Tuesday, December 22, 2009, 10:25 AM
Scripture: Luke 2:1-7
In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
Reflection:
I’ve always been intrigued by the characters in the Christmas pageant who don’t actually appear in the Bible. Take the innkeeper, for instance. Luke doesn’t mention him; the Gospel only says that there was no room in the inn for the holy family, but an innkeeper has been the villain of nearly every Christmas pageant I’ve ever seen. A nervous Joseph will knock on a cardboard door, trying not to knock it down, and a child with a fake beard will swing open the door and say in a gruff voice, “No room here! Go away!” and slam the door.
It adds a dramatic touch to the story, makes the miracle of Christmas even more spectacular, this inhospitable innkeeper standing sentry at the door sending poor Mary and Joseph away. But it occurred to me this year that maybe the innkeeper isn’t a villain after all.
The revelation happened in the middle of the instant Christmas pageant at First Church in Farmington where my wife, Jane, is one of the pastors. An instant Christmas pageant is different from a regular Christmas pageant. In an instant Christmas pageant everybody has a role -- everyone in the congregation gets to choose which character in the story they will play. As the pageant unfolded there were several Marys and Joesphs in the center of the chancel -- one couple with a beautiful baby. There were loads of sheep down on one side, surrounded by a bunch of confused shepherds. There were a couple of sheepdogs this year -- there is some room for creativity in this telling of the nativity story. A whole army of angels sat bedazzled on the other side of the meetinghouse.
I decided to be an innkeeper. I went to where the innkeepers were supposed to stand and got my costume, a frock designed for someone much younger and smaller than I, so it didn’t fit very well. I stood ready to do my duty and inform all the Josephs and Marys that there was no room in my inn, but as Jane told the story I realized that I had read my part all wrong. It would not be my job to turn the holy family away. The role God calls me to play is to find a place for them -- if not in the inn, in a stable -- somewhere. God is coming into the world this Christmas and my role in the story is to make room.
I look around our world and I see so many closed doors, so many ways we try to close God out. The war in Afghanistan expands -- a door slams. The debate about healthcare reform becomes more and more acrimonious -- another door slams.
And we, as Christmas approaches, are standing at the door of the inn awaiting a word from God.
Listen! It is a baby crying!
The inn is full, but might I find a place for the baby in my heart? Do you think if I can find a place for the baby in my heart, God might have a chance to open some of those other doors? It’s almost Christmas -- maybe we should give God a chance.
Prayer:
In the silence of the coming night, O God, open wide the doors of our hearts. Find a home in us this Christmas, so that the world might find a home in you. Amen.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009, 9:38 AM
Scripture: John 18:36a
Jesus answered, "My kingdom is not from this world."
Reflection:
It is a little odd, I think, that Pope Pius XI instituted a festival to celebrate the sovereignty of Christ in 1925, when most of the royal rulers in Europe had lost their real power. We know nothing of ceremonial royalty in this country. Yet, as the Common Lectionary has come into widespread use in many mainline Protestant churches, we have added recognition of this liturgical culmination of the church year to our worship.
I always find it hard to preach on the Reign of Christ Sunday. Jesus said clearly in the Gospel of John: "My kingdom is not from this world..." Maybe I'm missing something.
Maybe that is the problem.
On a cold January morning in Washington, D.C., a man sat in a Metro station playing the violin with the case open in front of him. He played six pieces by Bach. Since it was rush hour, thousands of people went through the station heading to and from the trains. A middle-aged man slowed down and listened for a few seconds, then hurried on. A woman tossed a dollar bill into the case but didn't so much as slow down. Another man leaned against the wall to listen, but then looked at his watch and scurried on his way. A three-year-old boy tried to slow down to listen, but his mom kept tugging at him to move on while he craned his neck back to watch and listen until he got too far away. Several other children did the same, but their parents pushed them to keep moving, too.
During the 45 minutes the violinist played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 people threw money in his case but continued to walk on. In all he collected $32, and when he finished no one noticed, no one applauded, no one said "Thank you."
No one knew he had been put there by the Washington Post as part of an experiment in social perception. No one knew the violinist, two days earlier, had played a sold out concert in Boston at ticket prices averaging $100 apiece. No one knew the man's name was Joshua Bell, one of the finest musicians in the world, playing some of the most intricate pieces ever written for the violin, on an instrument made in 1793 by Antonio Stradivari which was worth $3.5 million.
To the people in the Metro station that day he was just one more subway musician trying to make a little change. In the midst of their chaotic lives they weren't looking for much. They weren't expecting much, and they missed what was happening right in front of them.
I have come to believe that I need a festival to celebrate the Reign of Christ because too often I expect too little of him. Maybe this festival can remind me that God is up to something in us and around us these days that is a whole lot greater than any of our expectations.
Prayer:
Open our eyes, Gracious God, to see the reality of your kingdom in and around us. Amen.
Monday, September 28, 2009, 4:34 PM
Scripture: Mark 9:30-37
They went on from there and passed through Galilee. He did not want anyone to know it; for he was teaching his disciples, saying to them, “The Son of Man is to be betrayed into human hands, and they will kill him, and three days after being killed, he will rise again.” But they did not understand what he was saying and were afraid to ask him.
Then they came to Capernaum; and when he was in the house he asked them, "What were you arguing about on the way?" But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, "Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all." Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me."
Reflection:
What a childish argument! Jesus’ disciples, those he would leave in charge of the church, arguing about who is greatest. Even worse, Jesus had just given them a meatier topic to discuss, but they wouldn’t even ask him about it because they were afraid.
Jesus knew -- he always does -- so he turned a childish argument into a very adult lesson, by taking a child in his arms and letting them know what is really important. That’s just like Jesus, to take someone that didn’t matter to them, a child, and teach them a lesson about what is important. If you want to be great, worry about those who don’t matter to anyone else. It is from the least that we learn the most.
A colleague in the Midwest told me a story about a couple of kids in his church -- a little girl in the fourth grade and her brother in the first grade. One day, as children often do, they got mad at each other and their conversation degenerated into a shouting match. Finally, the little girl had had enough and she snapped, “Don’t ever speak to me again! And I’m never going to speak to you again!” And with a furious whirl that would have made Scarlet O’Hara proud, she stomped into her room and slammed the door.
She hadn’t been in there long before she realized she had more venom for her brother, but she was now bound by her oath of silence. So she grabbed a piece of paper and stabbed out this message: “Don’t ever come into my room!” and slid the note under her brother’s door.
But she forgot that her brother couldn’t really read or write yet. He picked up her note, saw there was writing on it, had no earthly idea what it said, but figured it needed a response, so he searched and searched for a piece of paper, finally found one, then scoured the house for a pencil, found one of those, sat down and scrawled the only words he knew how to write -- words he learned in church and in a caring home -- “I love you.”
He went across the hall and slid his note under his sister’s door. She read it, snatched up another piece of paper, and wrote, “Don’t ever play with my toys!” and slid it under his door. So off he went looking for more paper, sat down and wrote: “I love you,” and slid it under her door. Her next note: “Leave me alone!” His note: “I love you.”
That went on two or three more times until the little girl came sobbing into her mother’s room, tears streaming down her face, and cried, “Mommy, this just isn’t working out right.”
And Jesus said, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
And his disciples said, “This just isn’t working out right.”
Or is it?
Prayer:
Still-speaking God, when we say the words, “No matter who you are or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here,” help us always remember who we are welcoming. Amen.
Monday, June 15, 2009, 8:50 PM
Suzi, I’m sorry. I tried and tried to get the image out of my head, but I couldn’t. I know this is a serious occasion, one that, for me at least, has a lot of sadness mixed in with the celebration of your ministry among us these past 6 years. But every time I put my mind to thinking about what I wanted to say this afternoon, the same image came to me. I just couldn’t shake it. So I’m sorry, Suzi, but here is how I will remember you as a special colleague on the Connecticut Conference staff:
Hairstyles and accessories.
Lest you good folks here in Fairfield County think I’m really that shallow, let me explain what I mean.
It’s more than obvious that I am the last person who should comment on someone’s hairstyle, but I’ll take the risk. I remember saying to our communications and technology guru, Eric Anderson, once that he really should change Suzi’s picture on the website because her hair is really different now. Eric’s sarcastic reply was that if he changed Suzi’s picture every time she changed her hair he’d get nothing else done.
A bit of an exaggeration, no doubt, but it does point to something about Suzi’s ministry among us. She is constantly teaching us to look at things in new ways. Her ministry, her understanding of the church is constantly evolving, incorporating new concepts, new ideas. To say that Suzi’s ministry to this Region and to the Connecticut Conference has been innovative and forward looking is not enough, because it also has been thoroughly grounded in the history and diverse traditions of the United Church of Christ. Suzi has a unique ability to push us toward new expressions of the church and its ministry by reminding us some obscure but beautiful phrase in the Cambridge Platform.
But what I have admired most about Suzi as a colleague is how much she loves the church and cares about its future—how much she cares about the pastors in this Region and the congregations they serve. Anne Lamott says, God loves us exactly the way we are, and loves us way too much to allow us to stay that way. Suzi’s ministry here in the Fairfield County Region has been like that.
So what about the accessories?
It was always a favorite topic of the staff meeting just preceding a Conference annual meeting: How do we accessorize our outfits? Suzi led the discussions and always seemed to come up with the most creative accessories. It’s hard you know, because the Conference Minister always makes the entire staff wear those awful bright red StillSpeaking shirts.
Did I just say that? The Conference Minister and I rode together to this celebration. Anybody headed to New Britain after the reception? I may need a ride.
So in the face of the sameness, Suzi was creative. Red comma earrings, boas of various colors and lengths, and my personal favorite, those rhinestone studded red eyeglasses.
Again, that is way Suzi has done her ministry here these past 6 years. Regardless of the situation (and believe me, in this ministry there are always interesting situations) she has been creative and innovative. Here creativity has been one of her greatest gifts to us.
Suzi, you have been and remain a gift to us, to the churches and pastors in this Region, to the Conference and the staff of the Conference, to me. I think what I will miss the most, what you did so well for the Conference staff and for all of us, (that, by the way, has nothing to do with hairstyles or accessories) is the way you kept us centered and helped us see clearly. The Quakers have this concept of clearness. For me, for all of us, you have used laughter and silliness and tears and your deep faith to help us be quiet and clear and grounded in our ministry—that has been your gift to this Conference.
It’s like what cartoonist Don Wimmer talked about in one of his Rose is Rose comic strips. Rose and her little boy, Pasquale, are walking together in the evening in a snow-covered landscape. Rose is smiling, enjoying the beauty of the scene while Pasquale looks more serious. In the second frame he stands by himself, peering up into the falling snow with his eyes wide and his mouth forming an O. Rose has gone on ahead a few paces and then realizes Pasquale isn’t with her anymore so she walks back to him and asks, “What happened?” and Pasquale reverently replies, “Mom, the quiet is so deep I got stuck in it.”
Thank you, Suzi, for sharing your faith so deep that a whole Conference got stuck in it.
Monday, June 15, 2009, 6:17 PM
One of my heroes in the Christian faith is Clarence Jordon. Jordan left southern Georgia to get a PhD in New Testament Greek from the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, but went back to southwest Georgia to start a farming community based on the theology of the early church as described in the second chapter of Acts. Koinonia Farm would be a place where all things were held in common and anyone would be welcome to be part of the community, regardless of race. The problem was that this was the Deep South and it was 1942, when segregation was not only acceptable to most white southern Christians, but enforced by civil law. Jordan was shot at, boycotted, and cursed. But he was convinced that God had called him to bear witness to the faith of the early church, the Pentecost church, right there in Americus, Georgia—and he did.
Clarence used to tell the story of a newspaper reporter coming to Koinonia to interview him. Money was always tight on the farm, and few people or stores in Americus would even do business with them. So the reporter asked Clarence, “Who finances this project?”
Clarence said, “The Lord does.”
The reporter persisted. “But I mean…who supports it.”
And Clarence said, “The Lord.”
“Yeah, but, I mean…how do you pay your bills?”
And Clarence said, “By check.”
“Yeah, I know, but how do you…you know what I’m talking about!”
Clarence replied, “Yeah I know what you’re talking about friend, the problem is you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s like one of those automatic doors at the grocery store. You walk up to them, you wonder what’s going to happen, you just keep walking like you’re going to walk right into it, and then it opens up like that. I don’t know how it opens, it just does. I do know you got to walk right into it to make it open. I’ve seen it happen time and again. We started Koinonia Farm with absolutely nothing, and I’m here to tell you we’ve been here for 24 years and we’ve never missed a meal!
“We’ve had to postpone several…”
And it was that spirit of faith and playfulness that led to the establishment of Habitat for Humanity at Koinonia Farm in 1976.
And that is what happens anytime the Spirit gets a hold of the church—when the Spirit gets hold of you.
Doors open.
But you have to trust God enough to walk right up to them.
I thank God that Lois Happe had the courage to walk right up to that door 24 years ago, and has been walking right up to it nearly every day since.
I especially thank God that Lois was willing to walk up to the door of the Connecticut Conference 4 years ago, because it sure flew open wide for her ministry.
The ministries to which God has called Lois over the last 24 years have been diverse, from associate pastor to hospital chaplain to hospice chaplain to campus minister again to pastor and finally to one of those wonderful but odd animals we call in the Connecticut Conference a Regional Minister.
And through all that ministry, but especially for these last 4 years as the Regional Minister for this part of Connecticut, Lois, like wisdom, has built a house. It has been a place where people literally and figuratively have come to eat the bread she has prepared and drink the wine she has mixed. Her passion for justice—health care for everyone, racial equality, the rights of workers, our care for God’s gift of creation, marriage equality—have drawn both the simple and the wise to her house, those with no sense and those with much sense. Through her work in ordained ministry over these last 24 years, many have been able to heed the word of wisdom we heard in the Proverbs today and leave their simpleness and walk in the way of insight.
And her wisdom has made a difference.
In talking about her ministry Lois once quoted musician Charlie King: “My life is more than my work and my work is more than my job.” Lois and I have worked together is some, shall we say, interesting situations, times when congregations or clergy or both were facing crises or turning points. And in all those interesting situations Lois was a gift to me and that congregation and that pastor because her life is so much more that her ministry, and her ministry is so much more than her job.
But perhaps Lois’ greatest gift to me, to all of us, we heard in the Gospel reading for this afternoon.
No longer do I call you servants…but I have called you friends.
Lois’ ministry has been a life of service, but she gets the fact that being a servant is not enough.
Servants simply follow orders.
Friends act out of love.
For 24 years of ordained ministry, and years of ministry before that, Lois has acted out of love, connecting us to one another, connecting us to God. That has been her greatest gift to me—her gift to all of us.
It will come as no surprise to those of you who know me—I heard a story about that.
A pastor friend once told me about a man who was a deacon in his church —Bob— but he didn’t “deac.” If you’re from the South like me or southern Indiana like Lois, you know what that means. Bob was a servant in name only. He’d go to all the business meetings, but he always found some way to avoid really doing much for the cause of Christ. Bob was a deacon who didn’t “deac.” Well, the pastor kept hounding him and using all his pastoral skills on him and finally resorted to that old ministerial standby of guilt, and Bob reluctantly agreed to drive the youth group in the church van to a local nursing home once a month so that they could hold a worship service and sing for the patients. So Bob dutifully deposited the kids at the nursing home. He wasn’t about to help with the service, of course, and he didn’t even want to participate in it, so he stood at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, glancing at his watch every now and then.
Well, the service droned on, and some of the patients were asleep, and some of them talked to each other out loud as if no one else was in the room, and Bob was wondering when it would all be over when an elderly man seated in a wheelchair next to him reached up and took Bob’s hand and just held it. He didn’t ask, he didn’t explain, he didn’t do anything else, just reached up and took Bob’s hand. Bob felt a little uncomfortable but he didn’t pull away or anything. Just stood there holding this old man’s hand. The service concluded and Bob loaded up the kids and drove them back to the church. The next month he was back at the nursing home again while the youth conducted a service, leaning against the same wall and the same old man in a wheelchair held his hand through the service. That got to be a regular event each month. While Bob stood at the back of the room during the service the old man in the wheelchair would hold his hand. They never spoke, and Bob didn’t even learn his name, but they held hands during the service.
One day Bob took his place at the back of the room as usual, but this time the old man wasn’t there. As soon as the service was over Bob asked an elderly lady sitting at the back of the room, “Do you know what happened to the gentleman who usually sits in a wheelchair beside me?” She said, “I’m afraid he’s in his room not expected to live. You’ll find him in number 328.” Bob made his way down the hallway and found the man he was looking for lying in bed, his eyes closed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Bob didn’t say a word. Just reached over and took his friend’s hand in his own and held it tightly. The old man’s eyes slowly opened and when he saw who was holding his hand the faint crinkle of a smile curled at the corners of his mouth. Then he closed his eyes again slipped off into eternity.
Bob stood by the bedside holding the now lifeless hand for a long time, his tears dropping on the bed sheets, surprised at his emotional response to the death of one whom he barely knew. When the nurse came in Bob let go of his friend and stumbled out in the hallway. After a moment the nurse came out and asked, “Are you the man who used to hold his hand during worship once a month?” Bob nodded his head, still unable to speak. And the nurse said, “I’m so glad you came to see him. You really meant a lot to him.” Bob croaked, “All I did was hold his hand.” And the nurse said, “Yes, and he told me that he didn’t want to die until he held the hand of Jesus one more time.”
So right now, if you can, I want you to do something that Lois has taught us to do over the last 4 years. I want you to reach out and take the hand of someone close by…
Can you imagine the gift you just received?
Thank you, Lois!
