With August approaching, I felt the urge to take my son Mark back-to-school shopping. To be accurate: I drug Mark to the shopping mall. Mark would have been satisfied for me to select shower caddies, sheets, and towels on his behalf. But I was the one who needed today. I needed one last shopping expedition before he leaves home for college.
In a surreal moment, as we selected sheets, I found myself explaining the meaning of “thread count”. To my surprise, Mark seemed to pay attention. I treasured the moment, thinking that there are few times when he expects to learn anything from me. Once I taught this young boy to read with rewards of m&m’s and skittles. I taught him to play card games like “hearts” and “spades”. I taught him to arrive early at amusement parks and when the gates open to race to the latest, greatest roller coaster before the lines grew long. I taught him to drive a stick shift in a church parking lot (I had no idea we would leave so many skid marks on the pavement).
Now, a young man, Mark googles for answers or texts a friend with his questions. For now, I am not the expert. I wait, and secretly hope that one day, perhaps when searching for a job or when a new child enters the family, he will once again turn to his mother for advice. I pray that I will simply be welcoming and restrain myself in sharing my opinions!
For myself, I have gone through some long stretches in time when I assumed that the church had few answers. I almost didn’t take Disciple bible study, thinking with much hubris thatI might not get much from the class discussions. But I signed on anyway, hoping to learn something from the daily Bible readings. Then one day, I sat in a class with twelve others and was amazed as Frances talked about God’s support for her during a decade of caring for a husband with Alzheimer’s. Rick’s off-hand remark describing his prayers for coworkers opened my prayer life. Bill’s description of his movie selections made me rethink my own entertainment habits. Jean, who had read the Bible every year for over forty years, would remind us of how that day’s lesson fit in with the larger story of God’s ongoing salvation. Years later, I still learn something from my classmates each week. The difference is that now I walk into class expecting to learn.
It’s a good thing, a maturing, when we realize that it’s ok to look to others for help and advice—even our Moms. In the listening, we find that God often seems to speak and teach through the words and lives of other Christians. Hmmm…perhaps this is why we call ourselves, the church, the body of Christ.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, April 3, 2009
Maundy Thursday, 2008
Note: prior to the sermon, the Senior Minister Dr. Sam R. Matthews and the Lay Leader, the Honorable Robert E. Flournoy, III, washed one another's feet.
Jesus knew that the time had come for him to leave this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love.
He got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him.
It wasn’t the right time to wash their feet. Feet are washed before you sit down for the meal, especially before a meal eaten while laying across couches. You don’t put dirty feet on a couch. You don’t want the dirty feet of others near you and your food.
Even more importantly, he was not the one that should have washed anyone’s feet. That’s the duty of a servant—the lowliest servant. In fact, Jewish tradition stipulated that a master could not force a Jewish slave to wash his feet, only Gentile slaves could be forced to take on this humiliating duty.
The room grows quiet as they watch as Jesus moves from one disciple to the next. Lift a foot. Pour water over it. Wash off the dust and dirt of the road, the debris and refuse that clings after the day’s journey.
Embarrassed, they look away. This is Jesus, the man they have been following for three years, listening to, trying to learn from. This is Jesus whom crowds came to meet him as he entered Jerusalem, crowds waving palm branches, and shouting “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! This is Jesus who kneels at their feet, rubbing at the grime.
No more talk about who will sit at the right and left hand of Jesus when he establishes his kingdom. No more speculation about how the religious leaders, the Pharisees and Sadduccess, are likely to react to the crowds shouting for Jesus.
This night there is silence. Jesus moves from one disciple to the next. In the hush, they hear the sound of dirty water trickling off a foot and into a basin. The sound of the basin dragged across the floor to the next disciple.
Jesus places the basin before Peter. Peter looks down into the eyes of Jesus and cannot stand this anymore. This foot washing must stop. “No. Not you. You shall never wash my feet.”
Jesus looks up into the eyes of Peter and answers. “I must. Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”
When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and told them, I have washed your feet; you also should wash one another’s feet. A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. This is how others will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.
It’s not an easy command, to love one another, to wash one another’s feet. It’s a command to step outside of the comfort zone, to allow ourselves to be vulnerable.
We cover feet with socks and shoes, not just to protect them, but to hide them, and to protect ourselves from embarrassment.
What if you take off your shoes, and there’s a smell; what if there’s lint and grunge between the toes. Worst of all, what if you take off your shoes and the other person reacts with revulsion, cringes, and looks away?
I’ve tried my hand at washing feet. I once had the brilliant idea of taking a Sunday school class of eighth graders to cook supper and serve the people at a soup kitchen. The kids were excited about it, although their parents were a little worried about the expedition.
We planned the menu one week, and the next week went grocery shopping—who knew Kroger could be so fun?
The night we cooked dinner they had way too much fun with the kitchen utensils—but they did it, the eighth graders cooked the whole meal, and that evening when we opened the doors a group of about fifty people stood in line, waiting for dinner.
My eighth graders knew exactly what to do—they lined up in the kitchen where they could serve—dish food onto plates in an assembly line—one put the meat on the plate, the next the macaroni—these students loved macaroni— the next one puts a roll on the plate, at the end of the line hand over the plate.
I looked at that line of students so proud of them and realized that if we weren’t careful we were on track to serve these people and never see them—just hand over plates of food to strangers.
I guess you can wash feet that way—keep your head down, eyes on the feet, never make eye contact, never really see the other as a person, like washing dishes, just another pair of feet to wash before moving on to the next set, one down, 11 to go.
I can’t imagine Jesus washing feet that way.
So after serving everyone else, my Sunday School class and I fixed our plates too, lots of macaroni, sat down at the tables, trying to make eye contact, trying to start a conversation.
I talked with Joe who picks up aluminum cans along the road, turns them in for cash, not enough to live on but it helps him get by while he is looking for work.
Joe told me about his son in California that he hasn’t spoken with in a few years. He misses his son, so he’s slowly making his way back to California. Joe wants to call, but didn’t depart on good terms, and doesn’t know if his call would be welcome. He worries about his son.
I told him I have two sons too, and we talked about how hard it is sometimes to get along with teenagers. I shared my theory that God makes teenagers the way they are so that it’s not so hard to say good-bye when they leave the house.
That evening, before we left, I asked Joe if he wanted me to pray with him. So I prayed for him, that he would be find work, that he would somehow get to California to see his son, and that his son would welcome him.
When I said Amen, I thought we were done praying, but Joe started praying—for me and my husband Ed, and for our children, and that our family would find ways to show on another that we love each other.
I thought I was washing his feet, but it turns out I had taken off my shoes and Joe was washing my feet.
It’s not an easy command, to love one another, to wash one another’s feet. It’s hard to be vulnerable, to allow another person to see who you really are, the parts you would rather hide.
It’s much easier to be the Sunday School teacher, or the woman in the back room dishing up plates of macaroni. It’s much easier to hide behind a smile, and say fine, fine, everything is all right, how are you doing today.
It’s hard to show someone Cyndi, who worries about her children, and wonders if she spends enough time with them and do they even know that I love them?
When I sat down with Joe, I thought I was sitting down with someone who looked like he was going through hard times, who might need someone to talk to and wash his feet. But it turned out that we were Joe—just Joe, worried about his son—and Cyndi—just Cyndi, worried about her sons.
Jesus looks up into the eyes of Peter and says, “I must wash your feet. Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”
If we take seriously this idea, that we who follow Jesus are the body of Christ, then when we wash one another’s feet, we wash the feet of Jesus.
When Joe, who picks up cans along the side of the road, prayed that my family would find ways to show each other that we love each other, this was the voice of Jesus.
When the Rev. Dr. Sam Matthews, senior minister of First United Methodist Church in Marietta, GA sits down in this chair, he is no longer Reverend, he is no longer doctor, he’s just Sam. Beneath the robe are bare feet that need to be washed.
When the Honorable Robert E. Flournoy, III, Cobb County Superior Court Judge, sits down in this chair, he is no longer Judge, no longer chairman of the administrative council and lay leader of this church, he is just Rob. Beneath the robe are bare feet that need to be washed.
A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. As I have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet.
How does the body of Christ respond when we see bare feet? When we expect someone to say, “oh I’m doing just fine” and hear instead “well, actually, I’m worried.” When we notice shoulders that droop and eyes that seem tired.
How does the body of Christ respond when we see bare feet? Do we reach out with warm water and soap, wash off the caked mud from life on the road. Do we tend the scratches and bruises, handle the raw spots with gentleness and love?
Because this is how others will know that you are my disciples, if you see one another, bare feet and all, and love one another.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Need more Ogle
It was my first year of seminary. The choir director of my local congregation asked me to put together a narrative, in three parts, interspersed between the choir’s Christmas anthems. Flattered, I imagined a one-woman drama, in which I played a character in the Bethlehem narrative. I imagined seeing the tired but proud mother, the soft cry of the baby, the choir’s lullaby, stepping over sheep and around lowing cattle in my character’s quest to worship the newborn king. So I wandered the Cokesbury store, peering into advent devotion books, peeking into a collection of Christmas drams, imagining the worship experience I would create.
Daniel Ogle asked the question we all ask, seeing one another in the Cokesbury store after classes are well underway. “What are you doing here?” After all, who in a seminary has the time, money, or inclination to shop for additional reading? I explained my quest—did he know of a female monologue set in the Christmas story?
In best rabbinic tradition, Daniel answered my question with one of his own. “What’s wrong with the magnificat?”
“Nothing. Just not what I’m looking for.”
I left the store soon after, flabbergasted by the encounter.
Yes, I knew about Mary’s monologue (Luke 1:46-55). I was ashamed of myself…I had not even considered turning to scripture. What did that say about the authority of scripture?
But the greater shame…I knew that I would choose not to use the magnificat. I wanted sweet; I wanted sappy. I would not tell my congregation that the Messiah would turn the economic order upside down, put down the mighty and exalt the low, fill the hungry and send the rich away, empty. I would give them the Messiah they wanted and expected.
I knew then that I am not as brave as Mary; I failed to cry out that God would scatter we who are proud. My congregation expected lullabies. They would revolt if I instead proclaimed scripture!
I struggle to be brave.
I strain to, at most, sneak in words of liberation and rebellion. Wearing boots instead of pumps is about as subversive as I get.
I will always have the tendency to comfort the afflicted rather than afflict the comfortable. The comforted are always so appreciative. They like me.
I sit in my comfortable chair, in my well-apportioned office, with my pretty crosses decorating the wall, thinking maybe I need some Ogle.
Daniel Ogle asked the question we all ask, seeing one another in the Cokesbury store after classes are well underway. “What are you doing here?” After all, who in a seminary has the time, money, or inclination to shop for additional reading? I explained my quest—did he know of a female monologue set in the Christmas story?
In best rabbinic tradition, Daniel answered my question with one of his own. “What’s wrong with the magnificat?”
“Nothing. Just not what I’m looking for.”
I left the store soon after, flabbergasted by the encounter.
Yes, I knew about Mary’s monologue (Luke 1:46-55). I was ashamed of myself…I had not even considered turning to scripture. What did that say about the authority of scripture?
But the greater shame…I knew that I would choose not to use the magnificat. I wanted sweet; I wanted sappy. I would not tell my congregation that the Messiah would turn the economic order upside down, put down the mighty and exalt the low, fill the hungry and send the rich away, empty. I would give them the Messiah they wanted and expected.
I knew then that I am not as brave as Mary; I failed to cry out that God would scatter we who are proud. My congregation expected lullabies. They would revolt if I instead proclaimed scripture!
I struggle to be brave.
I strain to, at most, sneak in words of liberation and rebellion. Wearing boots instead of pumps is about as subversive as I get.
I will always have the tendency to comfort the afflicted rather than afflict the comfortable. The comforted are always so appreciative. They like me.
I sit in my comfortable chair, in my well-apportioned office, with my pretty crosses decorating the wall, thinking maybe I need some Ogle.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Praying Psalm 25
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls. We turn to you with praise and adoration, with thanks for your steadfast love and faithfulness. We are overwhelmed by the ways that you reach out to us, desiring us to turn to you. We are overwhelmed, by your presence during times of silence, by your presence in scripture and in listening. We are startled by your presence when we gather with others. We are overwhelmed when you offer through another person the smile, the handshake, the hug that we didn’t even know that we needed. We are amazed when you speak through another’s words the words that we need to hear. Thank you. We thank you.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls. We turn to you with confusion and frustration. We have tried to follow your path, to walk in your truth, and yet…we have failed. We want to love you with every part of our being, but fear and pride get in the way. We vow to spend more time with you, and let busyness and the interests of others get in the way. We want to give more financially, but God—it’s hard—what if there isn’t enough? We want to speak the neighbor, to love neighbor—but I don’t know what to say—and what if they reject me? Worst of all, Lord, there are neighbors we never even notice. People you love, but that we walk past, drive by, and never see. We lift to our failures.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls, because we have nowhere else to turn. Other paths lead to emptiness. Other ways lead to destruction. We have tried other ways…and in brokenness, pain, and finally humility, we turn to you, we surrender. Teach us your way. Lead us in your paths.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls, trusting in the abundance of your love and care. We lift up the worries of this day:
A broken economy, with no consensus on how to correct this situation. The pain of job losses, the fears of who will be next. We name to you those who suffer financially.
Our worries over broken relationships—relationships that are strained. We name to you those persons who we long to reach out to more deeply and faithfully.
Our fears for those who suffer. We name to you those who are sick, those who are hospitalized, those who need your loving care and healing.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls, trusting in your faithfulness, trusting in your steadfast love. To you, Lord, we live and pray the words your son taught: Our Father, who art in heaven…
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls. We turn to you with confusion and frustration. We have tried to follow your path, to walk in your truth, and yet…we have failed. We want to love you with every part of our being, but fear and pride get in the way. We vow to spend more time with you, and let busyness and the interests of others get in the way. We want to give more financially, but God—it’s hard—what if there isn’t enough? We want to speak the neighbor, to love neighbor—but I don’t know what to say—and what if they reject me? Worst of all, Lord, there are neighbors we never even notice. People you love, but that we walk past, drive by, and never see. We lift to our failures.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls, because we have nowhere else to turn. Other paths lead to emptiness. Other ways lead to destruction. We have tried other ways…and in brokenness, pain, and finally humility, we turn to you, we surrender. Teach us your way. Lead us in your paths.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls, trusting in the abundance of your love and care. We lift up the worries of this day:
A broken economy, with no consensus on how to correct this situation. The pain of job losses, the fears of who will be next. We name to you those who suffer financially.
Our worries over broken relationships—relationships that are strained. We name to you those persons who we long to reach out to more deeply and faithfully.
Our fears for those who suffer. We name to you those who are sick, those who are hospitalized, those who need your loving care and healing.
To you, Lord, we lift up our souls, trusting in your faithfulness, trusting in your steadfast love. To you, Lord, we live and pray the words your son taught: Our Father, who art in heaven…
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Mystical Morning
O God, in all ages you have imparted yourself to man and set alight the fire of faith in his heart, grant to me the faith which comes from search. Cleanse my life from all hat negates and crushes out faith, and fill it with the purity and honesty which foster it. Cleanse me from the evil which makes unbelief its friend, and drive it far from me, so that, being wiling in all things to do your will, I may know the truth which shall set me free. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.
- Samuel M Shoemaker in Daily Prayer Companion, as quoted in Disciplines for the Inner Life by Benson and Benson.
For years I have been drawn to images of the inner life—an interior castle, a home, a cabin, rooms in which I go to seek God and rooms in which I find my self and get to know this person I am. I speculate about getting my self out of the way, or transformation of the self, or the interior life growing and filling and somehow bursting out. I enjoy this reflection on the interior life, to delight in God’s presence, and enjoy the moments of desiring God. On good days, this inner life pops surprises, unexpectedly giving peace or joy.
Candler encouraged me to distrust this, to worry whenever I am not reaching out in love to others. To pray alone is to focus on myself, and there is a risk that I will assume that the one I meet inside is not God but me. Certainly praying with others challenges my assumptions about God.
When I pray with others, lately with Don and Kristin, and often with those who are sick, there is a sense of connection. That within me is connected somehow to that within you. The bond is strong when we open ourselves, reveal ourselves, are willing to share ourselves. Days later, I look in your face, and feel the bond still present, no longer dramatically obvious, but gentle and gracious and polite.
There is this reaching out in love with one another in communal prayer, and I delight in this presence of God.
Interesting that communal prayer is teaching me not to question my need for private experience of God. Somehow the two are intertwined; on the most straightforward level it seems that I cannot share the me with you unless I spend time alone listening for who I am. There is more, though. There is a practice in opening self to God, when in the practice and discipline it becomes physical and natural to open self. Each practice, whether praying alone or praying this with others, instructs in the other practice. In the practices, in the discipline, there is grace, there are moments of certain trust that this is God present, this is God I know and God we know together and in one another.
These words aren’t coming out as hoped. My apologies to Evelyn Underhill—I suppose the important part of every reflection is that which it fails to express.
- Samuel M Shoemaker in Daily Prayer Companion, as quoted in Disciplines for the Inner Life by Benson and Benson.
For years I have been drawn to images of the inner life—an interior castle, a home, a cabin, rooms in which I go to seek God and rooms in which I find my self and get to know this person I am. I speculate about getting my self out of the way, or transformation of the self, or the interior life growing and filling and somehow bursting out. I enjoy this reflection on the interior life, to delight in God’s presence, and enjoy the moments of desiring God. On good days, this inner life pops surprises, unexpectedly giving peace or joy.
Candler encouraged me to distrust this, to worry whenever I am not reaching out in love to others. To pray alone is to focus on myself, and there is a risk that I will assume that the one I meet inside is not God but me. Certainly praying with others challenges my assumptions about God.
When I pray with others, lately with Don and Kristin, and often with those who are sick, there is a sense of connection. That within me is connected somehow to that within you. The bond is strong when we open ourselves, reveal ourselves, are willing to share ourselves. Days later, I look in your face, and feel the bond still present, no longer dramatically obvious, but gentle and gracious and polite.
There is this reaching out in love with one another in communal prayer, and I delight in this presence of God.
Interesting that communal prayer is teaching me not to question my need for private experience of God. Somehow the two are intertwined; on the most straightforward level it seems that I cannot share the me with you unless I spend time alone listening for who I am. There is more, though. There is a practice in opening self to God, when in the practice and discipline it becomes physical and natural to open self. Each practice, whether praying alone or praying this with others, instructs in the other practice. In the practices, in the discipline, there is grace, there are moments of certain trust that this is God present, this is God I know and God we know together and in one another.
These words aren’t coming out as hoped. My apologies to Evelyn Underhill—I suppose the important part of every reflection is that which it fails to express.
Watching and Waiting (Newsletter Article)
I’ve tried for years to grow tomatoes, not always successfully. That perfect combination of acidity and sweetness is found only on a tomato plant coaxed to grow in Georgia red clay. My grandfather, known for his gardening acumen, warned me not to plant too early. Don’t be tempted to plant tomatoes on a sunny spring day; frost may destroy your plans. Instead, watch the pecan trees. When you can see leaves on the top-most branches, then it’s time to plant tomatoes.
It’s hard to wait. In the spring, I’m eager to plant; in the summer, I’m eager for crisp fall mornings; and at this time of year I scarcely finish drying the Thanksgiving meal dishes before I start nagging, I mean encouraging, the family to put up the Christmas tree.
Yet the church knows we need to wait. We don’t dive into the Advent season with a full-scale candlelight service, but instead watch as one candle is lit this week, a second candle next week, taking weeks to light the Advent wreath candles. We don’t put out all the Christmas decorations at once, but add to them each week. We set out the manger scene, but hesitate, waiting before setting out the baby Jesus.
We don’t wait to find out the end of the story—we know that angels and shepherds and magi will arrive. But we recognize holiness in the humble birth, mystery in the Son of God born in our midst, and we hesitate. This is not like watching for the right time to plant or for the weather to change—this is a season of active waiting. We prepare ourselves, examine ourselves, consider relationships, question motives and actions. We wait as participants in the story. We watch God fulfill promises in Jesus’ birth, and in the watching and waiting we make room in our hearts for Christ’s coming.
We know that Christ has come; yet there are promises still to be fulfilled, promises of a time when the wolf will lie down with the lamb, when death will be swallowed up, and when every tear will be wiped away. We watch and wait together, in confident expectation that Christ will come again.
Come wait with me this Sunday,
Cyndi
It’s hard to wait. In the spring, I’m eager to plant; in the summer, I’m eager for crisp fall mornings; and at this time of year I scarcely finish drying the Thanksgiving meal dishes before I start nagging, I mean encouraging, the family to put up the Christmas tree.
Yet the church knows we need to wait. We don’t dive into the Advent season with a full-scale candlelight service, but instead watch as one candle is lit this week, a second candle next week, taking weeks to light the Advent wreath candles. We don’t put out all the Christmas decorations at once, but add to them each week. We set out the manger scene, but hesitate, waiting before setting out the baby Jesus.
We don’t wait to find out the end of the story—we know that angels and shepherds and magi will arrive. But we recognize holiness in the humble birth, mystery in the Son of God born in our midst, and we hesitate. This is not like watching for the right time to plant or for the weather to change—this is a season of active waiting. We prepare ourselves, examine ourselves, consider relationships, question motives and actions. We wait as participants in the story. We watch God fulfill promises in Jesus’ birth, and in the watching and waiting we make room in our hearts for Christ’s coming.
We know that Christ has come; yet there are promises still to be fulfilled, promises of a time when the wolf will lie down with the lamb, when death will be swallowed up, and when every tear will be wiped away. We watch and wait together, in confident expectation that Christ will come again.
Come wait with me this Sunday,
Cyndi
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Sheep, Goats, Harry Potter and John 3:16
Matthew 25:31-46
31“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left.
34Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; 35for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ 37Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ 40And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’
41Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; 42for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ 44Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’ 45Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ 46And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”
My family enjoys the Harry Potter books and the Harry Potter movies. During the early years, when new Harry Potter books were released, Mark and I had to sneak to the book store, secretly purchasing the latest in the series—sneaking because Ed hates when we buy books instead of checking them out for free from the library—and then the whole family, even Ed, fighting over who gets to read the book first.
I have enjoyed these stories in which Harry finds out that there is more to life than what he sees in the world around him—watching Harry grow and become not only stronger but also wiser—and in this last episode, learn that there is something after this life, and that there are things worth dying for.
Each book corresponds to a school year, in which Harry and his friends attend the Hogwarts School of Magic. At the beginning of the school year, the First-Year students are lined up and their names read aloud alphabetically; one by one each student sits on a stool and a magical hat—the Sorting Hat—is placed on the student’s head. The sorting hat looks deep inside them, at their hearts and at their attitudes, at whether they are trustworthy, whether they are intelligent, and assigns each to a house where they and their housemates will form bonds that last a lifetime.
The moment of consideration varies in length—some students are easy to place, and the sorting hat takes less than a second to call out Gryffendor or Ravensclaw house. But other students, like Harry, take longer for the hat to analyze.
Harry sits on the stool and hears the sorting hat trying to place him.
“Hmm, Difficult. Very Difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting....”
The hat seems to lean toward putting Harry in the Slytherin house, but Harry is reluctant to be part of Slytherin. Harry knows that the evil He Who Shall Not Be Named, Lord Voldemort, once belonged to Slytherin. Moments before, the hat placed the arrogant and elitist Malfoy into the Slytherin house, and Harry can’t help himself from thinking, “Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.”
“Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that....”
“Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.”
I read our gospel lesson from Matthew 25 where Jesus describes a time of sorting; like the Harry Potter books it seems otherworldly, like something that doesn’t really happen in the real world.
But something in me recognizes that Jesus’ words are not fiction; there is a sorting, a looking inside of me to see who I am, where I belong. Part of me feels like Harry, as though I am in a nightmare, sweating, gripping the edge of my seat, squeezing my eyes tightly shut and whispering fervently to Jesus “not the goats, not the goats. Please, please, please, put me with the sheep.”
If I am honest, it’s not just fear that I have when I read this description of Jesus separating sheep from goats. Part of me is angry and wants to shout to Jesus that the story we just read of sheep and goats is wrong. Clearly, Matthew was daydreaming when Jesus described the final judgment; Matthew did not get the story straight and has written down the wrong words.
I know how the end is supposed to work out; as a child I was taught that you are saved if you believe in Jesus Christ. One of the first memory verses I learned was John 3:16—you know this too:
For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son so that whosoever believeth in him should not perish but have everlasting life.
There is nothing in John 3:16 about giving drinks to thirsty people or food to hungry people. You just have to believe in Jesus.
If Matthew had been paying attention like he was supposed to, instead of goofing off, he would have written down what Jesus really said. What Matthew should have written, what Jesus must have really said, goes like this:
After dividing the people into sheep and goats, the king looks to his right, where the sheep are, and says, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for you believed in me and shall not perish but have everlasting life.
Nothing about giving clothes to people or welcoming strangers.
As a child I was taught that you are saved if you let Jesus into your heart. I learned the song, “Behold, behold, I stand at the door and knock, knock, knock…if anyone hears my voice, and shall open, open, open the door I will come in.” Once saved, always saved. All you have to do is let Jesus into your heart and then you are good to go. If Matthew had learned this song as a child, he too would know that salvation does not come because of visiting people in prison or taking care of sick people.
Part of me is angry at Matthew for getting this wrong, because the way Matthew writes this description of the final judgment not only contradicts what I was taught as a child—it contradicts what I have learned as an adult: that salvation is by faith alone, not by works. Paul knew this, and wrote the Ephesians: “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9). Welcoming strangers and feeding the poor sounds like works righteousness, something that you could boast about. Matthew forgot to write down the part where Jesus said we are saved by God’s grace and by faith.
Maybe Matthew just had a rough day. Maybe this day the crowd got between Jesus and Matthew; with all those people in the way, all the noise and the jostling of the crowd, Matthew couldn’t hear Jesus clearly.
If it were only in this scripture, I might be tempted to say that Matthew had wax in his ears that morning and read on, forgetting about this description of the judgment. But this isn’t the only time that Matthew suggests that while we may be saved by grace, we will be judged by our works. The whole gospel of Matthew is filled with Jesus telling stories in which people are judged by what they do.
• Ten virgins wait through the night for a bridegroom. Five are wise, and conserve their oil. Five act foolishly, wasting their oil, and miss the wedding party when they must run for new supplies. They are judged on the basis of what they did.
• A wealthy master gives talents to his three servants. One servant receives five talents, another two, and another one. All of the servants are judged on the basis of what they did with what they had.
It’s not only Matthew—Luke and Mark also report that Jesus talks about people who are judged by what they do with what they have.
• Zacchaeus, the wee little man, comes down out of his tree, and is so excited that he gives half of his possessions to the poor. Then, after Zacchaeus gives to the poor, Jesus says, “Today salvation has come to this house” (Luke 19:9).
• Jesus tells about a rich man and a poor man, Lazarus. Outside the rich man’s home lies Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man's table. Both die, and the rich man is condemned for eternity. I read the story and wonder whether the rich man ever saw the beggar Lazarus sitting outside.
If I take seriously the gospels, the descriptions of what Jesus said and did, then I have to question this understanding that I have long held associating salvation with whether I let Jesus into my heart. Matthew, Mark, and Luke don’t seem to say anything about believing in Jesus; John doesn’t say anything about letting Jesus into your heart. Instead, Jesus seems to judge people based on their actions; what did they do with what they had?
When I read Matthew 25 and the judging of the nations, part of me is scared and can’t help but cry out, “Not the goats, not the goats”. Because I know, deep down, that if these actions—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoners—if these actions are the criteria for eternal salvation, then I haven’t made the cut.
I drive home from school, and stop at a traffic light on Ponce de Leon where a man with a shopping cart stands on the side of the road. His whole life is in that shopping cart, everything that he owns. I cross over into the left lane, the furthest lane from him, because I don’t have a one dollar bill, and I don’t want to give him a five dollar bill. I pick up my cell phone, pretend like I’m making a phone call, anything to avoid looking at him in the eye.
I am more than a little nervous about this great judgment separating sheep and goats--but I’m not the only one who seems a little confused, who has questions about what is going on in this scene.
Those gathered before Jesus have questions, too. They ask him, when did I see you? Those who are on the right side, who have been told they are righteous and blessed, ask, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?”
Those gathered on the left aren’t quite sure how they got there. They also have questions for Jesus: ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’
It seems as though no one, whether on the left or the right, recognized Jesus when they encountered him.
I begin to wonder about the Jesus I let into my heart, the Jesus I said will be my Lord and Savior, do I really know Jesus? Do I recognize Jesus when I see him?
Jesus says that “as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me”. As you have given water to the thirsty, you have given it to me. As you have visited the lonely person whose room in a retirement home now seems like a prison cell, you have done it to me. As you have given a coat to the person shivering in the cold, you have given it to me.
I give a coat or two every year to MUST ministries, does this count? Usually the coats that I give are ones that I really don’t want anymore. Since I don’t want to bother with having a garage sale, I put clothes that are out of fashion or too small in a collection box alongside GA 20. I have to admit I never thought to peek in the box and see if Jesus was in there; seems like that would be a silly thing to do.
I tried to teach this idea of the need to be generous to the least of these—the poor, the hungry, the sick—I tried to teach this to a group of 7th graders in Sunday School. This was a long time ago—back when I had this crazy idea that I could relate to middle schoolers—of course my own kids weren’t that old yet and had not yet told me that I had no business hanging out with 7th graders. But the class and I made a pact—if I baked muffins, they would “behave”—and I told myself that if they never remembered anything that I taught in class, at least they might remember that for a year someone had cared enough to get up early on Sunday mornings and bake muffins.
One Sunday morning we sat around the table eating chocolate chip muffins and I was especially excited about the lesson. It was a lesson on caring for the least of these, and I had found some statistics on the Internet that named the least of these. You’ve probably seen the list—it goes something like this: If you went to bed full last night, then you are among the wealthiest 5% in the world. If you have a television in your home, then you are among the wealthiest 3% in the world. But instead of appreciating what they have and feeling sympathy for those without, one of the hooligans, I mean students, starting cheering, and before I knew it, my litany had turned into a nightmare. My statement, “If you had a bed to sleep in last night, then you are in the top 1% richest people in the world” was greeted with cheer!?! “Yeah! We’re number 1, we’re number 1!”
I wanted them to see beyond their homes and schools, to see people that they normally would never notice. I wanted them to see Jesus. Instead, they could only see themselves, and they marched around the classroom waving muffins and chanting “we’re number one!”.
I don’t think that you can look at statistics and see Jesus in the face of the poor, the hungry, the cold and lonely. That’s like trying to look at Jesus from a distance, from far away, like seeing a blurred image.
If Jesus is present with the hungry, the thirsty, the poor—then I guess I have at least helped Jesus a little from time to time. I bought food for Mother’s Cupboard. I have written checks to the Homeless fund. I gave money to the special offering for Bibles for the women’s prison.
But even that is problematic. My childhood Sunday School teachers didn’t say to let Jesus into your wallet; they said to let Jesus into your heart. Just giving money to Jesus is like trying to see Jesus from a distance, like the blurry way you see when you put on someone else’s eyeglasses.
My friend Alice just started a job helping a church that wants to reach out to the poor. They’ve hired her to do this for them—when someone in the area needs help, Alice talks to them, and figures out how the church should help.
One of Alice’s first clients was Margaret. Margaret’s electricity bills were past due, she didn’t have the $100 needed to pay up, and the power was about to be cut off. Margaret has two part time jobs, works more than 40 hours a week, but neither job pays more than $5.85 minimum wage, and as hard as she is trying, between day care and the cost of gas, she has a hard time making ends meet.
Alice was so proud of her church for helping out Margaret…until one of the board members asked, do you think she can pay back the $100 by volunteering at the church? Maybe do a little cleaning or working on the grounds?
It seemed to me that if the board had talked to Margaret, instead of sending Alice with their check, they would not have had such blurry vision. They would have seen clearly that this woman needing help was Jesus—and that her feet hurt from standing all day, and that she was tired from trying to make two jobs work out and tired from trying to give time for her children.
Last month at the UMW meeting, during our sharing of joys and concerns, Maree White shared a blessing and prayer request. During a family reunion, a homeless family stopped by the church, asking for help. Maree asked us to pray for the family—everything that they own is in that car. Maree called the benevolence committee—part of our gifts to the church are used in this way—so that the church could help the family.
But Maree didn’t stop there. She invited the family of strangers into the fellowship hall, invited them to join in the White family reunion, helped them load their plates with fried chicken and green beans, and even invited them to sit at the table. Maree shared this story with the UMW group, and how it had felt as though it were the right thing to do, to make a stranger feel welcome. I have to admit, I felt a little jealous of Maree. I think she served dinner to Jesus that afternoon.
I started out talking about Harry Potter and the sorting hat, but after thinking about Jesus in the face of the thirsty, Jesus in the face of the hungry, my enjoyment of Harry Potter books and movies seems to fade, as though it’s not that important. Still, I find Harry Potter and the sorting hat helpful in understanding this prophecy sorting sheep and goats. While Harry knows that part of him is brave and belongs in the House of Gryffindor, another part of Harry needs approval and recognition, desires to excel, and these qualities should place him in the House of Slytherin.
Like Harry, I too see a bit of a mix in myself. Part of me wants to love God with all of myself—with my heart, my soul, my mind, my strength—to seek out Jesus wherever he may be, to give of myself, of all I have, in response to the love God has shown me.
But another part of me wants to forget that Jesus is with the homeless person, turns away in disgust from the smell of a person who has not showered in months, whose breath smells from rotting teeth that haven’t been brushed in weeks.
Part of me wants to forget the lonely person, the older person in a retirement home who has no one to talk with. I don’t really have anything to offer such a person do I? I’m not the best conversationalist, I don’t really have the same interests, it’s really hard for me to meet and get to know people quickly.
I think about my childhood and all those preachers and Sunday School teachers who said, “just let Jesus into your heart”. No one told me that Jesus would smell, that he would be lonely, and tired, and hard to talk to.
They did teach me that Jesus gave everything up to be human, to be born, walk on this earth, and die on a cross. I guess I should have known when I memorized John 3:16, that God so loved the world, that if I invited Jesus into my heart, when he came into my heart, he wouldn’t come alone, but would bring along all those other people that he loves too.
31“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left.
34Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; 35for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ 37Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ 40And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’
41Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; 42for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ 44Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’ 45Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ 46And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”
My family enjoys the Harry Potter books and the Harry Potter movies. During the early years, when new Harry Potter books were released, Mark and I had to sneak to the book store, secretly purchasing the latest in the series—sneaking because Ed hates when we buy books instead of checking them out for free from the library—and then the whole family, even Ed, fighting over who gets to read the book first.
I have enjoyed these stories in which Harry finds out that there is more to life than what he sees in the world around him—watching Harry grow and become not only stronger but also wiser—and in this last episode, learn that there is something after this life, and that there are things worth dying for.
Each book corresponds to a school year, in which Harry and his friends attend the Hogwarts School of Magic. At the beginning of the school year, the First-Year students are lined up and their names read aloud alphabetically; one by one each student sits on a stool and a magical hat—the Sorting Hat—is placed on the student’s head. The sorting hat looks deep inside them, at their hearts and at their attitudes, at whether they are trustworthy, whether they are intelligent, and assigns each to a house where they and their housemates will form bonds that last a lifetime.
The moment of consideration varies in length—some students are easy to place, and the sorting hat takes less than a second to call out Gryffendor or Ravensclaw house. But other students, like Harry, take longer for the hat to analyze.
Harry sits on the stool and hears the sorting hat trying to place him.
“Hmm, Difficult. Very Difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting....”
The hat seems to lean toward putting Harry in the Slytherin house, but Harry is reluctant to be part of Slytherin. Harry knows that the evil He Who Shall Not Be Named, Lord Voldemort, once belonged to Slytherin. Moments before, the hat placed the arrogant and elitist Malfoy into the Slytherin house, and Harry can’t help himself from thinking, “Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.”
“Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that....”
“Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.”
I read our gospel lesson from Matthew 25 where Jesus describes a time of sorting; like the Harry Potter books it seems otherworldly, like something that doesn’t really happen in the real world.
But something in me recognizes that Jesus’ words are not fiction; there is a sorting, a looking inside of me to see who I am, where I belong. Part of me feels like Harry, as though I am in a nightmare, sweating, gripping the edge of my seat, squeezing my eyes tightly shut and whispering fervently to Jesus “not the goats, not the goats. Please, please, please, put me with the sheep.”
If I am honest, it’s not just fear that I have when I read this description of Jesus separating sheep from goats. Part of me is angry and wants to shout to Jesus that the story we just read of sheep and goats is wrong. Clearly, Matthew was daydreaming when Jesus described the final judgment; Matthew did not get the story straight and has written down the wrong words.
I know how the end is supposed to work out; as a child I was taught that you are saved if you believe in Jesus Christ. One of the first memory verses I learned was John 3:16—you know this too:
For God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son so that whosoever
There is nothing in John 3:16 about giving drinks to thirsty people or food to hungry people. You just have to believe in Jesus.
If Matthew had been paying attention like he was supposed to, instead of goofing off, he would have written down what Jesus really said. What Matthew should have written, what Jesus must have really said, goes like this:
After dividing the people into sheep and goats, the king looks to his right, where the sheep are, and says, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for you believed in me and shall not perish but have everlasting life.
Nothing about giving clothes to people or welcoming strangers.
As a child I was taught that you are saved if you let Jesus into your heart. I learned the song, “Behold, behold, I stand at the door and knock, knock, knock…if anyone hears my voice, and shall open, open, open the door I will come in.” Once saved, always saved. All you have to do is let Jesus into your heart and then you are good to go. If Matthew had learned this song as a child, he too would know that salvation does not come because of visiting people in prison or taking care of sick people.
Part of me is angry at Matthew for getting this wrong, because the way Matthew writes this description of the final judgment not only contradicts what I was taught as a child—it contradicts what I have learned as an adult: that salvation is by faith alone, not by works. Paul knew this, and wrote the Ephesians: “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9). Welcoming strangers and feeding the poor sounds like works righteousness, something that you could boast about. Matthew forgot to write down the part where Jesus said we are saved by God’s grace and by faith.
Maybe Matthew just had a rough day. Maybe this day the crowd got between Jesus and Matthew; with all those people in the way, all the noise and the jostling of the crowd, Matthew couldn’t hear Jesus clearly.
If it were only in this scripture, I might be tempted to say that Matthew had wax in his ears that morning and read on, forgetting about this description of the judgment. But this isn’t the only time that Matthew suggests that while we may be saved by grace, we will be judged by our works. The whole gospel of Matthew is filled with Jesus telling stories in which people are judged by what they do.
• Ten virgins wait through the night for a bridegroom. Five are wise, and conserve their oil. Five act foolishly, wasting their oil, and miss the wedding party when they must run for new supplies. They are judged on the basis of what they did.
• A wealthy master gives talents to his three servants. One servant receives five talents, another two, and another one. All of the servants are judged on the basis of what they did with what they had.
It’s not only Matthew—Luke and Mark also report that Jesus talks about people who are judged by what they do with what they have.
• Zacchaeus, the wee little man, comes down out of his tree, and is so excited that he gives half of his possessions to the poor. Then, after Zacchaeus gives to the poor, Jesus says, “Today salvation has come to this house” (Luke 19:9).
• Jesus tells about a rich man and a poor man, Lazarus. Outside the rich man’s home lies Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man's table. Both die, and the rich man is condemned for eternity. I read the story and wonder whether the rich man ever saw the beggar Lazarus sitting outside.
If I take seriously the gospels, the descriptions of what Jesus said and did, then I have to question this understanding that I have long held associating salvation with whether I let Jesus into my heart. Matthew, Mark, and Luke don’t seem to say anything about believing in Jesus; John doesn’t say anything about letting Jesus into your heart. Instead, Jesus seems to judge people based on their actions; what did they do with what they had?
When I read Matthew 25 and the judging of the nations, part of me is scared and can’t help but cry out, “Not the goats, not the goats”. Because I know, deep down, that if these actions—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoners—if these actions are the criteria for eternal salvation, then I haven’t made the cut.
I drive home from school, and stop at a traffic light on Ponce de Leon where a man with a shopping cart stands on the side of the road. His whole life is in that shopping cart, everything that he owns. I cross over into the left lane, the furthest lane from him, because I don’t have a one dollar bill, and I don’t want to give him a five dollar bill. I pick up my cell phone, pretend like I’m making a phone call, anything to avoid looking at him in the eye.
I am more than a little nervous about this great judgment separating sheep and goats--but I’m not the only one who seems a little confused, who has questions about what is going on in this scene.
Those gathered before Jesus have questions, too. They ask him, when did I see you? Those who are on the right side, who have been told they are righteous and blessed, ask, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?”
Those gathered on the left aren’t quite sure how they got there. They also have questions for Jesus: ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’
It seems as though no one, whether on the left or the right, recognized Jesus when they encountered him.
I begin to wonder about the Jesus I let into my heart, the Jesus I said will be my Lord and Savior, do I really know Jesus? Do I recognize Jesus when I see him?
Jesus says that “as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me”. As you have given water to the thirsty, you have given it to me. As you have visited the lonely person whose room in a retirement home now seems like a prison cell, you have done it to me. As you have given a coat to the person shivering in the cold, you have given it to me.
I give a coat or two every year to MUST ministries, does this count? Usually the coats that I give are ones that I really don’t want anymore. Since I don’t want to bother with having a garage sale, I put clothes that are out of fashion or too small in a collection box alongside GA 20. I have to admit I never thought to peek in the box and see if Jesus was in there; seems like that would be a silly thing to do.
I tried to teach this idea of the need to be generous to the least of these—the poor, the hungry, the sick—I tried to teach this to a group of 7th graders in Sunday School. This was a long time ago—back when I had this crazy idea that I could relate to middle schoolers—of course my own kids weren’t that old yet and had not yet told me that I had no business hanging out with 7th graders. But the class and I made a pact—if I baked muffins, they would “behave”—and I told myself that if they never remembered anything that I taught in class, at least they might remember that for a year someone had cared enough to get up early on Sunday mornings and bake muffins.
One Sunday morning we sat around the table eating chocolate chip muffins and I was especially excited about the lesson. It was a lesson on caring for the least of these, and I had found some statistics on the Internet that named the least of these. You’ve probably seen the list—it goes something like this: If you went to bed full last night, then you are among the wealthiest 5% in the world. If you have a television in your home, then you are among the wealthiest 3% in the world. But instead of appreciating what they have and feeling sympathy for those without, one of the hooligans, I mean students, starting cheering, and before I knew it, my litany had turned into a nightmare. My statement, “If you had a bed to sleep in last night, then you are in the top 1% richest people in the world” was greeted with cheer!?! “Yeah! We’re number 1, we’re number 1!”
I wanted them to see beyond their homes and schools, to see people that they normally would never notice. I wanted them to see Jesus. Instead, they could only see themselves, and they marched around the classroom waving muffins and chanting “we’re number one!”.
I don’t think that you can look at statistics and see Jesus in the face of the poor, the hungry, the cold and lonely. That’s like trying to look at Jesus from a distance, from far away, like seeing a blurred image.
If Jesus is present with the hungry, the thirsty, the poor—then I guess I have at least helped Jesus a little from time to time. I bought food for Mother’s Cupboard. I have written checks to the Homeless fund. I gave money to the special offering for Bibles for the women’s prison.
But even that is problematic. My childhood Sunday School teachers didn’t say to let Jesus into your wallet; they said to let Jesus into your heart. Just giving money to Jesus is like trying to see Jesus from a distance, like the blurry way you see when you put on someone else’s eyeglasses.
My friend Alice just started a job helping a church that wants to reach out to the poor. They’ve hired her to do this for them—when someone in the area needs help, Alice talks to them, and figures out how the church should help.
One of Alice’s first clients was Margaret. Margaret’s electricity bills were past due, she didn’t have the $100 needed to pay up, and the power was about to be cut off. Margaret has two part time jobs, works more than 40 hours a week, but neither job pays more than $5.85 minimum wage, and as hard as she is trying, between day care and the cost of gas, she has a hard time making ends meet.
Alice was so proud of her church for helping out Margaret…until one of the board members asked, do you think she can pay back the $100 by volunteering at the church? Maybe do a little cleaning or working on the grounds?
It seemed to me that if the board had talked to Margaret, instead of sending Alice with their check, they would not have had such blurry vision. They would have seen clearly that this woman needing help was Jesus—and that her feet hurt from standing all day, and that she was tired from trying to make two jobs work out and tired from trying to give time for her children.
Last month at the UMW meeting, during our sharing of joys and concerns, Maree White shared a blessing and prayer request. During a family reunion, a homeless family stopped by the church, asking for help. Maree asked us to pray for the family—everything that they own is in that car. Maree called the benevolence committee—part of our gifts to the church are used in this way—so that the church could help the family.
But Maree didn’t stop there. She invited the family of strangers into the fellowship hall, invited them to join in the White family reunion, helped them load their plates with fried chicken and green beans, and even invited them to sit at the table. Maree shared this story with the UMW group, and how it had felt as though it were the right thing to do, to make a stranger feel welcome. I have to admit, I felt a little jealous of Maree. I think she served dinner to Jesus that afternoon.
I started out talking about Harry Potter and the sorting hat, but after thinking about Jesus in the face of the thirsty, Jesus in the face of the hungry, my enjoyment of Harry Potter books and movies seems to fade, as though it’s not that important. Still, I find Harry Potter and the sorting hat helpful in understanding this prophecy sorting sheep and goats. While Harry knows that part of him is brave and belongs in the House of Gryffindor, another part of Harry needs approval and recognition, desires to excel, and these qualities should place him in the House of Slytherin.
Like Harry, I too see a bit of a mix in myself. Part of me wants to love God with all of myself—with my heart, my soul, my mind, my strength—to seek out Jesus wherever he may be, to give of myself, of all I have, in response to the love God has shown me.
But another part of me wants to forget that Jesus is with the homeless person, turns away in disgust from the smell of a person who has not showered in months, whose breath smells from rotting teeth that haven’t been brushed in weeks.
Part of me wants to forget the lonely person, the older person in a retirement home who has no one to talk with. I don’t really have anything to offer such a person do I? I’m not the best conversationalist, I don’t really have the same interests, it’s really hard for me to meet and get to know people quickly.
I think about my childhood and all those preachers and Sunday School teachers who said, “just let Jesus into your heart”. No one told me that Jesus would smell, that he would be lonely, and tired, and hard to talk to.
They did teach me that Jesus gave everything up to be human, to be born, walk on this earth, and die on a cross. I guess I should have known when I memorized John 3:16, that God so loved the world, that if I invited Jesus into my heart, when he came into my heart, he wouldn’t come alone, but would bring along all those other people that he loves too.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Praying On Demand
I’m not tired of praying. I love the quiet, the listening, the stillness.
I'm not tired of praying with words. I especially enjoy praying with others who have written their prayers—I so appreciate that they took the time to write these down, to struggle and express their condition, their longings, their praises.
I'm not tired of praying. Craziest of all, sometimes I’ll be reading one of Paul’s letters, and he’ll ask his readers to pray for him…and I do. I can’t help it, he’s in trouble, and part of me cries out on his behalf. (I used to justify this by saying that 2000 years ago God knew I would be making this prayer, so it would have mattered in Paul’s situation, but that logic leads to strange outcomes What if I need to pray now to pass the exam I took 2 years ago. Would that have helped me?)
I’m not tired of praying as part of leading worship. I listen all week to the people around me. I think about the lectionary text for the week. I find myself praying at odd times during the week, preparing for Sunday morning, writing out phrases that capture this intersection. By the time Sunday morning arrives, I’ve prayed that same prayer many times; I share this with the people I love and we pray together.
I’m not tired of praying with those I visit in the hospital, although sometimes I am scared. There is so much power in these prayers. I talk a little, and listen a lot, and then ask if we can pray together. I hold a hand or touch a head, and voice the longings I have heard. They become my longings too, for healing, for hurting family members, for comfort in the fears, and in these prayers we are joined in Christ. I marvel at these moments.
I’m not tired of praying, except sometimes, when I feel as though I am a purveyor of religious services. Open the prayer for the finance committee. Say the closing prayer for the Sunday School class. The “on demand” prayer, the “isn’t it convenient to have a pastor with us” prayer drains. Unlike times when I give, by opening myself to God and sharing myself with others, these prayers feel like they are paid for, part of the job, purchased, demanded.
Yet even praying on demand, mid sentence, mind racing ahead wondering what to say next, in this tiny space, even here God can push my reluctance and force open a gap where you and I and God all meet. I tell myself I’m not tired of praying, even when I'm tired of praying.
I'm not tired of praying with words. I especially enjoy praying with others who have written their prayers—I so appreciate that they took the time to write these down, to struggle and express their condition, their longings, their praises.
I'm not tired of praying. Craziest of all, sometimes I’ll be reading one of Paul’s letters, and he’ll ask his readers to pray for him…and I do. I can’t help it, he’s in trouble, and part of me cries out on his behalf. (I used to justify this by saying that 2000 years ago God knew I would be making this prayer, so it would have mattered in Paul’s situation, but that logic leads to strange outcomes What if I need to pray now to pass the exam I took 2 years ago. Would that have helped me?)
I’m not tired of praying as part of leading worship. I listen all week to the people around me. I think about the lectionary text for the week. I find myself praying at odd times during the week, preparing for Sunday morning, writing out phrases that capture this intersection. By the time Sunday morning arrives, I’ve prayed that same prayer many times; I share this with the people I love and we pray together.
I’m not tired of praying with those I visit in the hospital, although sometimes I am scared. There is so much power in these prayers. I talk a little, and listen a lot, and then ask if we can pray together. I hold a hand or touch a head, and voice the longings I have heard. They become my longings too, for healing, for hurting family members, for comfort in the fears, and in these prayers we are joined in Christ. I marvel at these moments.
I’m not tired of praying, except sometimes, when I feel as though I am a purveyor of religious services. Open the prayer for the finance committee. Say the closing prayer for the Sunday School class. The “on demand” prayer, the “isn’t it convenient to have a pastor with us” prayer drains. Unlike times when I give, by opening myself to God and sharing myself with others, these prayers feel like they are paid for, part of the job, purchased, demanded.
Yet even praying on demand, mid sentence, mind racing ahead wondering what to say next, in this tiny space, even here God can push my reluctance and force open a gap where you and I and God all meet. I tell myself I’m not tired of praying, even when I'm tired of praying.
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