Helping Kids Grieve
Original work by Kelly Sue via Flickr on a Creative Commons License
Watching a parent’s slow decline or facing an unexpected funeral is hard enough for adults. What about the kids? Do we let them visit? Even at the end? How do we answer their questions? Should they attend the funeral? Recently, I’ve been honored to watch a family find their own answers to these questions, and they did it with such grace and care that I asked them to share their experiences here.
Rob,
The decision to inlude Sydney in Grandma’s funeral and memorial felt like no decision at all. We had never felt that Grandma’s condition was anything to gloss over with Syd. They were very close and their visits at Oak Crest seemed a competition to see who could smile the most. Sydney always knew Grandma was very old and that she was fairly frail.
Sydney has never exhibited any fear or discomfort around old people and interacted freely with other residents at Grandma’s place. We never avoided visiting unless one of us were sick with something contagious. Age and decline were simply nothing to worry about because they are inevitable. Sydney knew that old people die because we had talked about it quite plainly. (Grandma was my last living grandparent, Karen has no living grandparents, and my dad died before Sydney was born, so Syd has always known there were some branches missing from the family tree.)
As a result of the above and convenient timing, we were all able to be present when Grandma died. Karen, Sydney, and I are pretty much a single unit whenever possible, so it was unquestioned that we would all go to Grandma together. (We were also pretty lucky that we had made a visit only a few days earlier when Grandma was awake and alert – you know, she was herself.) Sydney merely shared the experience with us. There was no reason to exclude her or deprive her of the opportunity to say goodbye and to grieve in her own way. Certainly, if she would have freaked out, we would have removed her and comforted her as needed. As things were, we allowed her to stay as close to Grandma as she wanted and to speak to Grandma as she wanted. I think respect for Sydney demanded that we allow her this emotional room to maneuver.
The events were definitely not over Sydney’s head. It was not a case hauling a child along because she didn’t know what was going on anyway. She displayed the same range of emotions as the rest of us. She was concerned and sad and bored (let’s be honest – it’s no fun waiting around an old folks home!). She was sensitive to the feelings of others, dispensing hugs to console. In so many ways, her behavior was a model of well-adjusted decorum.
Obviously, given her presence at the final moment, she would participate in the visitation, funeral, and memorial luncheon as well. The night Grandma died, we explained the events that would follow – she’s especially curious about burying people in the ground and thinks it’s a funny thing to do (me too). Our main worry was the usual concern parents of four-year-olds have about behavior at any public event: “No running around; stay by us; sit like a lady, you’re wearing a dress.”
Original work by Chuckumentary via Flickr
I remembered how uncomfortable I always was because I didn’t know what to say at funerals, so I just told Sydney to say “thank you” when people said they were sorry or pretty much anything about Grandma. I think she really appreciated the tip and has been consistently gracious with those expressing condolences.
As for viewing the body, that has never been my favorite part. We had explained that Grandma would be in a casket and that she would have makeup on and everthing. Sydney actually helped pick out the clothes she would wear! At the visitation and funeral, we simply asked Sydney if she wanted to go see Grandma, and of course she did. She said Grandma looked beautiful and that was pretty much it. I feel good that she probably won’t ever share my discomfort with the custom.
Since the holidays this year, Sydney has had a sense of being a host. We talked a lot about readying our home for guests and she welcomes others into our home happily. We didn’t talk about this issue explicitly, but I think she realized our special place as family at Grandma’s events. She certainly appreciated the special attention and, I think, accepted the social obligation of our role.
Sydney’s matter-of-fact approach to Grandma’s death has been a comfort in that we don’t have to worry unduely about depression. It has also been a reminder that death is merely an inescapable natural process with which we must all cope. She certainly has helped us more than I expected.
For us, there were so many reasons to facilitate Sydney’s participation in our public grieving and so few reasons not to, that the decision was an easy one. That it comforted others was a happy (though expected) byproduct. All Sydney’s life, on our frequent walks around Douglas, I have told Sydney that it makes people happy when she smiles at them and says hello. I leave it at that. I want her to know it’s a choice. Obviously, I’m pleased and proud when she chooses to share her joy in that way, but I also respect that you just don’t always feel like it.
It’s not earthshattering news that I adore Sydney. I do not claim to be the slightest bit objective, either. But, she certainly does seem to have a gift for bringing joy to others and I’m honored to encourage and nurture that gift.
Thanks for asking for my thoughts on this,
Jeff
I attended the funeral for Sydney’s grandma, and the most touching moment for me was when Jeff’s brother talked about what a blessing Sydney was through the whole process, but especially on Grandma’s last day. In what could have been a dark moment, she was a light. Her smile was infectious, her calm was catching, and her simple acceptance and love for her Grandma was compelling. Turns out it wasn’t the child that needed help dealing with death. It was the grownups.
Thank you, Jeff and Karen. I hope your transparency helps other parents through these difficult decisions.
Many Christians, One Story
This is the final sermon on our series on unity without uniformity. Week 1 was many gifts, one spirit, where we studied the stained glass window. Up close you can do nothing but compare one shard to another. We compare our lives to those near us, and completely miss the bigger picture. We need to step back and see that together, we are God’s work of art, each part beautiful in it’s own way, none more valuable than another, each part placed perfectly in the whole.
Week 2 was many members one body, where we learned that we are the body of Christ. We honor those parts that are hidden, who serve without fanfare, like our Women’s Fellowship. We protect those parts that are vulnerable, like our children. We keep in touch with those who are far from home, but not far from our hearts, like our shut-ins and those in military service. In the body, we find purpose and meaning as we can finally be ourselves.
Week 3 many opinions, one love. Where we learned that love is not a thing, it’s a person. We can know love specifically because we can know Jesus. The love of God our Father is the one thing that holds us together. At the same time, it’s the one thing that keeps us from uniformity, because God’s love is bigger than our heads. We can truly know that aspect of truth we were designed to know, but we cannot know it all, so we keep a firm faith and an open mind.
It’s no accident that these three sermons reflect the trinity: the gifts of the Spirit, the body of the Son, the love of the Father. The very nature of the trinity is unity without uniformity, community without coercion. The ancients called it perichoresis, which means, “to dance around the center,” each person giving up their place to the next, in a dance that never ends. This is the first great mystery of the Christian faith. Today we will examine the second.
This brings us to week 4. Many Christians, one story. This whole time, we’ve been reading from Paul’s letter to the Christians of Corinth, Sin City of Bible times. Now that they are Christians, he’s teaching them how to build new patterns in their lives. Converting takes an instant. Conforming our lives to God’s? That takes a lifetime.
Paul says, “I handed on to you as of first importance what I in turn had received from those who witnessed it, according to the scriptures.” He received it, from people who saw it, and prophets foretold it. The question you ought to be asking yourself right now is, “So what? What difference does it make?”
It’s not a dumb question. Those are exactly the questions we need to ask every time we engage scripture. Part of the reason the church in America is on its heels because we don’t ask these questions often enough. We’d rather be told than read it ourselves.
Why does Paul write this: received, saw, foretold? Our American mindset says innovation is better than preservation. We don’t care where the idea came from. We care that it works. We only trust things we can see for ourselves. To our ears it sounds like a pointless paragraph. But Paul was no fool, and considering the expense of writing a letter in those days, I can assure you that he chose his words with care. Which means what? It means we’re missing something.
Why does it matter if Paul received it? It means it’s not about Paul. Tradition says he wasn’t much to look at, bald and short, and scripture says he spent a good chunk of his life as a religious zealot who persecuted the church in the name of God. “God!” (smack) “Loves!” (smack) “You!” Talk about a mixed message. It’s not about Paul. It’s about the one who turned his life around.
It means truth is not the property of the pulpit. You have access to the same truth I do. I don’t rule you. You can get greater wisdom from one old saint who lived this book, than from a hundred preachers who just talked about it.
It’s not about us, people. Stop stressing over this. Your life is a sermon in three parts. You were who you were. God’s story took hold of you. Now you are what you are. I guarantee you, the people who know you well already know this sermon by heart because they know you. The question is, “Is it a good sermon? Is it compelling? Do people notice the change?” If not, then maybe the sermon needs to be a little less about you and a little more about the one who is making the change.
Which brings us to our next question. Why does it matter if people saw it? It means it’s not a fable with only one moral, one layer of meaning. It’s richer and deeper than that. It means you can go there and see it. You can walk where he walked and see things he saw. You can study the history of the times and the language and understand the moment, because context is meaning. You can spend your life, understand it a little better every day, and never get it all.
It means Jesus wasn’t just male. He was a man, a specific man, a Jewish carpenter from the house of David, who lived in a specific place in time. So when I talk about God as a “he” I’m not saying God is male. God is beyond gender, but Jesus is not. And he called God, “Father.” The one aspect of the trinity that we can touch called God, “Father.” It is not an adjective. It’s a name. We’re not being sexist. We’re being respectful. We can use other names. The Bible is full of them, some masculine, some feminine. But, at least for me, this will always be the gold standard, because this is the metaphor Jesus used to reveal a God too big to comprehend.
Which brings us to our last question. Why does it matter that it was foretold? Some preachers will tell you that it’s to prove the truth of the story, and that’s true. Jesus said himself that miracles and prophecy were signs or proofs. But to me, that’s only part of the reason.
Suppose you wanted to teach a kid physics. How would you do it? Would you crack open a textbook or take her outside to play ball? Exactly, you start with what they know and you build on that foundation until someday, years from now, they will finally have the vocabulary to explain how we catch a pop fly.
Suppose Jesus had just popped on the scene with no Old Testament, no Hebrew Scriptures, no prophecies, no years of experience and history and vocabulary. He pops on the scene and says, “Take. Eat. This is my body. Take. Drink. This is my blood.” And we think, “What? Was Jesus a cannibal? Maybe he was a vampire!” Thankfully, we have the history, so we can look back through scripture and see the symbolism of Passover lamb whose blood protected the people of God. We know the story of the manna bread from heaven that fed the people as they wandered toward the Promised Land. The Old Testament gives us the vocabulary we need to understand the New.
Paul wasn’t stupid. He did choose his words carefully. It matters very much that he passed along what he received, that he received it from eyewitnesses, and that all this happened in accordance with scripture. He received it because it wasn’t about him. It’s not about me. It’s not about us. They saw it because Jesus chewed the same dust we chew today. Jesus knows us, and we can know him. Prophets foretold it because we need new words if we’re ever going to understand the story God is trying to tell.
The name the ancients gave this mystery is incarnation. Trinity means the heart of God is loving community. Incarnation means we are now part of that love. This is the root and goal of our faith, unity without uniformity. We have many gifts but one spirit. We are many members but one body. We hold many opinions but one love. We are many people, but we share one story. We were who we were. We are who we are. We will be who we will be. It’s our story, but it’s not about us.
Love is…
A man whose opinion I trust stopped by the office this week. As promised, I dropped what I was doing and gave him my full attention. He said, “It’s been a good series so far, but all you’ve talked about is people with diverse gifts working together. When you said, “Unity without uniformity” I was expecting to hear about diverse opinions, not diverse individuals. How do we have unity when we don’t agree?”
That’s a great question, so let’s ignore it for a second and do an experiment. The experiment works like this: using today’s text, take out the word love and replace it with my name. Ready?
Rob is patient. Rob is kind. Rob does not envy. He is not boastful or proud. Rob is not rude or self seeking. Rob is not easily angered. He keeps no record of wrongs. Rob does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Rob always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Rob. Never. Fails.
What’s so funny? I’ve been doing this experiment for nine years, and in nine years no one has ever believed me! Fine. Laugh away, but someday, someone is going to believe me. And when I meet that person, I’m going to introduce them to my wife so she can knock some sense into them. There is only one human who fits this bill, and it’s not me. We keep looking for an adjective to describe love, but it never works because love is not a what. It’s a who.
Jesus is patient. Jesus is kind. Jesus does not envy. He is not boastful or proud. Jesus is not rude or self seeking. Jesus is not easily angered. He keeps no record of wrongs. Jesus does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Jesus always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Jesus. Never. Fails.
"Oboe and Metronome" by Tony Newell via Flickr on a Creative Commons License
Suddenly, it’s not so funny. My love is a joke. God’s love is reality. That’s the source of our unity. Have you ever hear an orchestra tune? It always starts with one instrument, always the same one. Anyone know? Right, the oboe. Do you know why? Because it’s the only instrument that can’t be tuned. When they are all are in tune with the one, they are automatically in tune with each other. The church is never closer to unity than when it’s members are in tune with God’s love, as exemplified by Jesus.
But we take unity too far. Suppose I play the oboe. It all starts great. Everyone’s listening to me. Everyone’s in tune. Then we start playing. I read my notes. I know my part, and I can hear that other people are playing it wrong. Their notes don’t match my music. I’m running around the orchestra yelling, “You’re playing it wrong. You’re playing it wrong!” Do you get the joke? The only one in the entire orchestra who’s doing it wrong is me.
Hear this. God’s love is bigger than our heads, like a symphony is bigger than an oboe. We can’t understand it all. We barely understand our own part. Ask any musician and they’ll tell you. We don’t get it. We get glimpses. We get moments. And the only way we get them, is by practicing diligently, performing gracefully, and listening carefully.
So, everyone should just believe whatever they want and mind their own business, right? No. Vehemently, NO. True tolerance requires and opinion. Actually, it requires two. If there are two of us and only one opinion, what is there to tolerate? But if I know I’m right, and you stubbornly refuse to admit that you’re wrong, and I don’t proceed to pound the stupid out of you, that’s tolerance.
To misquote Jesus, “What good is it if you tolerate those who tolerate you? Even the pagans do that!” Tolerance is the bare minimum. We are called to unity. I don’t care what your stance is on any of the divisive issues of the day, my stance toward you doesn’t change. Actually, that’s not true. I do care. I care very much where you stand on the divisive issues of the day. I care so much it hurts, but my stand toward you still doesn’t change. I’m to love you with God’s love.
God’s love doesn’t hold a sign that says, “God hates fags.” God’s love doesn’t scream, “Baby killer” into the face of a sixteen year old girl. God’s love doesn’t blow people up and call it suicide. We feel it just as strongly. We are just as convinced. But God’s love finds another way.
There is a sense in which tolerance is destructive to fellowship, because fellowship isn’t us agreeing to disagree. True fellowship is us both tuning our hearts to the reality of God’s love, and living in the friction and tension that creates. Because it’s exactly that friction and tension that will slowly grind the rough edges off our hearts.
This side of heaven, we will never have one church. The best we can hope for is a unity without uniformity, a unity of believers whose only certainty is that they don’t have a lock on God’s love, a fierce people who refuse to settle for either the bland uniformity of the “one right answer” or the equally bland uniformity of the lowest common denominator.
You’ve heard about them. They are patient, and kind. They do not envy, or boast. They are not arrogant. They are not rude, or self-seeking. They are slow to anger and keep no record of wrongs. They do not delight in evil but rejoice with the truth. They always protect, always trust, always hope, always persevere. And they do not quit.
Is that us? Some days. I guess we need more practice.
Benediction: It’s God’s symphony. Everybody plays. Some of us just don’t play in tune. Today, we hear in part, like listening through a tinny radio. Someday, we’ll hear it all. For some, it will be the final proof that life is not the solo we demanded, as even our strident discord is gathered into a larger harmony that owes none of it’s beauty to us. We will be confronted with a song we have spent our life refusing to learn. We will not know how to play, and we will weep. But some of us will recognize the tune, because we’ll hear our tiny part in the mix. The little notes that we practiced and played so long will finally make sense as part of the larger whole. And we will join the song.
Local Radio Rules!
I hear a lot of people lamenting the death of news and radio shows in the face of internet competition. Whatever. As long as people live in one place, they’re going to want news about that place. And since it’s impossible for one paper to keep track of every place’s news, there will always always always be a genuine need for local news. I sincerely believe that if you solve that problem for people, they will pay you for it.
This photo gratuitously stolen from Mike and Dave's Facebook page.
Last Saturday, Mike and Dave’s Morning Grind, Saugatuck’s very own radio show, hosted my first radio interview. (If you’ve never heard them, check out this great article from the Holland Sentinel.) What a blast! I’ve been listening to them since I arrived, so it was an honor to receive the invite. Mike and Dave are hilarious. My only regret was that it couldn’t last longer. Thanks to everyone who listened in, including my sister, and few fine friends from Allegiance. Special thanks to my lovely wife for letting the boys listen too. When I got home, the youngest asked, “Daddy, how did you get home from in the computer?!”
In case you missed it, Mike and Dave game me permission to trim the audio and share it here. (Favorite moment? About 9:35 into the segment) This isn’t the full show, just my segment. If you want the full show, or if you want video and not just audio, check Mike and Dave’s Morning Grind website, or if that isn’t working, try their Livestream channel. I’ve occasionally had problems getting the player to work, but that’s where I pulled this recording, so I know it works at least part of the time. :)
If you’re a local, listen live! They broadcast on FM 92.7 from the Annex Coffee Shop in downtown Saugatuck right next to Coral Gables. A few of my friends enjoyed the show so much that they plan on becoming regular listeners even though they live as far a way as Minnesota, or even England. I hope you’ll join them and me, tuning in online Saturday mornings at 7:30am Eastern. I know first-hand that the guys read the chatroom during the show, so let’s give them something to talk about. Bonus points to anyone who can make Mike lose his train of thought.
P.S. – Here’s their Facebook page.
One Body, Many Members
"Arms and Legs" by Quasimondo via Flickr on a Creative Commons License
Paul says the church is like a body. Only in this body has a crazy disease. The foot says to the hand, “I’m not nearly as cool as you. I wish I could pick things up.” And it just walks away. So then the eye says to the hand, “Look at you, you can’t even see anything. Get lost.” So your hand falls off. And that’s how it goes, all your body parts get lopped off one after another until all your left with is one giant eyeball, rolling around the church. That’s not a congregation, it’s a monster movie.
It looks like we have two problems: arrogance, and self-hatred. But really it’s only one, we misunderstand our own value. And the root of the problem is comparing ourselves to others. ”I wish I wasn’t so…” “Why can’t my life be like…” Or ”Thank God I’m not that guy. Sure I have issues, but at least I don’t…”
It’s like we’re standing too close to the stained glass window and we can only see two shards of glass, so we naturally start comparing them. We think, “Wow that red is pretty.” “Yick, I don’t like that green.” And the whole time, we’re missing the big picture.
Same with the body. For the longest time, we had no clue what an appendix did, except get inflamed and try to kill you sometimes. Seemed like a completely pointless organ. Recently, scientists discovered that it protects helpful bacteria. When your colon gets wiped clean, and you lose all those little bugs that help you digest food, the appendix keeps some safe, so your body can rebuild.
The eye is an amazing organ, but without the body it’s just a squishy marble. You may have muscles like Mark McGwire, but without bones you’re just a big pile of jello. Each part has purpose specifically because of, and only in relation to, the body.
Paul argues that God has intentionally ordered the body so that the different parts all hold together. We might assume that the parts that are hidden are less important, but which would you rather have, nice hair or good digestion? Some of you are thinking, “Either one would be nice.” Which would you rather have, a pretty face or a functioning brain? Some of you are thinking blonde jokes in your head right now, or making snide comments about Paris Hilton. Well, knock it off. Focus, people!
Paul says there are some parts of our body that our un-presentable, yet God clothes them in special dignity. If you’re not getting the reference, those are the parts generally covered by bathing suits. The world says that’s just our repressive, prudish, puritanical, religiosity talking. Go ahead call me a prude, but I like modesty. You need to leave something to the imagination. Plus, some parts just plain need protection. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s cold outside!
Paul says, “If one part suffers, all suffer. If one part rejoices, all rejoice.” Is that true of us? Are we so connected that we feel it when someone else hurts? Three tips. 1. Keep your eyes open for those moments that only come once: birthdays, breakups, weddings, funerals. In this congregation, no one laughs alone. No one cries alone. We are there for each other. 2. Keep in touch. This especially applies to our shut-ins, our snowbirds, and those serving in the military. 3. Unless you have a good reason for doing something by yourself… don’t! [Phone] “Hey, I’m gonna go get some groceries, you wanna come?” “I need to paint a room. You know anyone that could help?” Do whatever it is you do, just invite a friend. Do life together.
We are the body of Christ. Jesus has no hands on this earth but ours, no voice but ours. Be it hidden or visible, flashy or humble, be who you are, and extend that same courtesy to others. It is only in unity without uniformity that we find our identity.
John vs. Jesus
Called to Baptism by Lawrence OP via Flicker on a Creative Commons License
It’s a long way from John’s baptism to Jesus’. It’s a long way from “Don’t be evil” to “Blessed are the peacemakers.” John baptizes with water, but Jesus baptizes with fire. John tells us to obey the law, but Jesus writes God’s law on our hearts.
That’s why we put the baptismal font at the back of the sanctuary and the cross at the front. Baptism just gets you in the door. “Don’t be evil,” is the bare minimum. The goal is a cruciform life.
John says, “Be honest and fair.” But Jesus says, “What good is it if you are good to those who are good to you, even the pagans do that!” John’s baptism is the beginning, the work of a moment. Jesus baptism is the end, the work of a lifetime.
It’s simple, it’s hard, and it works.
Saugatuck Dunes State Park. Photo by norjam8 via Flickr.
Good news! We’ve reached a milestone in our life together. This week, I received my first complaint. This is a good thing. It means the honeymoon is over and the marriage is beginning. It means you know me well enough to have a critique, you care enough to say something rather than just leave, and you expect me to stay long enough for it to be worth the effort. This is a very good thing. But any time we start a new thing, it’s good to lay some ground rules. The rule here is biblical, which means it is very simple, it’s not very easy, and it works. It’s from the gospel of Matthew 18:15-17.
What it means for us is that I have no interest in anonymous feedback. I’m not your average pastor. On Monday mornings, I hike with the Lambs. On Monday nights, we open our home to anyone who wants to sign up for dinner. In fact, you don’t have to sign up. Come on over, just don’t expect the house to be clean. On Tuesday mornings, I talk politics with the Butler Street boys at the Annex. On Wednesday nights, I’m at the Corner Bar working on my sermon. During regular office hours, my door is always open to visitors, and I will stop what I’m working on to talk with you even if it means I have to play catch-up later.
If you’re busy, and spending time with you means going where you are and working alongside you, I’ll do it. I don’t think you’d find too many other pastors who’d make you that offer. I don’t hide in my study, and I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. So, please do me this one courtesy. If you have something to say, say it to me. Don’t let someone else carry your concern to me, and don’t pass along anonymous suggestions.
In a hierarchical church, conflict is easy. I’m in charge, and you’re not. If you don’t like it, leave. In a church run by elders, conflict is easy. The elders decide the issue behind closed doors. But in a Congregational church, we keep our stuff out in the open. It’s messy, and it’s hard, but it works.
Suppose you have an issue with the way I preach. The easy thing would be to complain about it to someone else. You get to vent, and if they tell me, I might even make a change. Here’s the problem. You vented, but you didn’t face the problem, so you don’t really feel better. The person you dumped on now shares your burden. And if anyone tells me, I’m hearing it secondhand, without any context or explanation. I might misunderstand your concern and make a change that actually makes things worse!
Here’s the other problem. Complaining is a force multiplier. You make the same complaint to 12 different people, and only half of them come to me. Now I think there are 6 people out there with your problem. Since when does one person get six votes in a Congregational church?
Suppose you do the really difficult thing, and say it to my face. Now we have a chance for a conversation. Honestly, how often does anyone really listen to what you have to say? That alone may make you feel better. Maybe you’ll hear my response and you’ll agree. Maybe we’ll just agree to disagree, but you’ll walk away from that conversation feeling better. That’s how it is when we follow the book. It’s simple, it’s hard, and it works.
Speaking of the book, let’s get back to today’s reading. Paul is writing to the church in Corinth. That doesn’t mean much to us, but in Bible times, Corinth had a reputation. It sat on an isthmus between the larger northern and southern sections of Greece. This means it had a port on it’s east, a port on it’s west and a trade route running down the middle. Which means? Right, Corinth made Saugatuck look like Disneyworld.
Paul is talking to the church of Corinth, converts from wild living, and he says, “You used to be pagans, and you were led astray, trying to get advice from mute idols.” So his instructions answer very basic questions. How do I know if the voice speaking in my heart is really God? If someone says she’s a prophet, how do I know if it’s true? If someone has a spiritual gift, like the ability to speak other languages, should we put him in charge?
Paul deals with the more important questions first. How do we know if God is really speaking? His answer is simple: incarnation and trinity. Of course, he doesn’t use those words, because those words didn’t exist yet, and even if they did, he’s speaking to baby Christians, but that’s what he says. Look at the text.
No one with the Spirit says, “Jesus be cursed.” and no one can say, “Jesus is Lord” except by the spirit. The word Lord was a title claimed by Caesar that meant he was a living God. When Christians were arrested, it was specifically because they said, “Jesus is Lord”. It was treason. So to say, “Jesus is Lord” is to acknowledge the Godhood of Jesus. The word we eventually created for that concept is incarnation.
Back to the text. Many gifts, one spirit. Many services, one Lord. Many activities, one God. This is what we call a trinitarian formula. Father, Son, Holy Spirit, in this case presented in reverse order because the topic is spiritual gifts, manifestations of the Spirit’s work within us.
So how do you test the spirits? If a priestess tells you you’re going to die next week unless you pay her money to remove a curse, ask her how she feels about Jesus. If she says, “Who?” or, “He’s one good teacher among many” don’t be afraid. But if she says, “When I look at Jesus, I see God as God truly is,” take her seriously.
Obviously, we don’t meet many priestesses today, but experts and gurus abound. We don’t suffer curses, but we know addiction. And what about the cults that prey on young people? Does this expert honor Jesus as Lord, or put himself at the same level. Does this habit honor the Spirit that lives within me, or does it destroy my body and warp my mind? Does this cult honor God our Father whose gracious love knows no limits, or do they use duty, shame, fear and guilt to ensure obedience? This book may be old, and it may be hard, but it still works.
Now that he’s covered the basics, Paul moves on to Spiritual gifts. When we accept the love offered to us in Jesus, we free the Spirit to work within us, and that Spirit shows itself through spiritual gifts. Imagine yourself sitting in our chapel right now, looking at the stained glass window. How many colors do you see? Too many to count. How many lights make all those colors? One. The light from one sun interacts with the uniqueness of each shard of glass, resulting in shades and hues too numerous to count, to beautiful to describe, and too unique to duplicate.
Paul gives a list of Spiritual gifts, not an exhaustive list, but ones the Corinthian Christians might experience. And notice how he lists them. The subtle, hidden gifts come first. The flashy gifts come last. He makes a similar list later in the letter, and he does the same thing, so it’s intentional, which probably means he’s correcting a specific error. People were claiming priority for certain gifts, or deferring to those whose gifts were miraculous. Paul instructs them to do the opposite.
What spiritual gift makes the top of Paul’s list? Wisdom. There’s an old gamer quote that says, “Intelligence is the ability to tell it’s raining. Wisdom is the sense to come inside.” Intelligence is rare enough, but wisdom is gold. Yet, how does our society value wisdom? Follow the money and the attention. Who gets the money, the people with the wisdom to get us out of this mess, or the people foolish enough to get us here in the first place? Who gets the attention, the people wise enough to make good decisions, or the people foolish enough to make poor choices and more foolish enough to get caught?
How does this church value wisdom? Do we spend more time honoring our elders, or wishing for “fresh blood”? We don’t need new people; we need to live out of our gifts. If we live out of the gifts of God’s Spirit, we’ll be less stressed and more effective. Imagine that. Do less. Accomplish more. If we live out of our gifts, the growth takes care of itself.
So what’s your gift? Paul lists a few here: wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, miracles, prophecy, discernment of spirits, tongues, interpretation of tongues. If you want to know more about them, ask me later. They’re pretty straightforward, but we’re short on time.
This isn’t the complete list. There is no complete list, because there is no limit to the Spirit. So what’s your gift? If you don’t know, that makes you normal. That’s part of why we come here each week, because it’s easier for our friends to see the truth in us than it is for us to see it in ourselves.
The Spirit lives in each of us, that’s why we all get one vote and nobody gets two. The Spirit lives in each of us, that’s why we all have a gift to share. Nobody gets to be in charge, and nobody get’s to be entertained. The Spirit lives in each of us, that’s why we strive for unity without uniformity. It’s that simple. It’s that hard. And it works.
Benediction: We are a stained glass window. God’s light shines through each of us, but our imperfections and limitations only allow certain aspects of that light to shine through. If you look up close, you’ll see beauty, but until step back, you’ll never get the point. Each of those shards was arranged by a master, each in it’s place, none more important than another, each vitally important its own way. Alone they’re beautiful. Together, they’re art. May God’s light shine through you this week. May we be a living work of art that gives beauty to the world and glory to the creator.
Landlord gets a job rather than evict tenants
This is the kind of news we need more often. It takes courage and creativity to make the world a better place, and Ed Peirce is a great example of both.
Props to Andrew Dys of the Rock Hill Herald for an excellent article. Send him some love at adys@heraldonline.com
Was Blind but Now I See
Text: Mark 10:46-52
Author’s Note: In preparation for this sermon, I asked the congregation to wear blindfolds for the first half of the service. Before they put them on, I asked them to take the most valuable object in their wallet, maybe a $100 bill, maybe a credit card, maybe a picture of their child, whatever in their wallet is most valuable to them. Take it out and set it somewhere within arms reach. They listened to the rest of the service not being able to see the thing they value most.
It's amazing how different a service sounds when you can't see
You’re probably getting tired of these blindfolds. Well, good. That’s the point. Maybe you’ve heard the saying, “I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do, and I understand.” This is your chance to do something, to step inside the experience of someone whose life is radically different from your own. His name was Bartimaeus, and he was blind. It’s most likely that he was not born blind, but lost his sight to injury or sickness. I want you to walk a moment in his shoes. Actually, he probably didn’t have shoes, so I want you to imagine yourself sitting on a mat.
It’s the same mat you always sit on, in the same place you usually sit, begging for hand-outs from the passersby. The twisted rag over your eyes serves a double purpose. You learned long ago that people find your eyes disturbing, so you cover them. The frayed and dirty rag lets people see your need from far away and helps them get close enough to drop a few coins on the mat. You’ve begged from this spot for years, so it’s all familiar: the cool stone wall at your back that gives shade through the worst of the day, the taste of the dirt kicked up by the people, the smell of animals and sweat, the half-heard conversations.
It’s all familiar, until the crowd starts to close in. Their voices rise in pitch and volume. You pull your feet in close so that no one steps on you. You try to ask what’s going on, but no one answers. So you do what you do best. You listen. Suddenly, you hear a word that ties your stomach in knots. Jesus. Jesus is coming. Here! Right down this road. You try to catch your breath as your mind whirls.
You’ve been hearing about him for months now. People wondered about him as they walked home alone. They argued about him with their friends. It’s amazing what you overhear because no one notices you’re there. And you had begun to piece together something about this man, that he was a prophet, a man of God, a healer, perhaps even the messiah. You’ve heard so much about him, and now his name stirs hope within you, a hope so deep that you dared not even admit it to yourself.
Now the crowd is pressing close, and the hum increases again. He’s here. He’s close. So you do what you do best. You do what you’ve been trained to do by years of people trying desperately to ignore you. You grab their attention. You make them look you in the eye. “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me. Son of David, have mercy on me!” Again and again you call out, and the people in front of you tell you to be quiet so they can hear, but you shout all the louder, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me! Have mercy on me! Have mercy. Mercy…”
But it’s too late. He’s gone. And you start to cry. Someone reaches down and touches your shoulder but you push them away. Then another hand grabs yours and now you hear their words, “Be happy. Stand up! He’s calling you.” You may be blind, but your legs work fine, so you jump to your feet, throw off your cloak, and push through the crowd as gentle hands guide you. Then two hands grab yours and don’t let go. The crowd goes silent.
“What do you want me to do for you?” What do you ask? How do you say it? “Do I ask for my sight? What if he says no? Is that all I really want? I don’t want to be a beggar any more. I want to follow him, to learn from him. But what if he laughs? What if they all laugh? Who do I think I am? Who do I think he is?”
It’s so quiet you can hear your own heart race. So you do what you do best. You swallow your pride and you ask. “Rabbi, I want to see.” A murmur runs through the crowd, and a few do laugh. They scoff at the presumption. Then they all go silent, listening for his reply. “Go,” he says, “Your faith has healed you.”
Your hand shakes as you reach up to pull the rag from your eyes. (Go ahead. Remove your blindfold.) And you see the colors: blue sky, yellow sand, brown wood, grey stone, green leaves, and those eyes. You see his smiling eyes for just a second, and then the crowd erupts. They want to touch you. They want to see you. They want to know if it’s true. “Were you really blind? Was it all a stunt? Did he really heal you? What did it feel like? What did he say to you?” They push and pull you and you lose sight of him in the crowd, but then you see him again and you push forward. The world is beautiful, but he is more. The attention is intoxicating, but he is more. You’re not going to lose him. He’s your teacher and you are going to follow. (pause)
Some folks hear that story, and say, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.” And that’s true as far as it goes. Do you imagine Bartimaeus was the only person in that crowd who needed healing? Of course not. But he was the one who was healed because he made noise. So it is true, but there’s more to it than that. Bartimaeus didn’t let his limitations define him. Sure he was blind, but his voice worked. His legs worked. He didn’t let the years of people calling him a cripple trick him into thinking he was helpless. But it’s even more than that.
There were people in that crowd who needed healing, but they didn’t have what Bartemaeus had. They didn’t have his experience. He was blind, so he learned to listen. He was ignored, so he learned to grab people’s attention. Most people said no, so he learned to be relentless. He had to beg, so he learned to swallow his pride. So when that day finally came, everyone else stood by the side of the road and watched their messiah walk on by. They watched their healing walk on by. But he shouted. He would not be silenced. He jumped up. He stepped forward, and he asked. But there’s more.
There’s something here that can’t be explained by his experience. In fact, you would expect the exact opposite from someone who had been through what he had. Bartimaeus had hope. He lost his sight, forced to beg, mistreated and ignored. He had every reason to hate God. He had every reason to believe that there was no God. But when the day came, he heard people talking about Jesus, and something in their words gave him hope. He had faith enough to speak up and step out in front of all those people. He was brave enough to hope for help from someone he’d never met, on the chance that the words he’d heard about him might be true. You could say it was just desperation, but that doesn’t explain why he called Jesus Rabbi.
We have many other healing stories in the Bible, but normally, the person get’s healed and goes home. Sometimes they go shouting the news, sometimes they don’t even bother to say thanks. But Bartimaeus follows Jesus down the road. He had hope, he had faith, and in spite of everything he had gone through, he believed. Personally, I think that’s why Jesus draws attention to it. He says, “Go. Your faith has healed you.” Your faith has healed you.
It was a tiny faith, like an ember at the top of a candle. If he had bold faith, he would have stood in the middle of the road to meet Jesus. If he’d had great faith, he would have left his mat long before and gone to seek Jesus. It was just a little faith, but it was real. In spite of all he’d endured, that tiny flicker of hope still burned, and Jesus turned that tiny ember into a flame.
So Bartimaeus didn’t get a miracle because he made the most noise. He made the most noise because he didn’t let his handicap define him. He made the most noise because his limitations didn’t crush him. They sharpened him. He made the most noise because in spite of everything he had endured, a flicker of faith still stirred in his heart. He was blind, but that day he was the only one in the crowd who could see. All Jesus did was make his outside match his inside.
Author’s Note: If you’re wondering why I asked them to put their most valuable object somewhere within arms reach, trust me, so were they. They found out when we got to the offering, which I introduced as follows:
I’d like you to close your eyes again. Last time, I promise. As you close your eyes, I have a question for you. How much of your church can you still see? I bet most of you, without opening your eyes, could point your finger at the cross. (Many nodded.) If you have a friend who always sits in the same spot, I bet most of you could turn in your seat right now and point your nose at that person so that when you opened your eyes their face would be the very first thing you would see. (A few actually did, causing chuckles) But very few of you could reach out your hand right now and grab a pencil on your first try. (Grumbles. A couple frowns.) What I’d like you to do is this. Get your hand ready. Now grab that most important thing from your wallet. If you got it on your first try, hold it up in the air. (95% of the congregation raised their hands) Go ahead and open your eyes.
We are bombarded every day with a practically infinite amount of sensory information. The reason we are not overwhelmed by the humming in the lights or the feel of fabric on our skin is called a Reticular Activating System. It’s a filter that only passes information that’s relevant to us. Relevant means something close to us in time or space, carrying emotional content, or our intentional focus. This is why so few could grab the pencil, but everyone could grab their most valuable object. Was the pencil any further away? (No.) It just wasn’t relevant.
So back to our original question, how much of our church can you still see after you close your eyes? I can guarantee you there are a few here today who can see things you can’t because they were here yesterday for all church work day. Amy can see the top of the choir cabinets downstairs because she climbed on top of them to paint. Merlyn can see the bottom of that back pew because she climbed underneath it to clean. Bev can see that hymnal rack because she emptied it, cleaned it, and put everything back organized. There’s a spot right up here I can see that I bet no one else in this room can, because I spent five minutes trying to scrape the gunk off it.
If you want to see more, give. Give your time. Give your talent. Give your treasure. God doesn’t need our gifts. We need to give because in the words of our Moderator, Jon, “Involvement cements your faith.”
Was Blind but Now I See by Rev. R.J. Brink is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
The Opposite of Love isn’t Hate
Text: Job 23
Quote: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Winston Churchill
So, let me tell you about my week. I’ve been here one week, and this is what I’ve seen: a life threatening illness, a financial cry for help, widows and widowers smiling through the pain of their recent loss, families struggling to put the pieces back together after a divorce, homebound elders in need of care, and friends grieving over formerly active members who just aren’t involved any more. One week!
Some of you are feeling a little anxious right now. “Is he feeling overwhelmed already? Is he going to leave?” No way. This week was awesome! You know why? Because you’re still talking. You’re still here. You’re just as messed up as the rest of the world, but you’re talking about it with each other instead of hiding. You’re here working on it, instead of sleeping it off. You are a wonderful church!
Look at our reading today, from the 23rd chapter of Job. You all know Job, right? The story goes that Devil challenged God to a bet. The Devil claimed that the only reason Job loved God was because God had blessed him with wealth. So God gave permission to take Job’s wealth away. The Devil took everything, even Job’s children, but Job didn’t crack. He grieved, but he didn’t turn against God. That wasn’t enough for the Devil. He claimed that the only reason Job loved God was because God had protected his health. So God gave permission to take Job’s health away. But Job still didn’t crack.
He sat on a pile of ash, scraping at the sores that covered his body, and didn’t say a word. Even when his wife left him, he said nothing. Finally, after 7 days of silence, he opens his mouth, and what comes out is something between a complaint and an argument. He starts by wishing he had never been born, and then uses that as the foundation for his argument. Why does God allow suffering? If life is so horrible, if the pain is so great that you just want to die, why would God force us to keep living?
Up until this point, Job’s friends have been amazing. They hear the news right away, which means they keep in touch. They all arrive together, so that caring for Job doesn’t become a burden. They sit in the dust with him, get right down at his level. They set aside their pride and their comfort for the sake of their friend. And they don’t say anything. For seven days they don’t say a word. When Job is finally ready to speak, they listen. They let him get it all out, and they don’t interrupt. Job’s friends are amazing! And then they ruin it.
Brothers and sisters, when someone’s life is such a broken mess that they ask, “Why won’t God just let me die?” They don’t want answers. They want less pain. You don’t just wake up one day and say, “Hey, how about I commit suicide!” Suicide is what happens when the amount of pain in your life exceeds your ability to cope. In religious circles, we call it despair, and it is the root of half the pain we see on TV every night. When one of your friends cries out in despair, they don’t want simplistic answers.
“I feel horrible about my life, but when I eat I don’t feel so bad. When I’m drunk I can’t think about it. When I have sex, I feel good, at least for a little while.” It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. I’ve known guys who use hunting as an escape, or their boat, or exercise, or reading a book. In all of these situations, the one thing they don’t want is a lecture. The behavior is just a symptom of the deeper problem. “I hate myself. I hate my life.” But far too often we ignore the problem, because it’s too hard, and it hits way too close to home. So we give easy answers instead instead. That’s what Job’s friends did. They let him have his say, and then they opened their mouths.
What follows is 20 chapters of back and forth, a biblical argument that could serve as a template for every useless theological discussion in the history of the world. They start out friendly, then get superior, then resort to sarcasm. They use straw man arguments and personal attacks. They blame the victim. But by far their favorite tactic is to say exactly what they said before just using more words and more volume. Sound familiar?
Finally, God has to interrupt and shout them all down. But God doesn’t address the friends. He yells at Job. That hardly seems fair. Job’s the victim here. God made a bet, so Job has to suffer, and he can’t even know why? Well, Job isn’t exactly faultless. Let’s go back and hear his words again.
“Even today my complaint is bitter; God’s hand is heavy in spite of my groaning. If only I knew where to find him. If only I could go to his dwelling! I would state my case before him and fill my mouth with arguments. I would find out what he would answer me, and consider what he would say.”
Do you hear the touch of arrogance there? Job has been arguing for 20 chapters so far, and he’s getting heated. His friends just keep pushing him and pushing him until he’s saying, “I wish I could go knock on God’s door. I’d tell him, and he’d answer me.” In the course of 20 chapters, we’ve gone from despair to pride. It’s interesting to me that those two are never far apart. They’re two sides of the same coin. Despair rejects God’s act of creation. I hate myself. I hate my life. I wish I had never been born. But pride rejects our place in creation. If I were in charge, things would be different. Things would be better. They’re both ultimately a rejection of God.
Job’s only faults are despair and pride, but they are enough to divide him from God. That’s what the Devil really wanted all along. God and Job loved each other, and so he came up with a bet, a trick, a lie. Do you think the Devil cares about the theological conundrum of suffering? He just saw a relationship and wanted to break it. And it almost worked. First Job falls into despair, and then into pride. Toward the end of the argument, he’s not really talking to God any more. He’s yelling at a caricature of God that he’s created in his mind. The relationship is nearly gone, when God does the one thing no one expected he would ever do.
God speaks. Up until this point in the story, God has been in heaven and Job has been on earth and only the Devil has walked in both places. But now God breaks through into Job’s world and his voice rings out a challenge. “Who is this that questions my wisdom? Brace yourself, and answer me. Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?” And so begins a pounding torrent of questions. “Have you ever called the morning? Can you hold back the stars?” Question after question. You see, God has to break the pride before he can heal the despair.
You can hear it in Job’s reply, “I am nothing. How could I ever find the answers?” You hear that? That’s despair speaking. Pride was just the symptom, masking the real problem. Once again God speaks from the whirlwind. But this time he points toward the two greatest beasts of creation, behemoth and leviathan. Job has rejected creation, so God holds creation in front of his eyes in all its might and beauty.
And Job replies, “You ask, ‘Who is this that questions my wisdom with ignorance?’ It is I. And I was talking about things I did not understand, things far too wonderful for me.” Did you hear that? “It is I.” “Things far too wonderful for me.” He’s back. He’s still sad. He’s still confused. But he doesn’t hate himself and he doesn’t hate God. And then at the very end comes the verse, so small that for years I missed it, chapter 42 verse 7. “After the Lord had finished speaking to Job…”
Did you get that? After Job replies and the relationship is restored, God speaks again to Job, and this time we don’t have any record of the words, because they’re not for us. Those words are only for God and Job. Who knows? Maybe Job got his answers. Maybe he didn’t. But he got his faith back. He got his life back. Because God did the one thing no one ever expected. God entered the story.
Christians, we are so blessed. Because what Job longed for, we see clearly. Because once again, God entered the story. When we look at Jesus, we see God as God truly is. Vulnerable. Despised and rejected. Hung on a cross where he cries, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” This is God. God is not the puppet master, portioning out pain according to some secret purpose. God is not our enemy. To those trapped in despair, God says, “Look, I suffer too. I’m on your side.” To those trapped in pride he says, “Look at me, I’m no threat to you.”
Maybe you’re hurting today. Then follow Job’s example and complain to God. Maybe you’re angry. Then yell at God. Even an argument is still communication. How many of you have seen Fiddler on the Roof? Remember Tevya? Talked to God, complained to God, laughed with God, and when his whole life fell apart and he didn’t have words to describe his pain, what did he do? He turned his eyes toward God and asked, “Why? Why? Why?” Even that is a prayer. And he didn’t ask those questions alone. Just like Job, he asked his questions in the middle of a community.
Look around you. This is your community. These are your friends. This is the place where it’s safe to ask the questions no one can really answer. I’ve only been here a week, and I already see it in you. When it’s time to pass the peace, we have to start signing a hymn to get you to sit back down. When it’s time to share joys and concerns, you make yourselves vulnerable to each other. Even when it’s hard, you don’t give up, and you don’t walk alone.
My friend the counselor tells me that the single greatest success factor for those who are trying to put their lives back together is their support network. No surprise, there. We are made in the image of God, and the heart of God is a triune community of freely given love. We were made for relationship, with God and with each other.
It’s ok to argue with someone you love, as long as you make up afterward. It’s even ok to argue in front of children as long as they see you resolve the conflict positively. Tears can be honest. Complaints can be honest. Even rage can be honest. A relationship can survive those things, because the opposite of love isn’t anger, or even hate. The opposite of love is indifference.
Benediction: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Did you catch that word? Through. I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. Not set a tent and camp out there. Not lay down and die there. Walk through, and out the other side. With God in our hearts and our friends at our side, we can do all things through God who strengthens us.
The Opposite of Love isn’t Hate by Rev. R.J. Brink is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
