if the advertisement didn’t make them seem desirable. One of my pet annoyances right now is the commercial that asks what I dreamed about when I was a child – and then tells me that I dreamed about the new computerish phone Sprint is marketing. Maybe some child somewhere dreamed of that, but it certainly wasn’t me. Last Friday evening Drew Carey commented upon our country’s state of mind. People were talking about their perception that most Americans aren’t riled up about Iraq like we were about Vietnam – perhaps because there’s no draft, perhaps because we don’t hear daily body counts, and so on. Drew Carey said something like, “America hasn’t gone to war. The President has sent troops, but Americans haven’t mentally or emotionally gone to war. Americans have gone to the mall.” And I recalled two things. First, I had just read an essay on household economics that reported that “. . . the market has become ubiquitous. Once, we only went to market. Now the market comes to us – to our homes, work places, and public catalogues, and online services . . . And it works. Americans now spend more time shopping than citizens of any other nation, and we spend a higher fraction of the money we earn.” Second, I remembered that in the weeks after 9/11, President Bush told us (among other things) that it was vital that we go on with our lives, return to normal, and go shopping once again. Not to let the terrorists keep us from shopping. It was our patriotic duty to shop. Consumption is a major component of the American way of life. “We are what we consume” seems to be one of our basic economic and philosophical principles. And, as a Christian, that troubles me. I trust that it troubles you as well – when you and I stop to think about it. But our lives are so busy; there are so many forces numbing our awareness of these issues; that we forget to remember our best insights and intentions and go with the marketplace flow. We already have too much “stuff” in our lives, and we’re going to accumulate even more before the year ends. Is any of it really worth the price we’re paying – in dollars, in time, in effort, in lost opportunities to concentrate on essential things, on lasting treasures, on deep joys, on meaningful lives? The stories that Jesus tells about lost sheep and lost coins aren’t really about losing and finding our possessions. It’s not about lost property; it’s about lost lives. It’s not about what we own, but what we belong to. It’s not about protecting our stuff but about caring for our selves, our souls, our minds and our bodies. It’s not about valuing things, but about embracing people. It’s not about celebrating greed; it’s about developing and nurturing love. Fall is traditionally the season during which churches emphasis stewardship, and most of us – whether we admit it or not – see this as a more or less pious marketing campaign, designed to persuade us to spend our assets to meet our congregation’s budget rather than on other things. I want to challenge you to consider the possibility that stewardship is not predominantly about our money, but about the truth of who we were and who we are meant to be, what we are meant to do with our lives. It’s only partly a question of how we spend our cash. It’s mostly about how we spend our days upon this earth. It’s about how we invest our treasures in the people and the ideas and the purposes we value most. For where we place our treasures, there our hearts will be also. Amen
August 26, 2007 Remember the Sabbath Day (Exodus 20, and Deuteronomy 34, Luke 13:10-17) Sermon by Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg The Sundays of my childhood follow a certain idyllic pattern when I recall them. I’m sure there were exceptions to the rule, but my memory insists that every single Sunday – rain or shine; summer, winter, spring, and fall – every Sunday my parents managed to get a household of children (I was the eldest of five) out of bed, washed, clothed, and given breakfast in order to attend both Sunday school classes and the worship service at our church across town. After that, either we drove across the city of Cleveland, Ohio, to visit my paternal grandparents – or they drove that distance to visit us. We talked, played games, sang songs, and watched sports on TV. No one cooked a meal – it was the Sabbath, after all – so whoever did the driving also stopped along the way to purchase our meal from a restaurant. I recall falling asleep in the back of our station wagon on the way home from, surrounded by my dozing siblings, listening to the quiet chatter of my mom and dad in the front seat. I didn’t yet know Browning’s poem – but I knew the feeling: “God’s in his heaven; all is right with the world.” To this day, my sense of Sabbath isn’t completely satisfied if I don’t grasp again the love, the security, the communal activity, the peace of those childhood Sundays. Now, part of our Sunday ritual included a family discussion and “debriefing” of our church experiences. Every so often the morning theme would involve a scripture reading about how Jesus spent his Sabbath time, like the lesson appointed for this week from the thirteenth chapter of Luke’s gospel. From my childhood I remember sermons and Sunday school classes that focused on hot button theological issues like whether or not it was okay for Christians to mow their lawns on Sunday. Just how much Sabbath time did we actually have to observe? seemed to be the constant question. And the persistent answer was that Jesus had set us free from the old legalism that required twenty-four hours of Sabbath every week. It was made for us, not us for the Sabbath – Jesus said so – so we were free to fashion it as seemed best to us, though we were strongly encouraged to put in at least the minimum recommended dose of an hour or so at worship. Adults – but not children – seemed to get extra holiness points if they attended or taught Sunday school classes. Other than that, having given some attention to God, we Christians could enjoy the rest of the day. Mow our lawns, if we wanted or needed to, because this day was a gift from a generous and doting Creator so that on Monday we could go back to work all the more energetically, efficiently, and enthusiastically after a day of R & R. I don’t recall ever having the question raised about whether non-Christians could have the same R & R opportunity we did. Or why people had to work in restaurants and gas stations so my family could enjoy a day of rest. “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy” is the commandment at stake. One of the big ten. But this is an easy one to break – at least in part because many of us have been raised with the notion that Jesus himself justified breaking it, that he championed human freedom and lifted the burden of Sabbath observance from our already heavyladen shoulders. We know, for example, Jesus has done the right thing in healing this woman and those who object to it are wrong. “There are six days on which work ought to be done,” says the synagogue leader - shocked by Jesus’ willful breaking of God’s law. “Come on those days and be cured, and not on the Sabbath day.” And he’s got a point. The woman has suffered 18 years already. What’s one more day? It’s not a matter of life and death. Not a crisis. The woman isn’t even looking for the miracle, not asking for the healing. She’s minding her own business and bam! Jesus walks up and “sets her free from her ailment.” He just up and works on the Sabbath for no clearly compelling reason. And if Jesus can so freely ignore the Sabbath commandment, then so can we, right? But let’s take a closer look at the commandment in its entirety. It’s a lengthy commandment – almost as if God knew we’d need clarification and guidance in order to comprehend and keep it. The Exodus version claims that Sabbath rest is part of the fabric of creation itself, woven into the pattern of our being: “For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day.” The version in Deuteronomy cites historical precedence and the necessity for us to remember who – and whose – we have always been – and to treat ourselves (and others) accordingly: “Remember that you were a slave in Egypt, and the Lord God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the Sabbath day.” And who is to keep it? Both versions agree that the Sabbath is not just for pious members of the faithful few. “You shall not do any work – you, your son or your daughter, or your male and female slave, or your ox or your donkey, or any of your livestock, or the resident alien in your towns.” Everyone and everything is to stop, to be still and know that the Lord is God, and we are God’s creatures, the flock that God shepherds. Sabbath is a time to realign our perspectives, to set right what has been knocked off balance, to remember that we are not in control or in charge of this world except as caretakers, stewards, managers, representatives of the God to whom it belongs – and to whom we are answerable for all we have chosen or failed to do in the time entrusted to us. When Jesus heals this ailing woman or feeds hungry people or performs other acts of loving care on the Sabbath day, he is not breaking this commandment. He is embodying it. He is expanding our understanding of it. He is living it and challenging us to carry out the justice as well as the mercy of God – not only for our own sense of personal well-being but in covenant with all creation. He is demonstrating not that you and I already have too much Sabbath in our lives, but far too little. Why should this poor, sick woman standing in the presence of her God on the Sabbath day spend even one more second in bondage? Why should she not be set free? It’s the Sabbath, for God’s sake. It’s the time for restoration to wholeness, for celebration of the grace that surrounds us. Jesus and this woman came together that day only because both of them were obeying the commandment to keep the Sabbath day holy. And together they share a freedom, an abundance, a joy that this woman couldn’t have found in the other six graceless days of her life. In Sabbath time she is set free of the chains that held her captive and the burdens that crushed her body and spirit. Jesus is keeping it holy. Resting in God’s grace. Letting that grace flow freely. Caring and sharing. Living and loving. Dwelling in right relationship with God, with himself, and with others. Reminding us all that “the kingdom and the power and the glory are God’s” is not just a pious phrase, but the deepest truth about all existence. And ain’t that good news? We live in a world of wounded, lonely, broken, tired, dying people who desperately need us to remember the Sabbath for their sakes, if not for our own. To expand it beyond a mere twenty-four hours into a lifetime of divine presence and power at work through us and within us. Keep it holy, dear brothers and sisters, and keep it real. Not just every now and then, but always and forever. Amen.
July 1, 2007 Sermon By Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg My sister called me on Father’s Day. After the usual preliminaries, she told me, “I played hookey from church this morning, and I’m feeling bad about it.” “Oh,” I responded, “Hookey not as much fun as you expected it to be?” “No,” she answered. “It’s not that. We were voting this morning on calling a new pastor, and I didn’t want to go and vote no. Everybody on the call committee is all excited about her, and I don’t understand why. I know the congregation is going to vote to call her, but, Janice, she’s only 22.” Now, I found my sympathy with this situation rather slight, and this being my sister I was talking to, I considered myself to have a little leeway in the pastoral care and empathy department, so I replied, “Really? She must be quite a whiz kid if she got through both college and seminary by the age of 22.” “Well,” my sister conceded, “she might be a few years older than that – but she’s too young to have any experience with real life problems. We had a reception for her yesterday, and I suppose she’s nice enough and kind of perky, but when I asked her about adult education, all she said was that she thought lifelong learning was a good thing.” My sister, you see, is in charge of the adult education program in her congregation, and has been doing this for three or four years. “She sounds supportive,” I said. My sister gave a rather unpleasant nonverbal reply to my remark. “What did you expect her to say?” I queried. “Exactly!” my sister pounced triumphantly on this glimmer of comprehension I was displaying at long last. “Exactly! It was so generic. She believes in lifelong learning, my eye. It’s what anybody with half a brain who wanted a job would say, but she certainly refused to make any commitment to adult education. She didn’t have any good ideas for classes and she didn’t volunteer to teach any. And our interim pastor is no better. He absolutely refused to be part of any adult classes. The call committee keeps telling everyone how great she’ll be for our youth program, but that’s not the only thing we need from a pastor. I sure wish the last pastor hadn’t left. People complained about him just because he was depressed and didn’t visit people – which was true – but at least I could count on him to teach an adult group every now and then.” I steered the conversation to other waters – asking about her three kids, the youngest of whom just graduated from high school. Later that evening I called my parents and discovered that my sister had sought sympathy from them about the pastor-to-be’s unfortunate youth and non-volunteerism in the area of adult education. Said my mom and dad, no doubt my sister had been doing a fine job of running that program, so there was no need for the pastor to step in; the pastor should focus on things that needed attention more than my sister’s ministry did. If you are my age, you probably remember the public service commercials in which John F. Kennedy spoke ever so effectively: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” I was raised with a similar ethic for one’s involvement in a church: “It’s not about what the church does or doesn’t do for you; it’s about the opportunities your church creates for you to do something for God.” This week our nation will celebrate its independence and its commitment to the rights of every person to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. My father, the American history and government teacher, was determined that our family cherish these ideals – and that we understand the cost that had been paid so that we might live in freedom from fear and oppression, freedom to pursue our dreams and serve our God and protect this legacy for the generations who would follow ours. He was fond of quoting from a folk song: “Freedom isn’t free; freedom isn’t free. You’ve got to pay a price, you’ve got to sacrifice, for your liberty.” That is, according to my dad, the essential core commitment from which good citizenship emerges and grows. Our call to worship this morning, from the book of the Galatians, speaks of the wonder of Christian freedom. “In Christ we have been set free,” declares St. Paul to the young congregation. And sometimes we Christians carry on as if all the cost of this freedom has been paid, the only necessary sacrifice made, in the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. We have been set free from the burdensome law, free in the amazing grace of a God who longs to fill our lives with joy and peace, free from the tyranny of guilt and the power of evil, free to know the everlasting light of God’s glory. We have been granted God’s favor; we no longer have to worry about earning it. And so, being only human in our wisdom and understanding and appreciation of this great gift, we are tempted to presume upon it, to take it very much for granted that God is in the forgiveness business and we need fear no consequences if we occasionally miss the mark – for that mark was set by the law anyway, wasn’t it? So how seriously do we have to try to live up to that superseded standard? And our religious commitments and obligations become one more leisure time option, rather than a 24/7 way of life. And we shop around for a church that suits our purposes rather than one which will help us become better suited for God’s purposes. And churches begin to fret about making members and visitors happy more than about making them holy. But Christian freedom is not about personal liberty. It is not about freedom from responsibility to God and to others. In fact, it is precisely to free us up from other obligations that distract and distress us, so that we may give ourselves completely to God and to others. We are called to Christlike freedom – the kind of freedom that prays not my will, dear God, but yours be done, even in the garden of Gethsemane. We can indeed live without being subject to the law – as long as it is the Holy Spirit which guides us and shapes us and moves in us. When Paul tells this to the church in Galatia, he is not speaking of a theological notion or abstract concept that ought to be considered as one of several steps in the process of making a personal – or congregational – decision. He is speaking of a very real presence and power, alive and well, which produces its fruits as reliably as plants produce their leaves. Paul even gives us a list of the fruits of the Spirit, in case we didn’t already recognize them for what they are: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Whenever and wherever these qualities are present, there is no need to fear that God’s law will not be fulfilled, that God’s purposes will not be front and center. Full of these spirit gifts, how can a person or a community fail to love God and their neighbors as fully as they love themselves? Full of these qualities, how can we possibly fail to worship God with all our strength and all our mind and all our heart and all our soul, fail to give witness to the hope within us, fail to feed those who hunger and thirst for the blessings we have received? In his essay “On Christian Freedom,” Martin Luther describes our life in the Spirit this way: “A Christian man is the most free lord of all, and subject to none; a Christian man is the most dutiful servant of all, and subject to everyone.” As we approach the celebration of our national and personal liberties, let Christian freedom be our ideal – the freedom to ask not what our country and our congregations can do for us, but to ask what we can do for our political and religious neighbors in the name of our God.
June 17, 2007 Sermon by Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg Last week when I was taking care of business at the laundromat, I happened to overhear bits and pieces of the 700 Club. Usually I bring a book to read and try to ignore whatever is on the laundromat TV, but you can’t help but listen to the sound of it when you’re folding clothes. Pat Robertson was answering questions from viewers. This particular letter was from a young person who was having difficulty explaining to a non-Christian friend why a good and loving God would condemn people to hell. Pat Robertson ever so helpfully pointed out that only the very worst sinners end up in hell. Which started me to speculating where the dividing line between acceptable and unacceptable sinners might be. It brought to mind an episode of the old Mary Tyler Moore show. Her boss had dated someone who, it turned out, was “that kind of woman,” so he was going to break off the relationship. Mary asked, “For the record, just how many men can a woman be with before she becomes ‘that kind of woman?” Her boss replied without hesitation. “Five.” It must be nice to know exactly how to calculate such things even better to come up with a passing grade for yourself and a failing one for those you disapprove of. So I began to wonder if it was the number of sins committed, or the quality of them, or a combination of these that determined whether a person was only a poor sinner who still had a chance of getting past St. Peter or one of the very worst sinners that hadn’t a prayer of admission to heaven – when Pat Robertson made another comment that caught my ear: “Well,” he said, “you don’t really want to see murderers and rapists in heaven, do you?” Well, do you? There are some people who just don’t deserve God’s grace, aren’t there? I don’t know how you would answer those questions, but my personal theology says, “Yes. There are plenty of people who don’t deserve God’s grace. That would be everyone. We all fail the righteousness test. We all are unworthy, if judged according to the merit badges we strive to earn to win the salvation game. But, thanks be to God, that isn’t how the game is played.” As Paul puts it in the second chapter of Galatians: “We [that is, Paul and Simon Peter] have come to believe in Christ Jesus, so that we might be justified by faith in Christ, and not be doing the works of the law, because no one will be justified by the works of the law . . . (T)hrough the law I died to the law, so that I might live in God. I have been crucified with Christ, and it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved and gave himself up for me.” Paul is here recounting a conversation between himself and Peter. The issue is table fellowship between Jewish and Gentile Christians. Paul has criticized Peter, who earlier had agreed that the gospel be preached to the Gentiles without compelling them to be circumcised before acceptance into the Christian community. Since that time, Peter has withdrawn from eating meals with Gentiles. Scholars debate what his reason might have been, because in the book of Acts Peter argues, on the grounds of revelation received from God in a dream, that traditional Jewish dietary restrictions may be put aside. Peter ate openly at Gentile tables. So his decision not to do so at the time of this letter was likely a temporary measure for the sake of the community he was with - possibly for their safety, possibly for education purposes. We just don’t know. Paul, however, would accept no excuses for what he considered to be a betrayal of the gospel, which not only offered the possibility of full inclusion for both Jew and Gentile, but absolutely demanded it. Arguments about circumcision and keeping kosher and so on seem very peculiar to our modern minds, but what is at stake in these discussions is equality of status. There must be no inner circle of Christians who may look down upon other Christians for any earthly reason. Not because they are more righteous by virtue of observing more impressive rituals and traditions, not by virtue of their cultural or ethnic heritage, not be virtue of their gender or social status or economic advantages. Not by virtue of superior intelligence or differing talents and ministries. There shall be no second class Christian, for we are made one in and through our faith in the self-giving love of Jesus Christ. We receive God’s grace as a gift, and we are transformed by this gift, so that we set aside our own agendas and follow the way of the crucified Christ. Being justified by faith is not only a matter of having our personal sins forgiven – [and, by the way, Paul never even mentions this aspect of justification in his letter to the Galatians] – it is first and foremost about becoming an active part of a new reality, being transformed in order to be an instrument and example of Christ’s reconciling, self-giving love to others. It is about living in Christ and from Christ’s perspective. We become the voice and hands of Jesus Christ in the present moment. Richard Hays in his commentary on Galatians tells this story as an example of the new unity, the new community that demonstrates the wideness of God’s inclusivity, to which we Christians are called to bear witness: In the mid-90s in Rwanda, “the Hutu tribe carried out mass murders of the Tutsi tribe. At the town of Ruhanga . . . a group of 13,500 Christians had gathered for refuge. They were of various denominations: Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Pentecostals, Baptists, and others. According to the account of a witness to the scene, ‘When the militias came, they ordered the Hutus and Tutsis to separate themselves by tribe. The people refused and declared they were all one in Christ, and for that they were all killed, gunned down en masse and dumped into mass graves. It is a disturbing story,” says Hays, “but it is also a compelling witness . . . to the truth of the gospel. Having been ‘crucified with Christ,’ they preferred to die rather than deny the grace of God that had made them one in Christ.” Do you want to see the soldiers who killed them in heaven? I do, if only because it would be one way to demonstrate that their witness was not in vain, if it led to the redemption, the conversion, the transformation of their persecutors into soldiers of the cross, willing to give their lives over to Christ in self-giving love for other human beings. Do I really want to see rapists and murderers in heaven? I do, because I cannot even imagine Jesus Christ asking such a question, let alone agreeing with a self-righteous judgment that prefers to condemn people rather than embrace them. Jesus, who ate and drank with tax collectors and sinners; who said he came not for the righteous but to call sinners to repentance; who compared God to a father celebrating the return of his wayward son with a feast and reminding his brother that he was neither shortchanged or neglected by this generosity; who proclaimed release to the captives; and who, as he was dying, promised the criminal beside him a place in paradise. Oh, yes, Jesus wants sinners to find their way into God’s gracious arms and sit up residence there. In the name of Jesus Christ, we have been justified before God so that murder, rape, hatred, violence, and all earthly divisiveness shall cease and so those who have committed these offenses may know the magnitude of God’s grace and join with us in worship of and service to the One from whom all blessings flow. May we live always and forever in Christ, as Christ has promised to live in us. Amen.
May 20, 2007 Sermon By Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg I spoke with you last week about the difference between knowing facts and knowing the truth about them. This week I want to begin my sermon by sharing with you a very significant fact about myself, and then reflecting upon some of the truths I have come to understand because of wrestling with it. Here is the fact: I am dying. More days of my lifespan are behind me than remain before me. I am mortal, and some days mortality issues weigh heavy upon my mind and heart. Some days that fact – that I am dying – slips out of my consciousness; other days I am keenly aware that my time on earth is limited. It didn’t use to bother me much. In my younger days, I wasn’t very concerned about it because my death seemed so far away, so unreal and irrelevant. But then, in November of 2002, I was diagnosed with kidney cancer – a form of cancer for which there is no cure. Survival is possible only if the cancer is detected early enough, while it is still completely contained, and the organ can be removed surgically. I was incredibly lucky. I had no symptoms at the time. There was an “accidental” sighting of a cancer cell in my left kidney when my doctor was looking for something else. We did no biopsy. We simply scheduled the surgery. When the kidney was removed, a second cell was discovered inside it. From the moment I heard the words, “You have cancer,” the inevitability of my death became real to me. For the next year or two, whenever my bishop would ask how I was doing, I would answer, “Still working on those mortality issues, Ron.” I can honestly say that I am here at Pilgrim Church because of my dress rehearsal with death. When I learned I easily could have died sooner rather than later, I also had to face some hard truths about my personal life and my vocation. While I was still in seminary, I began working within the ELCA to change the guidelines that required a pastor to be either in a heterosexual marriage or celibate. I hoped and prayed that my church would change its policy and give me permission to love and be loved in a committed relationship, according to my orientation. There seemed time enough, energy enough for me to wait until the tide was turned. But when my cancer appeared, I saw how much sand had already passed in the hourglass of my life. Much as I loved being a pastor, deeply as I cherished my Lutheran church, I swallowed a bitter pill. I could not wait forever for my denomination to redefine its position. I knew it was not God’s will for me to live and die alone, and I was losing precious, limited time and opportunity to love and be loved with every day I remained an ELCA pastor. So to I had to leave my familiar, beloved faith community and seek out another place and another people. I am here at Pilgrim because I am dying, and I know it, and I intend to be fully alive in the days left to me. I do not, as a T-shirt once put it, intend to tiptoe through life only to arrive safely at death. When I realized that I needed to find an open and affirming church, you invited me to come to Chattanooga, to live and serve among you. I cannot find the words to tell you how deeply grateful I am that the UCC opened its door when I knocked, and made a way where there was no way before. That has been an incredible death and new life experience; one I didn’t see coming, one for which I am thankful. Well, dear friends, as my relationships here deepen, I must remember another hard fact. I am not the only person dying around here. You are dying, too. Some of you have many, many miles to go before you sleep, but for others in this faith community, death is coming very near. Perhaps you think of Mary in the hospital or Nancy in the nursing home, but here’s another painful truth: we do not, we cannot, know to which of those categories each of us belongs. In my preaching class at seminary, the professor stressed the importance of speaking to our congregations about death before we ever had to preach our first funeral sermons. I began my very first day in my new parish, a Monday in early August, with a phone call to say that a lifelong church member had died at the local nursing home. Could I officiate at the funeral on Thursday morning? A few hours later, the phone rang again. A man who years ago had been confirmed at my church and had not crossed its threshold since then had just died in a motorcycle accident. Could I officiate at his funeral on Thursday evening? So much for the advice you get in seminary. Real congregations, real people don’t live according to a textbook time table. They live - - and they die - - according to a different schedule, and it is rarely the one we would prefer. So here’s another truth about our life together that right now I’m keenly aware of: because we are dying, you and I, this may be our last chance to share God’s grace with one another. This may be our final encounter today, before death parts us. What are the things we should say and do? More importantly, what is the spirit in which we should say and do them, during these precious moments? In faith. In hope. In love. In God. Not in guilt and sorrow about what is in our past, not in fear of what the future may bring. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither powers nor principalities, neither the past nor the present nor the future, neither height nor depth nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that comes to us in Christ Jesus, as St. Paul says in his letter to the Romans. In life, in death God abides with us, as the old hymn reassures us. It is in dying that we are born again, St. Francis prays, so let us be instruments of God’s peace, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Let us, as Tim McGraw sings, live like we are dying. Here, in the midst of death, let us cherish life. Let us love ourselves, love one another, and love God. Love is patient. Love is kind. It is not boastful or arrogant or rude. Love does not rejoice in wrong-doing but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never dies. Now-even as our family and friends move on, even as faith communities change, even as we ourselves pass away – faith, hope, and love abide, these three – and the greatest of these is love. (paraphrase of 1 Corinthians 13) The one who testifies to these things says, “Surely I am coming soon.” Amen. Come, Lord Jesus! The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all the saints. Amen (the final verses of the book of Revelation)****************************************************** May 13, 2007 Sermon by Rev. Dr. Janice Mynchenberg
“My mind is made up. Don’t confuse me with the facts.” So said the poster my youngest sister, Patti, hung on the wall of her room. It was the first thing I saw every time I crossed the threshold. My best recollection is that it featured the head and shoulders of a bald baby decked out to resemble Winston Churchill at his most intimidating, inflexible, and “bull doggish” best. Or maybe it was just a stubborn-looking bulldog in a bowler hat. Anyway, the caption read, “My mind is made up. Don’t confuse me with the facts.” And I hated it with all the self-righteous indignation of a teenager. It seemed to me even back then that an opinion that could not – or would not – take relevant facts into account wasn’t worth having. Let alone sharing with anyone else. Nowadays I have some empathy for the overwhelmed youngest child in a house full of opinionated older siblings who could argue any case more effectively – due to our age, education, and experience – than she could. So, every once in a while, she must have needed to yell “Back off” simply to preserve her sanity. But I do value a piece of a well-informed and fact-filled someone’s mind more than its opposite. I’m rarely persuaded by a speaker if I’m aware of facts to the contrary that have not even been acknowledged, let alone accounted for. A good, solid opinion can, I am convinced, handle the facts. So I try very hard not to be like the preacher in the old seminary joke who wrote in the margins of his sermon draft: “Weak argument. Yell louder.” That being said, I’ve also come to see that facts are not conclusive in and off themselves, but are open to interpretation. Some facts are more relevant than others. Some have greater significance. Some are true but unimportant for my purposes. Some concepts or images or feelings matter at least as much as the facts when coming to a sound conclusion. Facts, in short, are not equal to truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I can even remember the day when I first realized this. Since my mother was the catalyst for my conversion, so to speak, it’s an appropriate story to tell on Mother’s Day. It was a weekday evening. I was doing some homework; she was also watching the news. Anita Bryant’s campaign to drive gay and lesbian teachers out of the public school system was the feature of the moment. My mother offered an unsolicited opinion on the topic: “It’s not the gays or lesbians we need to worry about,” she said. “It’s the teachers who hate their students that we need to get out of the classrooms.” Both my mother and Anita Bryant grasped the fact that gay and lesbian teachers served in the public school system, but they judged the severity of the issue in the context of their unique frames of references. Their perspective, their interpretation, their opinion of the same fact led to very different conclusions. I was very proud to be my mother’s daughter that evening. Decades later, when I shared with her how incredibly valuable the lessons of her remark had been to me on so many different levels, my mother didn’t even remember the moment. But I continue to treasure it because it testified to me so powerfully and unself-consciously of the ways my mother lived out God’s grace in her dealings with others. An ethic of love, not hate was – and still is – at the center of her Christian identity. I am deeply grateful that God blessed me with a faith model like that in my mother – and in my father as well. But I digress from my initial train of thought. I was musing about the relationship between factual accuracy and truth, and claiming that they were not a solid equation. For example, the reality that four eyewitnesses give differing actual details of how a car accident occurred does not alter the truth that vehicles collided and people were traumatized. Or, to use a more religiously relevant example, the four gospels – Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John – tell the story of Jesus from very different perspectives. Some of the factual details conflict with the other accounts of the same events. Well, you can’t turn a fact into its opposite and say it’s equally valid. But you can say that -- in spite of some facts, because of other facts -- all four gospels contain the truth about Jesus. Because truth is never limited to the accuracy of the facts. They must be placed within a trustworthy frame of reference, interpreted from a Spirit-saturated prospective. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about Jesus or God or humanity or salvation or grace is much greater than any one book – even the Bible – can possibly contain. It’s like this: Donald Miller writes in his book Blue Like Jazz: “I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes. “After that I like jazz music. “Sometimes you have to watch somebody, love something before you can love it yourself. It’s as if they are showing you the way. “I used to not like God,” he continues, “because God didn’t resolve . . . .” I’m coming to an appreciation of jazz rather late in life, but I’ve always appreciated the wonder of a God who doesn’t resolve. On the quiz we did last week, I’m an off the chart “M” individual, fascinated by and in love with the mystery of divinity. So I’m thrilled that the people who put the New Testament canon together included four impressive variations on the theme of Jesus – and then insisted on including the book of Acts which shows his followers trying to keep up with all the surprising, unexpected twists and turns their lives take as they wrestle with Jesus the way Jacob wrestled with God – never giving up until they receive a godly blessing, but also carrying the scars of the encounter, becoming “Israel” all over again in their generation, inviting us to the same wrestling match in our own time and place. And I adore the vivid imagery and majestic poetry of the book of Revelation which tries to express the inexpressible and stretch our imaginations beyond the limitations of our senses – including our sense of time – as we marvel at the ultimate reality of God’s greatness and glory. Some of you have been to my office and have seen hanging on the wall an artist’s rendition of a quote from Wynton Marsalis about his vocation as a jazz musician: “Without fear, without guilt, we plunge into the chaos of existence armed only with a willingness to swing.” I believe that is a fitting metaphor for a Christian life, embracing the sheer grace and beauty and wisdom of God through the lens of Jesus Christ, in the fullness of the Spirit, and being willing to swing with it. Each of us in our own way, practicing our own God-given instruments, in our own inspired variation of the one true theme that runs through all creation, learning to play our part in a great big wonderful swinging band, surrendering ourselves to the sacred music of a God who doesn’t resolve, now and forever. Amen.***************************************************** Pastor Janice Mync |
