Who Is My Mother?

NOTE: I preached today and the sermon is printed here.  Also included at the end of the manuscript a few other portions of the service liturgy.  These are intended to illustrate the importance creating a worship service where all the parts merge into a central theme. Individual worship services flow best when everything fits into one frame.    

Who Is My Mother?

I Samuel 16:1-7; St. Matthew 12:46-50

A Guest Sermon Prepared & Delivered by James E. Norton

First Presbyterian Church, Fairmont, WV 26554

Mother’s Day, May13, 2012

            This morning’s first lesson recalls the time when Samuel, the prophet, was sent by God to search for a new leader for Israel from among the sons of Jesse.  Samuel’s instructions included this word of caution: “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature…for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

            That is sound advice, especially in a time when the process of electing our nation’s leaders has gone into overdrive.  But that advice is equally relevant for a day when we celebrate motherhood and family life.  We are not to be concerned with exterior wrappings, but with the product, with what goes on inside an individual or a family, whether that family is the traditional nuclear family, a single parent family, a blended family, a childless family, an adoptive family, a family of same gendered parents, a family comprised of unrelated adults sharing a home in the way that a rabbi and twelve disciples did, a congregational family, a national family, an international family.

            Growing up, the images of family life projected at my generation included such television programs as “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver.”  Typically, father was the man of the house who upon returning after a day’s work at the office would be greeted by his dutiful wife, attractively arrayed with her hair perfectly styled, ready to hand him his newspaper and cup of coffee as he settled down in his comfortable chair.  The family dog was also waiting beside the chair holding the father’s slippers in his mouth.  Scenes of chaos and severe dysfunction in the family were never portrayed in the 50s, and I can still remember wondering why my family wasn’t like that or wishing I lived in a family that was like that.  It was a long time before I realized that those 50s images bombarded at us by the television producers were all exterior wrappings with very little truth in them.  More recent programs such as “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or BBC’s “Outnumbered,” although intended as comic portrayals, are probably more accurate depictions of family life.

            Unfortunately many of today’s realities of family life are not very funny.  Sadly, we could go on for hours cataloging ways in which institutions and individuals undermine and inflict harm on others, especially women and children.  Indeed, if we had a show of hands, I bet at least 75% of us here would indicate that we personally knew someone who has been the victim of domestic violence, bullying, or other forms of degrading humans.

            One woman known to me, whose story I have permission to share, lived twenty years with an abusive husband.  The abuse began, as it usually does, early in the marriage with seemingly innocent, unreasonable expectations, escalating in time to verbal lashing out.  Then came the final straw when the abuse turned physical, and very brutally so.  That attack by Larry, the husband, was followed later by his wife, Bridget, secretly packing up her three boys (ages 12, 10 & 8) and leaving for temporary safe shelter.

            To outsiders, Bridget and Larry appeared to be the epitome of a very typical, well-rounded couple.  They were faithful members of their community’s United Methodist Church; the three boys were involved in little league football and church league basketball; the family gathered with the other families in this tight-knit community’s many activities

But when Bridget in desperation finally mustered up the courage to get out, her husband employed his exceptional charm and self-pitying demeanor to win over the support and sympathy of the congregation, including the pastor.  His manipulative powers went so far as to spread rumors about how Bridget had been unfaithful, and some of the women in the congregation quickly rushed to Larry’s side to console him, telling him how hard it was to understand how Bridget could leave such a caring, wonderful husband.  (Make no mistake about it: there are some very winsome, clever operators out there!)  Besides the intense stress and concern about the future welfare of her children and herself, Bridget was shunned by the congregation, and on one occasion after she found living arrangements in another part of town, she was accosted in the grocery store by one of the church women whose outburst there in front of the three boys and everyone else in the store accused Bridget of being a (well, we’re in church, so I’ll not repeat the word).

            Fortunately there were others who weren’t as easily conned by Larry’s machinations, and their support and practical compassion coupled with Bridget’s deep commitment to change over the next year and a half to two years, finally extricated her from that dark prison.  In time, Bridget followed through on a dream she had as a college student of becoming an environmental biologist, applying to various graduate schools.  She was accepted at one of our fine universities in the South and even awarded a fellowship.  She completed her Master’s Degree with honors and was accepted into another southern school where she is doing exceptional work as a Ph.D. candidate.

            Bridget’s successful liberation from an abusive marriage was anything but easy.  She is on the healing side of the road today, largely because of her own persistence, and also because of persons around her whose constructive care and compassion helped point the way to recovery.

Throughout my active years as a pastor, I have personally witnessed many occurrences of life’s odiousness.  And each time I thought I had seen it all, something else erupted reminding me how pervasive violence is in our culture.  There was the father who “knew” (in the biblical sense) his eleven-year-old son over and over, sleeping with the boy rather than his wife; there was the beloved grandfather, who was so respected that his name is inscribed on one of the memorial plaques decorating the sanctuary of the church he attended, who would offer little girls in his neighborhood candy if they would expose themselves to him; there is an epidemic of inappropriate acting-out against minors and other vulnerable persons by clergy who abuse their office, not just Roman Catholics, but clergy of all Christian churches (my own denomination, The United Methodist Church, is besieged by such cases winding up in the courts); there is the battle raging between Congress and President of the United States over budget negotiations that would do away with programs that provide protection to women and children; there are the millions who die daily, mostly children and the elderly, from malnutrition and related diseases; there are the religious fundamentalists who, with incredible hatred, achieve their political purposes by atrocious acts of revenge on thousands of the world’s sons and daughters.  The evidences of violence are astronomical.

            So, what word is there to speak to our predicament?   How can we combat seemingly out-of-control violence in our culture?  Well, this is Mother’s Day, and perhaps exploring once again the original spirit of Mother’s day will offer a clue.  After all, those who gave us this special day also gave us a document clearly stating its purpose.  It is the 1870 proclamation written by Julia Ward Howe, and later embraced by Ann Jarvis and her daughters.  As you are well aware, Ann Jarvis, living in West Virginia before we had achieved statehood, organized women on both sides of the Civil War into “Mothers’ Day Work Clubs” to treat wounds, feed and care for both Union and Confederate soldiers.  These “Clubs” also worked in a number of cities to improve sanitary and health conditions.  Ann Jarvis and her daughters, Anna and Ellsinore, fervently affirmed that women had every right and responsibility “to promote the general welfare” through assertive political and social activism.  Activism, striving against violence, providing care for all persons, agitating for the good—that was the original spirit of Mother’s Day, as these lines from Julia Ward Howe’s proclamation declare:

“Arise, all women who have hearts!  …Whether your baptism be of water or tears!  Say firmly ‘our sons (and daughters) will not be taken from us to unlearn all we have been able to teach of charity, mercy, and patience.  We will be too tender of those of another country to allow our (children) to be trained to injure theirs.  …The sword of murder is not the balance of justice.”[i]

            That Proclamation is a clarion call, stating that there is something so foundational in the experience of bearing children that it transcends boundaries, creeds, political philosophies and time; that it is not only basic to what makes people human, but points to the essence of what makes God divine.  There is something so divinely inherent, resonating within us from the moment we are born, wherein we know that life is holy and is meant for mutual respect, love, compassion, peace and joy.  The Proclamation is directed not only to those who have had the God-like experience of bringing life to fruition in the womb, but to those of us who will never know firsthand the wonder of that miracle.  We must not undo what we have been taught from birth of “charity, mercy and patience,” as the Proclamation puts it.

            This morning’s gospel lesson tells of the time when, speaking to a crowd, Jesus is interrupted by someone telling him that his mother and brothers were standing outside waiting to see him.  Surprisingly, Jesus replies by saying, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?”  “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.”  Hilary Clinton’s book, It Takes a Village to Raise a Child, makes the same point.

            One simple way we can see the implication of this principle is to look at an all too common occurrence in churches.  Maybe not this congregation, but many churches experience difficulty finding volunteers to work with children and youth.  The times this difficulty is discussed in congregational education committee meetings or board meetings, someone will invariably say something like, “Shouldn’t the parents of the kids do that?  After all, I did it when my children were in Sunday School and youth groups, and so should they!”  Such an attitude has always seemed to me to be short-sighted, if not self-centered (I’ll do it for my own but not for anyone else’s).

            Thank goodness, I did not grow up in that kind of church.  Were it not for many other mothers and fathers, in addition to my biological parents, who were there for me in Sunday School and youth fellowship meetings, and especially at critical times, who knows where I would have ended up.  It takes a village of surrogate moms, dads and grandparents to raise a child.

            The purpose of Mother’s Day is not to romanticize mothers, but it is a time to remember and show appreciation for all those activist women who have helped to build our faith and lives, who, when we were up against it, were there for us, helping us to get through it all.  They are the ones who listened, cared, were straight with us, and who gave of themselves for our sakes.  They also stood up to the forces that would dehumanize and make us less than we are meant to be.  In other words, they actually did what Jesus taught.

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[i] “Mother’s Day Proclamation,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother%27s_Day_Proclamation

PRAYER OF CONFESSION (in unison)

Loving God, we realize that we have not made our homes the dwelling places for your love that we would like.  Too often, we act like individuals who happen to share the same building, rather than family members who care for one another.  Help us to renew our commitments to the growth and development of those who share our homes with us.  Help us to communicate openly with one another and to show our love in the homes where we live.  Amen.

WORDS OF FORGIVENESS (by the pastor)

When the prophet Isaiah searched all human experience to find the most powerful example of human care that could possibly be conceived, it was motherhood that came to mind.  "Can a woman forget the infant at her breast," he wrote, "or a loving mother the child of her womb?"  No where in all creation is there such caring as that of a mother for her child.  Yet says the prophet, it is conceivable that one could find a mother who ceased to care.  "Even she may forget" is the word the prophet hears, "yet I will not forget you."  The holiest, highest, most enduring love that human nature can know is still flawed compared with the endless and overwhelming mother love of God.  We are forgiven, loved and accepted by God.  Thanks be to God.

STATEMENT BEFORE THE OFFERING

Shortly after Anna Jarvis succeeded in making Mother's Day a nationally recognized holiday in 1914, she became disillusioned at how this day had become so commercialized.  She and her sister, Ellsinore, spent their entire family inheritance campaigning against the commercialization, Anna herself was arrested over this issue for disturbing the peace, and the two sisters died in poverty.  According to Anna's obituary in the NY Times, she became embittered because too many people sent their mothers a printed greeting card.  In her words:

"A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world.  And candy!  You take a box to Mother--and then eat most of it yourself.  A pretty sentiment!"

May the offering we receive this day be more than a pretty, perfunctory sentiment.  May it reflect the same kind of self-sacrifice and courage demonstrated by such women as those we remember today.  Let us symbolize the giving of ourselves by the giving of our gifts.

 

Christmas Letter 2011

Every year, inserted in some of the Christmas greetings our family receives from friends and relatives are letters enumerating the senders’ activities, accomplishments, illnesses, and other significant vicissitudes of the preceding year. While I enjoy the chance to catch-up with what’s happening in the lives of these companions, I have never felt the need to reciprocate with such letters myself. Until now. (Microsoft Word is trying to tell me that the preceding sentence is not a sentence—yes, you confounded machine I know it’s a fragment, but I’m not going to change it, so there!) Where was I? Oh, yeah. Somehow there is an urge this year to let others know “how goes it,” and at the same time send Christmas greetings.

The most recent change for our family and many others in our region is the departure of one of the most exceptional pastors we have known. Josh Patty was for the last four years pastor of the church Polly and I attended, and his intellect, passion and faithfulness to the Gospel are rare commodities among clergy these days. I can make that claim because for most of my 46 years in pastoral ministry, a major chunk of my time was spent working with candidates for Ordained Ministry. Suffice it to say that (in my view) the trend toward dumbing-down is epidemic in Christian ministry and, unfortunately, it seems that most congregations prefer “nice” pastors who settle-in with the preferences and prejudices of the congregants (or as psychologists might say, pastors who are co-dependent), rather than pastors who are competent and capable to provide fruitful leadership.

Now, how is such a stinging observation appropriate for a “Christmas Letter”? Most of these letters simply report the preceding year’s happenings and conclude with Christmas blessings for the readers. Why include opinions about events, coloring them not in seasonal reds and greens, but in more of a wintry grey?

A colleague and friend who is a professor at a very prestigious university school of theology hints at a clue. Often, she has spoken of how the odious facts of life can be “altared” (misspelling deliberate) into realities more akin to divine purposes. A peasant baby is born in a filthy barn, which could be a metaphor for the smelly stench and barn-like character of life in the world. But this peasant baby becomes the One who restores creation and humanity to God’s graceful acceptance and attributes. That is “altaring,” or lifting life’s circumstances to God’s altar of transformation for good.

Pastor Josh has accepted a call to a congregation in the Midwest that already seems to realize the unique gifts and strengths he brings to ministry. Surely as time progresses, the congregants will grow in their appreciation of his leadership. While we feel the pain of his separation from Fairmont, we can rejoice that he is where others will benefit from his keen analytical abilities and commitment, as he, no doubt, will benefit from his new congregation’s capabilities to foster his own continued growth. “Altaring” is how the light continues to shine through the wintry darkness.

The past year included two separate struggles with kidney stones requiring five trips to the ER and three surgeries for yours truly. These were extremely painful and unpleasant times. But even here there were glimpses of light in the darkness: a loving wife’s never-failing care, concern expressed by other friends and family, and a primary care physician who, along with his staff, pulled out all the stops to make prompt medical expertise available. One time, when the misery was too intense for words, I went to see the dear, good Dr. Ang, and while examining me, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said softly, “You are really having a rough time, aren’t you!” Having such recognition of one’s struggle is “altaring.” It lifts the darkness and lets healing light shine through.

Polly continues as the HR Director of a social service agency with nearly 300 employees. It is a sometimes chaotic position, and often she can be heard to say that she walks a fine line between loyalty and stupidity (she is past retirement age). She will return home from the office today having had to deal with a serious personnel issue on top of other unending details, and she’ll be showing the tell-tale signs of the stress that accompanies her profession. My hope is that something about our life together and our home is “altaring” for her, and that amid the soft glow of Christmas tree and window lights there is peace.

Polly’s mom is staying with us now due to advancing forgetfulness and other lapses related to advancing aging. “Grandma” or “Gwam” as Trevor and I most often refer to her, has made the transplantation fairly well. (Her dog, “Sadie,” came along, and while she is willing to get along with our cat “Molly,” the cat has decided to go into attack mode, growling, hissing and chasing the dog whenever it dares to get too close.) Sometimes Grandma realizes she needs to be in a setting where she is helped to remember to eat, take her medicine, etc., and other times she’s just visiting and will be returning to her home soon. It’s sad when a woman who has always been a highly responsible, take-charge individual reaches such a time of dependency. She who has taken care of so many others, both as a nurse and a good neighbor, is now having to be cared-for, and that’s disconcerting, to say the least. Perhaps that there are those around who can do for her as she has done for others is helping to “altar” the situation into something that more nearly incarnates God’s care. If so, then it would be the same kind of “altaring” care I received from Gwam and Pop during teenage years when dating and marrying their daughter—care that in significant ways made them more my parents than my biological parents. That Gwam continues to delight in beauty, recall significant events from the distant past, play with Sadie, and even laugh at herself may be indicators of “altaring” grace.

Good friend—actually more brother than friend, Dr. William L. Roberts—is waging a mighty battle with what has been diagnosed as terminal cancer. Amazingly, the breaks in between the chemo treatments still find Bill and lawyer, Tom Patrick, designing what promises to be a breakthrough approach in adapting coin of the realm mediation principles and practice for churches, work that unfortunately is sorely needed these days. Not only so, but Bill continues to work with selected individuals as they struggle toward more wholeness and less woundedness (yes, Microsoft Word, I know that’s not a word—get over it). Once again, the darkness continues to be “altared” through the following of one’s sense of call, one’s commitment to do good, one’s faithful passion.

Son Trevor is still living with us out of economic necessity. As some of you are aware, he developed seizure disorder as a freshman in college and that along with other complications sent him into a tailspin that took years to straighten out. His seizure disorder is controlled with medication, and this past year he completed with distinction an educational program in the medical technology field. He currently works with mentally challenged individuals assisting them in learning ways to live up to reasonable expectations in daily life. We have learned from people outside our home of Trevor’s helpfulness to others in critical situations. Here too, perhaps, are signs of life being “altared,” being made holy through God’s working in another’s helpful influence.

Well, those seem to be the more significant things roused up by reflection over the past year since Christmas last. Obviously, there are many of life’s daily little happenings that “altar” what otherwise would be dismal, drab, dull days: telephone calls with friends, breakfast with clergy at McAteer’s or lunch and outings with other friends, reading new books (and sometimes rereading good old books), serious conversations with persons about personal or global issues that matter, occasional sessions at the piano or reed organ demonstrating just how rusty I have become, and adapting to my role as house husband since my retirement, to mention a few.

Tomorrow, Friday, Dec. 23, Polly’s brother, Fred, and his wife, Sue, along with their two daughters and their husbands and grandchild, Gavin, will be visiting for our Christmas get-together, and we are excited they are coming. Could it be that once again the day will bring an awareness of how life can be “altared”? It seems to happen most for me in times of being with the significant persons in my life. I wonder if that is true for others. Whether or not that is so, we hope that whatever your circumstances in this holy season, there may come glimpses of life “altared” with the joy, hope, love and peace that is of God.

Thoughts on Why Praise Songs are NOT Christian

First, these thoughts are meant to apply only to the praise music that I have heard sung in a few churches. It may very well be that there are representative songs in this genre that my preferences would deem fit to be called Christian, but my limited exposure just hasn’t had the privilege of hearing or singing them yet. Perhaps this post will prompt some such examples from a few readers, but as the readership of this blog is, indeed, sparse, it’s doubtful.

So, why aren’t the songs having received the imprimatur of a few churches in my ken Christian? Perhaps some lines from these songs will provide a clue to an answer:

“Lord, I lift Your name on high,” “Lord, I love to sing Your praises,” “I’m so glad You’re in my life,” “You came…my debt to pay,” “I will not forget your love to me,” “Hold me to Your side and I will love You to the end,” “I will bless the Lord forever,” “I will not be moved,” “Draw me in,” “You have made me glad,” “And I’ll say of the Lord…,” “Thank You, Lord, for bearing all my sin and shame,” “Now I know your embrace,” “You are my everything and I will adore you,” “I sing praises to the King of kings,” “Jesus, I’m so in love with You,” etc., etc., etc.

Except for one of the songs in this category that I can recall singing, they are all about an unholy trinity of “Me, Myself and I.” It almost seems as if we imagine by singing such words that God is so pleased at the sound of our melodic flattery that the Divine Being surely must bless us with some sort of special or chosen status for our feel-good blather.

Some will argue that such personal, pietistic panegyrics have always found their way into church music, but while, perhaps, true, it seems to this observer that the rise of the Jesus movement in the 1970s (following the fading of the anti-war and civil rights protest movements) brought with it flourishing new industries in Christian country music, Christian pop, Christian rock, Christian metal, Christian hardcore, Christian punk, Christian alternative rock and Christian hip hop, all of which have proven lucrative for their proponents. Whereas in former times first-person singular language in church music may have been an expression of one’s deep, personal commitment, today such commitment, genuine or not, just happens to coincide with earthly gain and popularity. One wonders if contemporary Christian music composition/performance would be as attractive, were it not accompanied by such corporal incentives?

One aspiring Christian music star reported in his Facebook page some months back about driving past a beautiful mansion in a panoramic country setting and wondering if he would “make it” and, thereby, have his own house like that. It’s natural for young people starting their careers to be centered in concern about “making it” in their chosen field, but is possessing palatial property an authentic sign of what purports to be Christian devotion? Is there not some disparity between who Jesus was and what he did, and an industry that turns his life, teaching and even his death into a profitable business?

That’s where the rubber screeches against the pavement, isn’t it? The Christian story, Gospel, message is about a man whose life was literally given for others. His compassion was such that he poured out his life for the sake of others, especially the poor, outcasts, downtrodden, dejected, the weak, young, old, and broken. It was this same compassion that led to his blistering of the so-called “best” people about town, the well-to-do, the brokers of power, the prestigious. He never singled them out for attack as individuals, but as types of self-important hypocrites, he flayed them, calling them vipers and white-washed sepulchers. They sang God’s praises because their fortunate circumstances meant that God had blessed them above those less obviously favored. They pretended that God walked with them, and talked with them, and patted them on the head or rump. But Jesus’ pervasive sense of compassion for all life saw right through their pretentiousness, calling them out for their lack of humane care and treatment of others.

Perhaps if what passes for contemporary praise, instead of singing “Hey, God, look at me and bless me because I’m singing your praises,” would focus more on God’s care for all of creation (“He’s Got the whole world in His Hands”) or Jesus’ call to take up his cross and follow him into areas crying out for life’s basic needs—“to bring good news to the poor, proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free” [Luke 4:18-19]—(“Here I Am, Lord”), then the music we sing may resonate more accurately with our call as Christians.

An irony here has to do with how the few churches familiar to me that have turned large chunks of their worship services over to egocentric praise music are actually very much involved in improving the living conditions of the less fortunate and making a constructive difference for others. Relationally, these congregations possess genuine warmth that is accepting of all persons and they do remarkable work to improve the welfare of the larger community. It’s as if there’s a wrenching disconnect between the message in the music they sing and what they are actually doing. They are following the Jesus of our faith into life’s hard places.

So, why the preoccupation with self-promoting paeans of praise? When watching You-Tube clips of many of these praise songs being sung by the artists who have “made it,” the setting is usually a large arena filled with people, arms raised and bodies jumping and jiving to Jesus. It seems to parallel a scene in the Bible, in the Book of Revelation (Rev. 7), where a multitude too numerous to count, from all nationalities and cultures, surrounds God’s throne in praise. Could it be that what is happening now in arenas across the country is a projection, however subliminally, of biblical images of the end of time. If such is the case, then it is a perversion of the biblical message. Besides the obvious — history isn’t over yet — the people included in that great multitude around the throne in the biblical vision are those who have washed their clothing in the “blood of the Lamb,” those who have suffered hunger and thirst, the least prosperous, the poor and marginalized, succinctly, those who have sacrificed and/or been made bloody by following the way of Jesus. The so-called “best” people, the right people to be with if you want to get ahead, are not there. Or, as Jesus (according to Matthew) says, “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven.”

Well, there they are: some thoughts about the latest fad in church worship. I close with a quote from an essay by the British mystery writer, Dorothy L. Sayers, entitled CREED OR CHAOS: “If all…are offended because of Christ, let them be offended; but where is the sense of their being offended at something that is not Christ and is nothing like him? We do Him singularly little honor by watering down his personality till it could not offend a fly.”

Good Friday Meditation 2011

(EXPLANATION: Last night I was one of five laypersons and two clergy who offered reflections on the "Seven Words from the Cross," an annual service held at Central Christian Church in Fairmont, WV. My choice was the first word:)

A brief word of background is in order: we really don’t know what Jesus said as he hung on the cross. These sayings attributed to him were not written down until forty or fifty years after the crucifixion. This first word, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do,” appears in five of the earliest manuscripts of Luke’s Gospel available to us, but it does not appear in six others, and many have wondered why the earliest copies of the New Testament are divided as to whether Jesus spoke this word or not. Some of what Jesus said and did was, no doubt, passed down untainted from the original witnesses, but other reports about Jesus may have emerged in the imaginations of the later Christian communities.

Even so, what is truly significant is that all of these stories, biographical or imaginary, depict the same qualities of Jesus character: his absolute trust in God, his compassion and loving heart that went out to others, especially the outcasts and oppressed, the weak, young and broken; his straight-forwardness and courage in the face of opposition; as well as other life-affirming attributes.

Yet, in spite of that, I’m often painfully aware how the story of Jesus gets twisted to say what people want it to say. The history of the church is rife with doctrines and beliefs and practices that turn the Jesus story of amazing love and grace for all life into self-serving systems that count some as deserving of places of honor above others, even to the point sometimes of tragically justifying vicious abuse of others. How often have we all heard statements like: “Unless you believe and practice faith as we do, then you’re doomed?” Or as one church member said to me, “I know I’m going to heaven, but I’ll pray for you.”

Indeed, this twisting of the life and message of Jesus began almost as soon as he died, was buried, and arose from the dead. The first Christians were Jewish, and in no time at all disagreements between the Jewish Christians and the other Jewish denominations (Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, the Priests) became major conflagrations until the Christians finally separated from their Jewish forebears and even went so far as to accuse the Jews of killing Jesus. (By the way, I have some good news: it wasn’t the Jews. Jesus was put to death by the Roman occupation army—period! Jesus created a scene in the Temple that disrupted the Pax Romana, the Roman Peace, and the Roman authorities always moved swiftly to signs of civil unrest and potential rioting. Nothing personal, Jesus, but look and act like an insurgent and, if we can get our hands on you, the consequence will be immediate: crucify him.)

Right from the very start of this thing called Christianity, the example and teachings of Jesus were manipulated and contorted so as to show preference for some over others, to justify positions of power and privilege, so much so that it is easy to hear Jesus saying throughout these 2000 years as he may have said to the Roman soldiers at the foot of the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

So what is forgiveness? Isn’t it to be able to “let go”? By no stretch of the imagination, is that easy. My 46 years of serving congregations are filled with memories of power struggles and deceptive ploys that made the ministry more difficult than I ever envisioned it would be at the start. To this day, I awake some mornings having dreamt about some of those episodes, obviously still not able to let them go, and in the process I still feel wounded because of my letting-go inability. You probably find that hard to understand.

Sometimes it’s an inability of letting go of the pain; sometimes it’s an inability of letting go of presumptive power and prestige. Thomas and Alexander Campbell, the father and son duo that founded this denomination, the Disciples of Christ, had as their grand vision and hope the reunification of all the scattered denominations into one body, bringing an end to Christian separatism and the supposed superiority that leads to disunity. That dream is one of your denomination’s notable contributions to church history. Yet, when in the 1970s the Disciples joined with eleven other Protestant churches to produce the same curriculum materials to be used in their various denominational Sunday Schools jointly (the project was called CE:SA—Christian Education: Shared Approaches), your denominational officials in submitting the materials to the Diciples’ publishing house, made an editorial change that was rather cute: every time mention was made of Jesus speaking to his disciples, the word “Disciple” was capitalized, unintentionally perhaps, but nevertheless suggesting that when Jesus speaks, it’s just to the (capital D) “Disciples,” not to Presbyterians or Episcopalians.

But not all claims to dominance are harmless. One of the most difficult congregations I served was during the late eighties. It is located in a Jerusalem-like capitol city, Charleston, WV. Capitols and their surroundings, even their churches, have a way of cultivating a certain air of superiority, even arrogance perhaps. My pastorate there lasted four years, years laden with conflict and confusion consisting of behind-the-scenes plotting, secret petitions for my removal, unkind anonymous letters, slashed tires, and on one occasion a telephone call in the middle of the night threatening my life. Now these were not bad people, rather they were people who were convinced that they knew the only right way to follow Christ. Consequently, their actions were reasonable because, after all, God was on their side and their righteous cause justified any means whatsoever to bring about God’s ends. The only time I have returned to that church was a year ago to attend a funeral service of one of its beloved members, John Charnock, the City Attorney when I was in Charleston and a genuinely good man.

One of the areas of conflict while there involved the choir director. He was particularly enamored of the then popular Sandy Patti, a contemporary country Christian music star, and his goal was to turn the worship services into look-alike Sandy Patti concerts. His vision of these productions was bound to clash with my highly-liturgical sensibilities, and despite attempts to mediate some common ground, he saw me as an obstructionist to God’s leading, and I saw him as a guy who was sure there was only one right way who wouldn’t listen to other views. I did not object to the use of new tunes and rhythms, nor to the use of other musical instruments. My problem was with the lyrics and what I considered to be “stinkin-thinkin” faith understandings. Perhaps if I had been more acquiescent, I would have decided that no one pays attention to the words anyway. But I couldn’t bring myself to really believe that. In time, the choir director moved on to another church. But I paid a heavy cost in terms of congregational support in that conflict, which then fused into other areas of disagreement. To this day I continue to harbor anger at all that happened in Charleston.

Jesus truly possessed a quality of compassion and understanding that could let-go, that could genuinely reach out to those who were inflicting the cruel torture of crucifixion and forgive them. Deeply desiring to be a disciple of this same Jesus, I wish I could let-go and forgive as he did!

An Interactive Sermon

[EXPLANATORY NOTE: I was the guest preacher at Central Christian Church in Fairmont on the Sunday before Thanksgiving (11/21/10), and in thinking about what to do, I decided to try an approach I had once seen about ten years ago. It was during a worship workshop in Pittsburgh, which was opened by Dr. Douglas Adams, professor at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, CA (if memory serves), who delivered a lecture on St. Matthew's genealogy using cue cards prompting audience responses similar to the ones I employ in this sermon. Ever since witnessing Dr. Adams' creative presentation, I have wanted to "borrow" his idea. And I did, and except for my lack of coordination in handling the cue cards, the sermon seemed to make a point--maybe not the intended point, but it was fun doing something different.]

The Sermon

You know the difference between parents' stories and grandparents' stories, don't you? Perhaps an illustration will help. Say as a parent you just learned that your son or daughter got a "D" on an exam. Chances are, you not only will let your child know how upset you are at his or her performance, but you may find yourself saying something about how hard you had to work to get through school and how you not only had big assignments in ten different classes every night, but you also had at least two hours of chores to do at home as well, to say nothing about having to slog two miles through a foot of snow to get to school everyday. Now, that's a parent's story. Sometimes as parents we make it seem as if life was so much tougher in our day, and inadvertently leave our children with the impression that they will never be able to measure up to all we did when we were their age. Our parent stories tend to make it seem as if we were perfect growing up.

But suppose later on our child who made the "D" happens to be talking with grandmother, and informs her how upset we parents are about the poor grade? Ah, then our son or daughter might learn some very interesting things, like the time grandma was upset and worried because the so-called perfect dad flunked math in the fifth grade and had to take it over again in summer school, or the time perfect mom and some of her friends played hooky from school for a whole week in order to hang out in Palatine Park during the Three Rivers' Festival.

The difference between parents' stories and grandparents' stories is that grandparents tend to tell the whole story whereas parents are apt to let children see only the good parts of their stories. And if the only stories children get to hear are the perfect parent stories, then they will feel inferior and as if they will never measure up. Parents' stories leave daughters and sons feeling as if no one has made such mistakes as they have. But grandparents' stories help youngsters to understand that everyone messes up.

I want to let you in on a secret. The Bible is not a collection of parents' stories. Rather, it is a huge library of grandparents' stories. Humans are forever messing up in the stories of the Bible, but they are still valued and appreciated and considered worthy of God's love and acceptance. Look, for example at the genealogy in St. Matthew's gospel that no one ever reads because the names are too hard to pronounce (like Shadrach, Meshac, Abednego, and Nebuchadnezzar, huh Susan?). Besides that, it is all so boring. But Matthew's genealogy tells the whole story of the history of God's people all the way up to the time Jesus was born. I'm going to need your help reading this genealogy. I have some cue cards (applaud, cheer, boo, hiss, huh?) and as I go through the genealogy, I'll hold them up and you respond as requested.

"An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah (applaud & cheer), the son of David (applaud & cheer), the son of Abraham." (applaud) Abraham who left his father's home and kindred for a land God would show him, and through whom God would bless the nations of the earth (applaud). Yes, Abraham who told his wife to pretend she was his sister when they were in Egypt so that Pharaoh, upon seeing her beauty, would think that she was an eligible receiver of his affection and wouldn't kill Abraham in order to have Abraham's beautiful wife to himself. (Boo)

"Abraham was the father of Isaac (applaud), and Isaac the father of Jacob." (applaud) Yes, Jacob who tricked his brother Esau out of his birthright and stole the father's blessing that rightfully belonged to Esau. (Boo) Jacob whose favored treatment of his younger son, Joseph, led the other brothers to jealous rage. (Boo/Hiss)

"Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers (Huh?) and Judah the father of Perez (Huh?) by Tamar, and Perez the father of Hezron (Huh?), and Hezron the father of Aram, and Aram the father of Aminadab (Huh?), and Aminadab the father of Hahshon" (Huh?) the leader of the tribe of Judah. (Applaud) "And Nahshon the father of Salmon (Applaud) and Salmon the father of Boaz (Applaud) by Rahab" who according to scripture was one of the four most beautiful women in the world (Applaud & Cheer). But Rahab was a prostitute (Hiss) who on one occasion provided shelter to two spies from Israel and helped them escape the Canaanite secret police (Applaud & Cheer).

Now Boaz, son of Salmon & Rahab, was the wealthy and virtuous man from Bethlehem who, when he realized that a foreign woman whose name was Ruth was gleaning in his fields, moved very quickly to protect her from the men who were sure to have their way with her. An unmarried, beautiful foreign woman living in Israel would be considered fair game for any and all. But Boaz showed deep appreciation for her noble character and saw to it that no harm came to her and he even married her (Applaud & Cheer).

"And Boaz the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of King David." (Applaud & Cheer) Yes, David who defeated Goliath and the Philistines. (Applaud & Cheer) David, the king who established Jerusalem as the Capitol of Israel. (Applaud and Cheer) David, who seduced Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite while Uriah was away fighting in David's army. And when Bathsheba became pregnant with David's baby, David, in order to avoid a public scandal, commanded his general to place Uriah in the front lines and then pull back the rest of the troops so that Uriah would be killed. And he was. Then David was free to marry Bathsheba. (Boo & Hiss)

"And David was the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah." Solomon, the wise king of Israel (Applaud) who promised his half-brother Adonijah, who was the rightful heir to the throne, that no harm would come to him if he did not contest Solomon's kingship. (Applaud) Adonijah agreed, but Solomon executed him anyway. (Boo)

"And Solomon the father of Reheboam, a bad king (Boo), and Rehoboam the father of Abijah, (Huh?) and Abijah the father of Asaph, (Huh?) and Asaph the father of Jehoshaphat" a good king who brought an end to the civil war between Israel and Judah. (Applaud)

"And Jehoshaphat the father of Joram," the king, who put his eight brothers to death when he became the king (Boo), and "Joram the father of Uzziah (Huh?), and Uzziah the father of Jotham, and Jotham the father of Ahaz," an evil king who is remembered for his idolatry, a man who even sacrificed his own sons by burning them to death in his pagan religious practices. (Boo & Hiss)

"And Ahaz the father of Hezekiah," who was an able and vigorous ruler and a pious king (Applaud), and Hezekiah the father of Manasseh," another evil king who restored Baal worship and the practice of sacrificing humans. (Boo & Hiss) "And Manasseh the father of Amos (Huh?), and Amos the father of Josiah." Now Josiah was the king who rid the land of Baal worship and the practice of human sacrifice once and for all, and restored the religious practices of Judaism. He is known as one of Israel's greatest kings. (Applaud & Cheer) "And Josiah the father of Jechoniah and his brothers (Huh?) at the time of the deportation to Babylon. After the deportation to Babylon: Jechoniah was the father of Salathiel (Huh?) and Salathiel the father of Zerubbabel." Zerubbabel was the king who resumed the building of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Exiles returned from Babylon. (Applaud)

"And Zerubbabel the father of Abiud and Abiud the father of Eliakim and Eliakim the father of Azor and Azor the father of Zadok and Zadok the father of Achim and Achim the father of Eliud and Eliud the father of Eleazar and Eleazar the father of Matthan and Matthan the father of Jacob (Huh?) and Jacob the father of Joseph (Applaud) the husband of Mary (Applaud) of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah." (Applaud & Cheer)

That's the whole story as grandparents would tell it. Both positive and negative details are included. If these persons, despite their foibles and flaws found favor in the eyes of God, then maybe there's hope for the rest of us.

And perhaps that is a word that can add meaning to our annual Thanksgiving observance this coming Thursday. Is Thanksgiving possible if there are places in our lives where we feel that we have failed others or they have failed us, if we harbor feelings of hurt, ill-will, resentment, disapproval, disappointment or negativity toward others or ourselves? How can we be truly thankful if we do not see how all of life is a gift to be received and appreciated?

Mary Corita Kent, in her book Footnotes and Headlines says something very interesting in this regard. In her words,

"It seems that perhaps there is nothing unholy, nothing unrelated. And that, as we fit things together, synthesize rather than analyze, we might be coming closer to God's view, from which all must somehow fit together. And we must be more careful about stamping out evil, or hating anything, because we know that in the past and in the present, many people and things have become tragically destroyed in the name of good....Evil maybe not seeing well enough....so perhaps to become less evil, we need only to see more, see what we didn't see before. And here everybody is in the game. Things look different to different people, depending on where they stand. And if we can share views, we would get a larger vision. No single group can do it alone--the job is too big, and we can only make it if we work it out together."

How distressing it has been in our recent political climate to watch our leaders accusing opponents of horrendous evil, shouting boo and hissing a lot, and stubbornly refusing to "work it out together." How sad it is in any arena, including the church, when differences lead to misunderstandings causing us to see one side as all good and the other side as all evil. "Evil may be not seeing well enough!"

Thanksgiving includes an awareness of how all of life's experiences, even those that seem to deny life's goodness, are a part of a larger, all-inclusive panorama, a much broader vista. Thanksgiving is the recognition that grandparents' stories are truly the ones we need to hear. They are the stories that help us understand that even though we all mess up, we are still a part of God's never-failing love that covers it all. Jesus, according to St. Matthew's genealogy, is the culmination of generations of human fumbling and fault. This is the same Jesus who offers us still as his disciples the gift and power of a love that accepts us all, left, right, in the middle, Jew Christian, Muslim, atheist, African-American, Latino, Asian, Gay, Straight, rich, poor, young or old.

Remember, the first disciples, like typical teenagers--no, forgive me, teenagers: like typical human beings--quickly found ways to abuse Jesus' love that covers it all. Judas betrayed Jesus into the hands of the authorities--but Jesus never spoke a word against Judas or ever declared null and void his love for Judas. Peter denied Jesus, repeating three times, "I don't even know him!" That must have hurt Jesus deeply--yet Jesus ignored this attempt to throw off his love and loved Peter still. The remaining disciples ran and hid during and after the crucifixion. They didn't want to be seen with Jesus or vaguely associated with him--yet Jesus' amazing love sought them out and covered them with the reassurance of resurrection. Thank God for the grandparents' method of telling the whole story.

A Church Worthy

Last Thursday's minor surgical procedure did meet with one irksome complication, which to describe might cause contorted facial expressions among those who read this, especially if I were to include an account of the remedy. So suffice it to say that "everything came out" okay and all is well.

Despite the extended period of discomfort, there was a delightful upside to the time spent in and around Shadyside UPMC hospital in Pittsburgh. Polly and I stayed in the hospital's Family House across Centre Avenue from the medical center, a six-floor apartment building that provides beautiful, spacious and comfortable accommodations for patients and/or their families. As helpful as having living quarters close by was, the truly enjoyable aspect of our six-day sojourn into Steeler territory came on Sunday.

Just two doors down from the Family House is a church, First United Methodist Church to be precise, an imposing gigantic structure that probably ranks as one of our country's finest examples of Romanesque church architecture dating from the late 1800s. Because of limited mobility, the decision to attend church two doors down was a "no-brainer." Though some misgivings did surface when I noticed a huge banner on the lawn advertising Wednesday evening "Worship Jams." "Ugh!" I thought, "Are we in for another one of those hip-hop jiving to Jesus jamborees?" Quickly, I decided that before entering the sanctuary I would skim the worship bulletin and, if my suspicions were confirmed, inconspicuously slip back out of the church.

What greeted me, however, when entering the building, was harmonious choral music emanating from the sanctuary. The choir was warming up and practicing the anthem for the day. "All right!" I thought, "This sounds promising," as, indeed, it was.

Being early, there were only a few others scattered throughout the nave, an African-American couple nearby, he dressed in a beige suit, she in a stylish dress.. A few others had taken seats too far away to see clearly. As with most "respectable" Methodists, I chose a seat nearer the rear of the sanctuary and allowed the practicing choir to assist my quieting of mind and spirit in preparation for worship. The choir soon finished rehearsing, and rather than rushing off to don robes, there in the sanctuary stillness the choristers, one by one, offered individual prayers; the words were inaudible to one seated in the rear; nonetheless, a gentle hum formed by the many voices seemed more than the sum of the individual parts.

The choir then exited the sanctuary and a flurry of activity began: the pastor checking his notes in the pulpit (which is elevated about four feet above human contradiction); acolytes not yet garbed in their acolyte apparel, fetching their candle-lighters in jeans and Nikes; the music director placing a pair of conga drums in the chancel; and, worshippers filtering into the pews.

What an array of humanity gathered in that sanctuary! African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, Caucasians, Gays, Straights, children, parents, students, professors, senior citizens, some fashionably outfitted, others casually or plainly attired--a microcosm of the globe! A man appearing to be in his fifties was seated in the front row, his disability somewhat more obvious than ours are, and yet, congregant after congregant went out of his or her way to carry on friendly conversations with this lone occupant of the front row. A young woman rose from her seat, walked up the center aisle toward the rear doors, her tight slacks sporting worn places, holes even, that would have raised disapproving glares from the typical churchgoers I have known over the years. Three rows directly ahead of me was a couple probably in their mid-twenties who held each other in warm embraces throughout the service, both women taking turns resting each other's arm around the other and their heads on each other's shoulders.

A beautiful Latino family consisting of mom, dad, and two sons, one about three years old, the other an infant asleep in his carrier, sat in the pew in front of me. Occasionally, dad would reach across his two children and place his arm affectionately on his wife's shoulder, or rub his older son's head. When we stood to sing the first hymn ("Let All Things Now Living"), something about my voice (hopefully not too earsplitting) caught the little boy's attention. He turned around and looked up at me; I in return smiled back at him. He quickly turned away. That began a ritual of his looking at me and my smiling back and then his turning away, a sort of variation of "peek-a-boo." Shortly before the end of the hymn, I smiled and waved, and this time the little boy smiled and waved back. Our game ended when the hymn did. What a sign of health and wholeness it is when children in the midst of an overwhelming space, yet in their parents' presence, feel trusting enough to venture out into the surrounding environment.

When it was "Family Time" (the spot in the service for the children to gather on the steps of the chancel, some accompanied by parents), the Latino dad and son walked hand-in-hand to join the more than thirty other children and a few other parents for the children's message. Afterwards, dad took his son to another part of the building where supervised activities are held for young children, and then rejoined his wife and infant son in the sanctuary. Intermittently, this beautiful young couple held hands or extended arms around shoulders during the rest of the service.

The worship service included Holy Communion. (Unlike some traditions that observe the sacrament every week, United Methodists have struggled to follow their founder's [John Wesley] insistence on "frequent communion," but the common practice today in many Methodist congregations of holding communion on the first Sunday of each month is actually closer to Wesley's instruction than at any other time in American Methodism.) Since "communion Sundays" mean that the service will take longer, most UM pastors plan shorter sermons/meditations to help keep the service from being too long. That was so at this service. Pastor Bob Wilson's message was brief, but very masterful in unpacking the day's scripture lesson, helping us to understand that the early church's emphasis on koinonia, which is most often translated "fellowship," is a far richer concept than mere friendliness. He argued convincingly and correctly that koinonia encompasses the kind of compassionate family connection that accepts and strives together in the midst of both suffering and joy, conflicts and consensus, in times of chaos and times of contentment. "Pastor Bob" went on to describe the history of how in Shadyside First Church that deepened sense of family has manifested itself through the years, and how the same quality continues to be lived-out, not only within the walls of the church building, but in the surrounding community as well. Witnessing the wide acceptance of people from all walks of life actually happening in what was turning out to be a truly enriching time of worship coupled with Pastor Bob's words pointing to the same reality, I found myself in one of those rare instances when word and actions coalesce to drive home the point. What an awesome time of worship visiting at Shadyside First was turning out to be.

Of course, given my musical propensities, the icing on the cake came with the great choral and congregational singing, including singing contemporary versions of the traditional communion responses (Sanctus, Memorial Acclamation, and Great Amen). The song that concluded the service, which I had never heard before, was a kind of calypso rendering with only the Conga drums accompanying:

I believe that peace will come.

I believe that hope will rise.

I believe that love will thrive.

Shadyside's Mission Statement is succinct:

• First United Methodist Church of Pittsburgh affirms that God's grace is available to all.
• We prayerfully seek to openly welcome all of God's children regardless of Christian perspective, education, economic condition, race, gender, national origin, physical and mental abilities, sexual orientation, age, or marital status.
• We commit ourselves to be in ministry for and with all persons, independent of society's regard.
• God blesses us all so that together we can be God's instruments of blessing to the world.

I can't say, because no one really knows what the church to come will be, but I so fervently want to believe that the Christian communities that survive will look and act like this amazing congregation.

Paradise Today

(Explanation: A practice begun by our current pastor, Josh Patty, at Central Christian Church involves mostly laypersons presenting meditations on each of the Seven Words From the Cross on Good Friday evening. The service this year was particularly moving and the meditations were genuinely reflective of each presenter's current faith understanding. Five laypersons prepared and delivered meditations, and Josh and I did the remaining two. Mine was based on the Second Word: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." [St. Luke 23:39-43] It appears below.)

Jesus isn't the only person executed this day. According to the gospels, he is crucified among common criminals. Jesus, having spent his entire ministry associating with the wrong kind of people, outcasts and the like, now dies keeping the same questionable company. Luke's gospel specifies that there were only two criminals crucified with Jesus, one on his right, the other on his left. One of the malefactors, no doubt in anguish with no hope left, does what probably he has always done: he unleashes all the self-loathing of his years on someone else, this time joining the spectators and soldiers at the cross in hurling taunts and poking fun at Jesus. But the other criminal interrupts his partner in crime, rebukes him and points out the stark contrast between the two of them and Jesus. They deserve what is happening to them; Jesus is innocent. This second man then, looking to Jesus, pleads for mercy, and Jesus replies: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

There are several directions we could take in applying this story to our lives. We could focus on the first criminal's pervasive bitterness and hostility, exploring ways to keep our lives from ending up like that. Certainly, we wouldn't lack for information and advice, what with the self-help books in print or the gurus on TV and the Internet that are as innumerable as the stars. Or, we could look more closely at the second criminal, the one who was penitent and who came to Jesus' defense. Many speakers have taken that tack, usually concluding with a kind of morality lesson that insists one has to ask for forgiveness before he or she can be admitted into heaven. Or we might zoom our lens more tightly on the crowd, seeing in them how easily public assemblies can turn into vicious mobs bent on violence. Such a focus would certainly resonate with much that is happening today. Or, there's still another course, that of looking at the main character himself: Jesus. Surely there would be much room for speculation on how, in the midst of unimaginably severe and sadistic suffering, anyone could still reach out to others with such deep compassion. But that kind of wondrous love really is beyond our ability to comprehend, and only silence and awe can approach the mystery of such amazing grace.

None of those possible directions for reflection, however, has seized my imagination tonight. Instead, my attention is being captivated not by any of the characters involved in the plot, but by a place, the one that is named: "Paradise." That word appears only three times in the Hebrew Scriptures and three times in the Christian Scriptures. Even so, it's where the spotlight will be directed in these thoughts.

But first we need a clearer understanding of how people in Jesus' day viewed the world in which they lived, their perception of the cosmos, their cosmology, if you will. We know that to them the world was flat, and it was a rather limited area surrounded by waters that none dared to venture out into very far. Sometimes we call their world view the "triple-decker universe." There was the deck on which they lived, and another underneath, which at the time of Jesus was beginning to be regarded as the space where those who lived less than righteous lives would go when they died. And then, above them was the third deck where God and the heavenly hosts resided. It was from that lofty height that God could observe all the goings-on below and be ready to respond with either retaliation or restoration. God also attended to the administration of the daily operations of the heavenly realm: making sure that celestial beings responsible for pushing the greater light by day, and the lesser light by night across the sky, and those in charge of lowering the lighted lanterns, which were especially helpful to travelers in finding their way in the dark, that all of these heavenly beings were carrying out their respective responsibilities.

While the divine dwelling was just beyond human reach, it was really rather close. Indeed, one biblical story tells of an attempt to build a tower tall enough to reach it.

I don't need to point out how woefully inadequate that view of the cosmos is today, do I? Space exploration, the Hubble Telescope, unmanned satellites launched into deep interstellar regions have drastically altered our world view. We can no longer entertain fairytale fantasies of being able to reach the upper deck if, like Jack, we have the magic beans that will yield a plant tall enough to get us there. So how do we conceive of Paradise, or heaven, or the Kingdom of God, or whatever we wish to call it in our kind of world today?

Curiously, glimmerings of answers to that question are coming not from scriptural or theological speculation, but from scientific inquiry, particularly Quantum Physics. Thanks to the influence of a colleague who is, more importantly, a friend, my reading of late has found me slogging through the enormously complicated "field" (those of you familiar with Quantum Theory will catch the double entendre of the word "field")...this field of which I understand very little, but at least enough to get some inkling of how life may continue.

Now this is where this reflection is going to take a weird turn, and if as a result of my having issued that warning, there is a mass exodus out of here (or on second thought, given the size of this Good Friday gathering, it couldn't be anything more than a dwindling departure--but if that happens), I'll certainly be sorry for alerting you ahead of time.

We've often been told that light travels at a speed of 186,282.4 miles per second. Actually that's not always the case, but for now it's close enough. The basic particles that combine to make up light waves are called photons. Physicists with the use of lasers have been able to conduct experiments showing how photons seem to behave strangely. Indeed, sometimes it seems as if the photons know they are being observed, and that, in turn, appears to influence different outcomes, contrary to scientific expectations. Not only so, but pairs of twin or "entangled" photons, even though they are seemingly separated and sent to opposite ends of space, behave as if they are still connected, as if there is no space between them, and if one of the twins is manipulated by scientists, the other seems to know and duplicates the action. This is a phenomenon that Einstein relegated to the realm of mystery, calling it "Spooky action at a distance."

Okay, this is getting too heady. What's the point?

Our bodies will die. We know that. But what if there are parts of who we are, particles of our lives that never die? What if the energy that is who each of us really is, what if the energy fields that comprise each of our loved ones who have died, what if the penitent thief on the cross, and what if Jesus himself still surrounded us and flowed through us and we through them? What if they are not far away but as close to us as photons are to each other even though they appear to us to be eons apart? How often I have heard people comment that in particularly trying times they have felt the abiding nearness of their loved ones upholding them and giving them strength. Might it be that Jesus really is present right now and at all times urging us on toward the same compassionate purposes he exemplified, even on the cross? We are still tied down to the earth and, therefore, our perceptions of what is possible are confined. But it may be that who each of us really is will continue.

Emerson, soon after the death of his son, wrote, "Our life is not so much threatened as our perceptions. I grieve that grief that can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real nature." Perhaps we are more closely related to all of creation in all times than we can possibly imagine. Maybe heaven is closer than when people saw the cosmos as a triple-decker structure, and maybe we are already in Paradise today. St. Paul affirmed as much when he said that there is nothing in life or death that will ever be able to separate us from the realm of God's love.