Fear

            Fear is something I think about a lot.  I think about it so that I don’t let it get the better of me.  It was something that I thought a lot about as I was deciding about, first, whether or not to come to seminary, and second, which seminary to go to.  Did I believe that the God who created me, loves me, and knows my flaws would still call me?  Did I believe that God would equip me?  Did I believe that the God who called and equipped me would take care of me?  If I believe all of that then what is there to fear?  Where will I not be willing to go?  What will I not be willing to do?

            And it’s easy to say, but it’s a thought process that requires continual maintenance.  Fear sneaks up on me easily, and I don’t always recognize it initially.  And even when I reject it with my mouth and mind it sometimes takes a while for my heart to catch up.  I don’t want to act (or not act, as the case usually is) from a place of fear.  When fear and doubt and worry get the better of me the lyrics to one of my favorite songs come to me (I confess, more often than not it’s song lyrics that get me through tough times): “I don’t believe you brought me this far to give up,/ so every day I keep on fighting for it./  Show me again what I was made for,/ help me to see how you’re leading me.”  And I believe I’m being led, okay, sometimes dragged, but I have no frickin’ clue where I’m going.

            Plus lately it seems like most days are fighting, and I know that lately I’ve been losing because life right now seems like more than I can handle.  I fight to get up.  I fight to sleep.  I fight to leave the house.  I fight to do the things I need to do, because the things I need to do take me further from the people I want to be with.  I fight to explain to people how I’m doing because I know they’re fighting too, and who can handle one more emotion.  There is so much change.  So much uncertainty.  So much that is nebulous.  And as someone who often finds themselves building things from scratch, who enjoys a good blank canvas, who has enough paint in her palette to quite possibly paint with all the colors of the wind, the fact that I can’t handle the total lack of direction is starting to really stress me out.

            But do I believe?  “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?  And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these.”

            So, do I believe?  Where is it that I won’t go?  What is it that I won’t do?

            So, do I believe?  Where is it that God won’t go?  What is it that God won’t do?

            So, do I believe? 

Reflection on Water: consider the irony

I thought I'd share with you all the reflection (read: sermon) I'm writing for the lenten vespers (read: evening candlelight) service at church tomorrow.  The focus for the series is on creation care, so they're working their way through the Genesis creation story.  The reading for this sermon is Genesis 1:6-8.  I was asked to write a reflection on water.  I'm just going to let that phrase sink in.  It's pretty pun-tacular.

The service is going to be neat--they've built a water purification system and are running nasty, dirty melted snow through it.  The congregation will be given water-soluble markers to write prayer concerns on rocks.  After the sermon the purified snow water will be run over the rocks, washing away the prayer concern.  Then the rocks will be pulled from the water as a baptismal remembrance.  I'm going to sing Jason Gray's "Down to the River" while that happens.

Anyway, here's my sermon:

                The reading from Genesis depicts a world of nothing but water.  Water above.  Water below.  Water being separated from water.  When I first read this passage I tried to imagine what it might be like to be surrounded by that much water…and then I looked out my window…at the snow.  And we’ve had enough winter weather to question the goodness of God’s creation.  We’ve also had enough snow to give a real face to global climate change.

                Over the course of the last two Sundays we’ve heard the statistics that in the last seven generations humanity has consumed half of the available carbon resources, resulting in oceans that are 30% more acidic.  We’ve heard that even if in this very moment we entirely cease burning fossil fuels it will still take 200 years to break down half of the carbon dioxide that has been absorbed by the oceans.  In short, we’ve heard a lot of bad news.  And so as I sat down to write this reflection, I thought to myself, “What can I say?  What can I say that acknowledges the magnitude of our situation, yet still is life-giving?  Because the situation seems pretty bleak.”

                The situation seems bleak because it is bleak.  These statistics about our oceans are disturbing, and the statistics about freshwater are no better.  Freshwater accounts for somewhere around 2.5% of the world’s water supply, and not all of that water is clean.  A 2012 report from the United Nations reported that 780 million people worldwide lack access to safe drinking water.  In fact, it is estimated that every 15 seconds a child somewhere in the world dies of waterborne illness.  In that same year another study stated that by 2030 the demand for clean water will exceed supply by 40% which poses increased risk of water conflicts. 

                When I was in college one of my ethics professors suggested that the world’s next great conflicts would be over water—that we would soon be fighting for access to something as necessary to us as the air we breathe.  At the time that was such a foreign thought I couldn’t wrap my head around it, and yet that is the approaching reality. 

                We see these conflicts happening in our own country as states argue over the fate of the Colorado River.  We also see these conflicts happening all over the world as peoples scramble for water.  In 2000 an attempt to privatize the water supply in areas of Bolivia resulted in higher costs and public outcry ending in police violence.  Currently communities in Brazil, an area with incredible freshwater resources (has anyone heard of the Amazon River?), are struggling to find ways to provide water to their peoples in the face of drought. 

                Water rights were one of the factors at the center of the 1967 and 1973 Arab-Israeli conflicts, and continue to be at the center of life for communities in the West Bank.  The West Bank is home to much of the area’s water resources, however Palestinian residents are often charged exorbitant fees for access to their own ground water while pipelines carry this precious commodity to unauthorized Israeli settlements at one tenth the cost.

                It makes sense that humanity would have vested interested in the use of such a rare, precious gift, but how are we actually using it?  In an online lecture, Christina Z. Peppard, freshwater ethicist and assistant professor of theology at Fordham University, explains the way our planet’s freshwater is used.  70% of our freshwater consumption is attributed to agriculture.  Now, I grew up on a family dairy farm, and I can tell you that family farming does not account for much of that consumption—this statistic is talking about corporate agriculture.  Corporations (subsidized by our government) that produce cheap, processed foods which are disproportionately purchased by low-income households that often cannot afford fresh produce.  22% of consumption is attributed to industrial use, manufacturing, etc.  That leaves 8% of freshwater consumption attributed to domestic use—showers, drinking water, laundry, etc.  Surprising, right?  I don’t know about you, but all the things I know to do to save water fall into that domestic category—low flow toilets, shorter showers, and if I had a lawn I would water it less frequently.

                Now lest we think that since our domestic water consumption only accounts for 8% that we’re off the hook for the use of the other 92%, let’s not forget about one important thing: Baptism.  We walk into the baptismal waters alone, drowning to self to rise with Christ.  Through baptism we become part of Christ’s body—the body of watered people.  The covenant that we make to God and God’s people includes our accountability for that other 92% because baptism is a communal promise.

                Whether or not you remember your own baptism, the community of Christ into which you were baptized promised to uphold you and see that you grow in faith and discipleship.  You in turn have promised to do the same for your siblings in Christ.  This is the promise of Christian family.  This means that any one individual’s failure to use God’s good gift of water in a way that leads to life is our collective failure.  We have not taught respect for the life giving nature of water.  We have not taught the importance of equal access to clean water for all, regardless of economic status.  And so we gather during this time of lent to face our brokenness, our willfulness, and our distance from God.  We face these things knowing that we are called to surrender ourselves, to turn around and choose a better way.

                And so I look at all this water surrounding us, the evidence of global climate change, and perhaps a sign of the uncertain future, and I wonder: are these baptismal waters?  Are these waters that we must face, knowing that the only way forward is through them?  How must we die, what must we do, for our planet and ourselves to rise with Christ?  How do we turn this unholy mess into holy water?  And are these waters, scary as the possibility is, the beginnings of our redemption?

The Best News

Yesterday I went to prison.  No, nobody had to post bail for me to leave.  It was part of a program that BU has with a group called Partakers.  Partakers pairs an incarcerated BU student (BU offers classes toward a BA for incarcerated persons) with mentors who visit the inmate, primarily to discuss schoolwork and provide encouragement.  The School of Theology shares visiting duties with one student.  Don't worry Mom and Dad, we go in pairs.  I went with a man named Brian who is studying to be a navy chaplain.

I'd never been to or inside of a prison before.  We'd been warned that the guards don't like the education program (because inmates are getting a good education for free while the guards have to pay to go to college) and that we shouldn't expect them to answer questions for us, but I thought they were surprisingly helpful.  It was obvious to everyone in visitor processing that we were newbies, and we got help not only from the guards, but from other visitors.  (Interesting thing worth noting, we were the only white visitors I saw.  All of the guards I saw were white.)

We filled out our visitation paperwork and they called us in in groups of 6-8 to a locked room where we were required to empty our pockets, strip off any excess layers (it's winter in New England) and take off shoes, put through a metal detector, and then searched by hand.  The only thing you could take in with you was a locker key (where you'd stored all your stuff that isn't allowed inside, books, wallets, car keys), your paperwork, and a government issued debit card that you could use to buy snacks in the visitation room.

Then, re-dressed and re-layered, we were taken into another room where we waited for the group ahead of us to walk from visitor processing across the yard to the visitation center.  Once they were inside we were allowed to exit and cross the yard to the visitation center.  The vestibule to the visitation center is locked from the inside and outside.  We de-layered again and left our coats in the vestibule, after which we were let into the visitation center.  We handed over our paperwork and then were allowed to meet with our student in a large room with many other inmates and their visitors.  Kids were everywhere.  We spent the next two and a half hours getting to know our student. 

He told us about his studies, family, how he ended up where he is, and his faith.  He loves to write poetry, and is having some published.  He participates in plays that the inmates put on and sometimes even write.  He showed us photos of his kids and told us about their visits and discussions.  He told us about his faith and the studies he'd done with various chaplains.  The books he'd read.  How the Spirit was working in his life and helping him talk to other inmates.  We told him about what we were studying and what had brought us to BU.  How our own various calls had worked and where we thought we were headed in future.  We talked about books and music we like.  Just general stuff, but also just enjoying each other.

There were two things I kept thinking about as I was sitting there. 
1) The arts are so important for our humanity.  We need poetry, literature, and music in order to be human, and yet these are the things that are being phased out of education.  How is it that a prison can see the necessity of the arts, but public schools can't?
2) Most of what I've learned in school has no application to yesterday.  It's great to have a specialized vocabulary, to know what council decided what orthodox belief where, to have a framework in which to interpret injustice, poverty, systemic racism, etc. but so little of that helps when you're sitting face to face with somebody who's had life land on them.  Even when it's their own decisions that put them in a terrible situation, knowing about the hermeneutics of suspicion isn't helpful.

I  was pretty nervous about going yesterday, and was worried that it'd take the whole day (which it did), but I signed up anyway because I know that there's a pretty good chance I'll have to visit a prison at some point in my career and I'd rather have a minimal amount of experience now.  I'm so glad I went. I know he was grateful for our visit yesterday.  I know we brightened his day.  But more than that it was a chance for my eyes to be opened. 

Prison and the sorts of lifestyles that often lead there are so far beyond my personal/familial experience.  In the past I have been judgmental about people making the sorts of decisions that land them in jail, or with multiple kids from multiple partners, or any number of other things.  Working at Gannett was the start of the end of that for me, of knowing that most people most of the time are doing the best they know how to do.  Sometimes we simply screw up, but sometimes there are forces greater than us that put us in terrible situations.  In those situations even our best possible decision is still sometimes a bad decision. 

But even in the middle of a prison of our own creation grace is there, using the scars of our terrible decisions, the evidence of our failure, to speak words of healing and hope.  I found myself yesterday in the middle of our conversation offering silent prayers of thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving that even the worst things we do can be used and do not define us, that even in the midst of so much darkness the light still shines.  That God hangs out in prison too.  Isn't that just the best news?

Garner Preaching Prize

This is the sermon I preached today for the Garner Preaching Prize.  Most of you probably know that preaching hasn't really been a part of my vision for my vocation, but sometimes there is a vision greater than our own so...  The only parameters were that the audience we were preaching to was the BU School of Theology audience.  Here it is:
____________________

Goodness, you all are a good looking crowd, an intimidatingly good looking crowd. 

I had the realization earlier today that as the last preacher I had the option of pulling a Jimmy Stuart and going for the filibuster.  Today Marsh Chapel, tomorrow Washington.  But I won’t.

 

Our reading this afternoon comes from Paul’s letter to the Romans, Chapter 12, verses 1 and 2:

¹I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.  ²Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect. 

The word of God for the people of God.
Thanks be to God.

When I sat down to write this sermon I debated whether or not to begin by telling you my conclusion in advance.  Is it more elegant to lead you gently there, letting the prose slowly unfurl like a gently budding blossom, or should I just load you on the number 57 bus, send you hurtling through traffic to the station, and shove you out the door at my conclusion?  Given that 2:40 in the afternoon is prime nap time, and you’ve been listening to sermons all day, I’ve opted for the latter.  You’re welcome.

My conclusion is this: we have completely missed the point when it comes to thinking about sacrifice, to our detriment.  Simply hearing the word causes us to shut down.  We have thought of it as privation, as taking, as gruesome, primitive, and entirely without merit.  Given the vision of sacrifice we’ve inherited our reticence is understandable, but we’ve been wrong.

Today I’m going to offer an alternative, life giving understanding of sacrifice as self-limitation, which I believe has the potential to free us individually and to allow us collectively to be the people God has called us to be.

Okay, now that you know the destination, let’s get to the unfurling.

For those of you who have not spent your recent free time ambling through commentaries on Romans, I’ll offer a very brief, sweeping recap of the chapters prior to today’s verses, and a summary of the chapters which follow:

In Chapters 1-4 Paul begins his argument by explaining that the gospel unveils the fact that through Jesus the Messiah God has been faithful to the Abrahamic covenant by creating a world-wide family for Abraham.

Chapters 5-8 go on to detail that through Jesus, God is doing for this new family what was done for Israel, namely redeeming them from enslavement and guiding them through this life to future inheritance.

Chapters 9-11 state that though Israel has failed to recognize this new manifestation of the covenant, and though this covenant has been opened to peoples beyond Israel, God still desires Israel’s participation in covenantal blessings.

The two verses we’ll be examining today (Chapter 12:1-2) serve as the hinge between these points and the conclusion of Paul’s argument found in chapters 12-16.  In these concluding chapters Paul closes by claiming that the community of the gospel should reflect God’s desire that Jew and Gentile come together to worship Christ, one body with one mission.  Paul has all kinds of suggestions on how one ought to live, but I’ll leave these for you to investigate and evaluate for yourself.  I know that, following midterms, you are without things to read and research.

           

This whole letter is an exposition of God’s faithfulness and justice rooted in the Abrahamic covenant which, through Jesus the Messiah, has been opened to the rest of the world, ushering in God’s kingdom of vindication and hope.  Paul wants to show the Jesus followers in Rome what God has been up to all along, and where they might fit into that plan.  Now, to claim that the seat of justice is not in the capital of the Roman Empire, but in Christ is a bold claim to make especially to those living in said capital, but Paul was nothing if not bold.

           

So, with that background let’s take a look at the text for today.  My initial read through raised a couple of questions for me, so, in good exegetical faith, I took myself to the library.  Lo and behold there were these things called books (gasp!) full of helpful information.

On to the questions.

Question 1: When Paul says, “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship,” what he mean by “body”?  Does God just want me for my body?  Am I left to do what I like with the rest of me?

By body Paul is referring to not simply the physical flesh and bone, but the entirety of our person.  An all-inclusive view of ourselves.  Not only all we are, but all that we will be.

             Question 2: What is a “living sacrifice”?  Is Paul into some kind of early church equivalent of

             “The Walking Dead”?

It appears Paul did have an interest in the undead.  A living sacrifice implies a bloodless sacrifice, and when we combine that with the holistic notion of the body, we see that Paul is entreating us to offer to God all that we are, body, mind, soul, strength.  Our very identity.

           Question 3: What is “spiritual worship” and how am I supposed to do it with my fleshly body?

The word translated as “spiritual” is in no way related to pneuma (or spirit), a word we know very well.  Instead of pneuma we find the word logikos, which would be better translated as “rational” or “reasonable”.  This word would have resonated with Jewish and Hellenistic philosophers alike, adding to Paul’s main theme of the world-wide covenant made possible in Christ.

When we add this final bit to our understanding of verse 1, Paul’s appeal becomes clear: in light of God’s continued faithfulness to the covenant people, of which the gentiles and Jews are both part, the only lifestyle that makes sense is one of worship.  In our coming in and going out, the devotion of our entire person gives glory to God.

How is this meaningful to us in this room today?  In a world that equates our worth with our status, belongings, appearance, gender normativity, and overall hipness factor the pressure to do whatever it takes to fit in, to be taken seriously, is undeniable.  American society tells us that we must have the contemporary equivalent of the white picket fence, what is sometimes referred to as “the standard package” – the latest cell phone, nice enough car, a varied wardrobe so that people don’t see us in the same outfit too often, etc.  These are not luxurious wants, these are basic necessities.  These things are the foundation of our identity. 

We all, to some extent, know this isn’t the truth—that these are the things that “moths and rust will soon destroy,” things that won’t ultimately satisfy our dissatisfactions.  We know that our identity is not defined by what the world thinks, but rather by what God thinks.  We know this, and in many cases we’ve spent years developing our thoughts on what God does think.  Seeking to master God’s name, as one of my colleagues earlier in the day said.

And that is precisely why this matter to us in this room.  We have had the privilege to stop and think.  To think lofty thoughts, to dive into mysteries.  To absorb the best of what critical scholarship has to offer.  And this privilege requires us to do something about it.  Privilege is a loaded word.  I recognize that.  Feminist theologian Sarah Cokley asserts that we are all privileged in some fashion and I stand with her on that.  We in this room, students and faculty of Boston University School of Theology, are privileged.  And it is the privileged who have the most to gain and most to lose by choosing to see sacrifice as self-limitation.

When we hear or see played out the false narratives of consumerism, nationalism, individualism, dualism, that tell us our salvation is found in isms, that we can consume our way to heaven, when we see these things, we have a choice.  The thoughts we think, the work we do, and the way we live all buy into this myth…or reject it.  These insidious myths circumscribe our worldview.  They limit the possibilities we see to what the "isms" want us to see.  When we reject these narratives we naturally limit ourselves—we limit our consumption to what is fair, sustainable, and respectful.  We limit the hold nationalism has on our imaginations.  We recognize the limits of our individuality, and the ways our perceived limitlessness can limit others.  We limit our belief in easy fixes and clear solutions promised to us by dualism.  In this way, self-limitation is resistance.

Now, you may have heard me mention that those with privilege have the most to lose when we begin self-limiting.  I felt everybody get a little uncomfortable, a little shifty.  So what do we lose?  We stand to lose the status the world attributes to us.  You see, when you cease to buy into the world’s schtick the world ceases to buy into you.

What do we gain? We gain freedom.  Freedom from the notion that we can have it all.  That we should have it all.  Freedom from the drive that keeps us from looking up, looking around, or looking inside.  Friends, we are finite for a reason.  Our createdness isn’t a fluke.  When we live into the Messianic covenant, recognizing that the only reasonable response to grace is a life lived as worship, we limit ourselves, not as a negation of self, but to transform the self into the image of God.  When we limit ourselves we are free to be nothing more and nothing less than what God has called us to be.  This is Paul’s point in verse 2—to reject the confines of the world’s imagination and be made in the image of God is to be transformed.  When we live in the world with praise, we are given possibilities to see anew God’s mercies.  This is the good news!

Now, I recognize that the concept of self-limitation could be harmful for those who have been denied agency, either through systemic or personal abuse.  For these people sacrifice has been taking rather than giving, and we must be careful and attentive to the ways their experience differs from ours.  For these people transformation happens in different ways, but I believe that for us, our self-limitation is what helps open our eyes and hearts to the pain of others.  In this way self-limitation intertwines our transformation with theirs.

 

I believe this is a message that we, the people in this room and the church, need to hear.  As I face graduation and entrance into full time church service I wonder if the church is ready to hear this message not as condemnation, but as good news.  As I face the likelihood of bi-vocational ministry, decreased giving, and increasing poverty I wonder if I will serve churches that expect me to uphold the status they feel they’re due.  I wonder if I will be expected to drive, at the minimum, a program Honda Civic instead of a dependable 1994 Buick Century named Velma.

I wonder if I will be able to help a community re-narrate their life and help them see freedom in their midst.  I wonder if I will be able to resist the siren call of status.  With any luck my natural introversion and dislike of anything resembling schmoozing will keep that program Civic well beyond my grasp.

It seems fitting to give this sermon in this chapel on this day.  All Saints Day gives us the opportunity to reflect on and remember our spiritual ancestors.  As we sit in this chapel we are surrounded by windows and carvings of those who have made our lives possible.  Who limited themselves to the call of God on their lives.  Those who could not rest until they were found in God.  Likewise we anticipate the future saints.  Those who depend on us to worship God with our identities. 

My sister was due to have her second child, a little girl named Etta, three days ago.  As of yet no news…so I wait…it’s all about me, you know.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the kind of world I want for her.  A world where the grace limited by the neat boxes of dualism is set free.  Where the boundaries of nation are porous enough for Jew and gentile to commune as one.  One where the chasm of oblivion accessed through drugs, domestic violence, and war is filled and healed.  Where all of creation is respected, not for what can be taken from it, but for the way it witnesses to God’s great faithfulness, mercy, and love.

This is the world I want, and I feel comfortable in saying that this is the world we all want.  A world made new.  God has given us hands, hearts, and minds freed to do the work set before us.  In light of the mercies of God isn’t this our reasonable worship?