“Prepare the Way: Prayers into Action”

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

December 6, 2015

Sermon Text: Luke 3:1-6

Another week, another shooting. More than one, actually. The world continues to be beset by violence. Politicians continue to wring their hands and tweet their prayers. Nothing much seems to change.

Three years ago on a Sunday in Advent, Christians gathered on a Sunday morning just after the massacre at Sandy Hook. Pastors attempted to grapple with the seemingly-impossible task of reconciling a week dedicated to Joy with the incomprehensible evil unleashed earlier that same week.

Another year, another attempt to do something similar. How can we have the audacity to gather here and speak of Peace in the midst of so much violence?

On the other hand, how can we do anything else?

Last Sunday we spoke of Hope. On Tuesday night, we gathered with 30-some people from the wider community in Pioneer Hall. As we sat in that room, built by people who traveled across this continent to seek freedom for enslaved Americans, the spirit of hope was strong. We shared names of those who have died from AIDS-related complications or who are currently living with HIV and AIDS. And we sang the words of a hymn was perfect for that evening and takes on new meaning once-again this morning, “Let us hope when hope seems hopeless, when the dreams we dream have died.”

When our dreams are on the verge of death, when hope is elusive, that’s when we have to gather, once again, to cry out to our God, to offer each other words of encouragement, and to light a candle in the darkness. It is the time to listen closely to the voices of prophets – those in the past and those living still.

The Prophet Isaiah: “The people who are walking in darkness will see a great light.”

The Gospel of John: “The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

Jesus: “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

When the world grows dark and fear presses in on all sides, we who follow the one who is called “Light of the World.” We light candles for Hope. Candles for Peace.

But we do more than light candles and pray. We are called to action.

Today’s text from Luke is one of those calls to action: “John the Baptizer went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” Crying out: “Prepare the way of the Lord. Make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

John didn’t say, “Pray for peace.” John said, “Make peace.” And, yes, we can get into semantics about prayer being action and action being prayer. I do believe prayer is absolutely vital for any person of faith. It is what keeps us grounded and sustained for the work. It's where we begin. But if we’re using a narrow definition of prayer as “talking to God” then prayer is simply not enough. I do not experience God as some magic unicorn in the sky who listens in to all our prayers and then selectively decides where to intervene.

Prayer has to be more than talking or listening to God. Those are both important things, but we are also called to much more. John says we are to prepare the way for God. And not in some loosey-goosey, wishy-washy kind of way. Nope. We don’t get off that easy.

John tell us we have to move mountains! We have to carve out new highways for God. We have to bring in truckload after truckload of fresh fill dirt to bring the low places up. We have to chip away relentlessly at the mountains that stand in the way of justice until the mountains themselves are brought low. We have to bend and bend that arc of justice until the crooked paths are brought into alignment. We have to scratch and buff and shine and polish until all of the rough parts of this Earth are made smooth.

Please note that John does not say God will be doing all of these things without our help. John says it is our work to do together. We are called to work in sweet and holy partnership with our God. We do not do this work alone.

It’s an intimate and never-ending dance between God and her holy creation. Each of us, it seems to me, is imbued with the Holy God of Love. We are created in God’s image and that spark of the Divine will never leave us – no matter what we do. God is in each and every person – even the ones we don’t much like, even the ones that are outcasts, even in you and me.

But God is also somehow beyond all of that. If you were to somehow round up every human on the planet and put them in one room and say, “Now that all the humans are here, have we captured God?” I think the answer would be no. God is not some dude in the sky, but God is also – it seems to me – more than just the sum of our parts. Don’t ask me to explain it. I don’t understand it fully. But I experience God in each human I encounter and I experience that God is somehow more and beyond humanity.

So when the New York Post screams, “God isn’t fixing this!” they seem to be sort of right and sort of wrong. I don’t think God is swooping down from the heavens to fix everything that’s wrong with our world. If God could do that, she has some pretty serious explaining to do about why she hasn’t done so yet because violence is nothing new.

But I also think it’s entirely appropriate to call upon God as we humans figure out what the heck we’re going to do to bring peace to our world. As we pray with our feet and our hands and our hearts and our voices, we rely on God to support, sustain, and inspire us. We find God in the words of our Holy Scriptures, the stories we share with one another. We find God on the breath of the breeze and in the infinite complexity of a snowflake. We find God in the smile of a stranger and the laughter of a child. We find God in the heart of those we call beloved and within ourselves.

We cling to that small light in the darkness and hold it up, shining brightly, brilliantly in protest against violence, fear, hatred, and everything else that threatens God’s Holy Peace.

It’s a joint venture. We need God. God needs us. We cannot separate ourselves one from another. It’s both-and. We do not do it alone and God cannot do it without us.

As the days grow shorter and the darkness closes in, we await, once again, the coming of Christ. In ways I don’t fully understand, God seems to have come into the darkness of the world in the form of a tiny infant, born to unwed parents who had no place warm to stay. That young child spent his formative years as a refugee. And as he grew into an adult, his cousin John urged his followers to prepare the way for God to be born anew, once again into their midst.

And so we who find meaning in following Jesus gather, once again, to await Christ’s coming. We wait in Hope. We pray for Peace. We look expectantly for Joy. We seek to reform our very lives in the spirit of Love.

Come to us, O Holy One. Show us your ways of peace. Inspire us to action. Sustain us when we are weary. Be with us now. Amen.

"Stay Woke"

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

November 22, 2015

Sermon Text: Mark 13: 1-8

Jesus and his friends were in Jerusalem. They had just spent time at the temple there – the most holy of all holy places in their faith. Jesus had been teaching there during the day and after he finished up, the entourage walked out into the bright sunlight.

Shielding their eyes. Refocusing. His disciples looked up at the big city around them and said, “Teacher, look at how big these buildings are! Look how enormous the stones are!”

And Jesus, who may have been given the nickname “killjoy” behind his back, also notices how sturdily constructed the buildings are and how enormous the stones are. And he says, “Do you see all these great buildings? Not one stone will be left standing. All will be thrown down.”

To understand why Jesus is so cranky about these big, beautiful buildings, we have to rewind a little bit. Go back in time to the moment just before the disciples emerged into the bright Jerusalem sun.

Jesus had spent the day teaching in the temple. After he finished his teaching, he sat down next to the treasury – the place where people deposited their gifts for the temple. A lot of rich people came up and put some money in. And then Jesus noticed a widow – a woman who had no financial resources – the widow came up and put in two small coins, worth only a penny. And this is the part where you probably remember Jesus praising her for her generosity. Pulling her aside and saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant!”

Only that’s not what happened. Jesus does no such thing. Lots and lots of preachers have praised this woman for giving her all, but Jesus did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply observed to his disciples that the woman had given everything she had. He doesn’t say whether this is good or bad.

But I have some theories about the judgment Jesus passed on this act. And to guess about how he felt, watching this marginalized person give the only thing she had left to the temple authorities, well….we have to rewind again. Back to the part right before the scene with the widow.

Jesus is teaching in the temple and as he taught, he cautioned everyone to “Beware of the scribes, the religious scholars, who walk around in fancy robes and set themselves apart from everyone else, and keep for themselves the best seat in the house when they go out on the town. They say long prayers…..but just because they like to have an audience. And they devour widow’s houses. They will receive the greater condemnation.”

They devour widow’s houses. They take away marginalized people’s homes just so they can keep their fancy robes and nice, big buildings. They turn away the refugee so they can keep their carefully-curated illusion of safety.

I don’t think Jesus was praising the woman who gave everything she had. I think he was sadly shaking his head, maybe with a bit of anger, as he noticed the systems that were carefully maintained to keep down. It’s likely that this unnamed woman was not freely giving her offering, like we do each week when we pass the plates. Instead, she was probably paying a portion of the tax levied on her by the religious authorities. A required payment.

So when they came out of the temple into the sun and saw the big, beautiful, awe-inducing buildings all around them, the disciples ooohed and ahhhhhed. But Jesus saw something different. He saw beyond the façade and the grandeur to the systems of his day that enabled the construction of these buildings. He thought about the widow, giving her last two coins to pay her temple tax.

And then he began to preach to his disciples about the end times. He spins a tale of desolation and destruction and terror and stars falling from heaven and a dark sun and earthquakes. Biblical scholars refer to chapter 13 as Mark’s “Little Apocalypse” and the reason the lectionary committee sneaks it in at this time of year is because we are on the eve of the Christian new year. The Christian calendar begins again with Advent each year, so it makes sense to talk about end times at the end of the year.

These texts about the “end times” are usually not very comforting to those who live or work in big, beautiful buildings – to those who have power. Because these texts weren’t written for people like me – with a roof over my head and money in my bank account. They were written for people like the widow. People sleeping on makeshift pillows in refugee camps. These words were written to give comfort to those being oppressed or living on the margins  – to say, “I know things are bad for you right now, but God is going to do a new thing. God is going to tear down these big buildings, these systems that keep you down – and God is going to make a new world with justice.”

Even though I know these apocalyptic passages mostly weren’t written for people like me – with a warm coat waiting to shelter me on the way to my warm car -  there are times when apocalyptic passages in the Bible do bring me comfort. Not because I would actually welcome earthquakes and darkened suns and stars falling from heaven, but because right about now I really REALLY need to be reminded that we humans aren’t alone on this spinning ball that’s hurtling through space.

Earlier this week, I mentioned to some friends of mine that my concern about what’s happening on the global stage right now is about as high as it ever gets. The whole world seems to be going straight to hell in a handbasket and there are no easy solutions in sight. The amount of pain that is zapped right into our living rooms, smartphones, and hearts on a daily basis is increasingly difficult to bear.

My friend suggested to me that I might need to go on a media fast – give myself a break from the pain of the world and take a few moments to notice and appreciate the goodness that still exists in this little handbasket called Earth. I do think that there are times when we have to take a moment and recollect ourselves so we can refocus before going back into the fray of humanity.

I also think that passages like this one – with cranky Jesus threatening to bring all the powers and oppressive systems of his day down in one big earth-shaking crash (and then rebuild it again, with his own hands – that part comes in the next chapter)…passages like this can give us some measure of comfort in the midst of very distressing times. Because I think the truth contained behind these words is comforting.

In Mark’s Little Apocalypse passages I hear:

“We are not alone. We live in God’s world.”

God will not forsake us or leave us….no matter how messy it gets here on Earth.

God still hears the cries of the weary, the oppressed, the brokenhearted, the widow, the orphan, the foreigner, the war-torn, the refugee.

God is still working for justice – God is still working to tear down systems that perpetuate poverty, racism, sexism, religious intolerance, fundamentalism that harms and blind nationalism on steroids.

“In life. In death. In life beyond death. God is with us. We are not alone.”[1]

Even all these thousands of years later, I believe God is breaking into our midst. And Jesus is here, reminding us to stay woke – stay awake! – because the good and the bad is always mixed up together and we need to pay attention or we just might miss the good news when it sneaks in right next to the bad.

In one month, we will celebrate – once again – the incarnation of Emmanuel, God-among-us. The Spirit of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love came into this world in the most unexpected of ways. And I believe we are still witnessing the in-breaking of God in our midst in 2015.

Where do we see God breaking in? When we keep our awareness about us and “stay woke,” where do we still Christ in our midst? On this Sunday when the world seems to be tilting just a little too steeply on its axis and Jesus comes to us speaking of the end times and we prepare to sit down to a Thanksgiving feast, can we express our thanks for the places we see God in the midst of all this turmoil and strife?

There is an Aramaic word at the very end of 1 Corinthians: Maranatha. It can be translated as, “Come, Lord Jesus,” or “Jesus is coming,” or “Our Lord has come.” It’s ambiguous. I kind of love that it basically means Christ has come, Christ is still arriving yet today, and Christ will come again – I also love that it’s a way of begging Christ to be more tangible. “Come, Jesus! We need you!”

I’m going to list a few places I have seen God breaking into the midst of the mess in the past few weeks and as I list them, I would encourage you to respond with that one beautifully ambiguous word, “Maranatha!”

·     God is breaking into the mess of this world in the voice of a 20-something parishioner of a colleague of mine in New York City. She called her pastor earlier this week to say that while she doesn’t have a lot of money to spare, she does have a studio apartment she’d be willing to share with a refugee from Syria. Come, O Christ. Maranatha!

·  

God is breaking into the mess, packed lovingly into packages shipped across the United States and later flown to Greece with a small group of mothers from California who collected 3,000 baby carriers to give to parents fleeing war.[2] They saw photos of parents carrying babes in arms and began to collect baby carriers so these weary parents could have a better way to carry their young children on their backs. Come, O Christ. Maranatha!

·God is breaking into the mess in the actions of strong and savvy students of color at the University of Missouri and other universities as they speak truth to power and make themselves vulnerable with the hopes of helping those institutions better understand and dismantle racism. Come, O Christ. Maranatha!

·   

God is breaking into the mess in the voices of non-Muslims all over the United States who immediately said they would personally register as Muslims if anyone in this country attempted to make Muslims register themselves in a national database. Come, O Christ. Maranatha!

God is breaking into the mess in the sweet and firm words of a father interviewed outside the Bataclan after the attacks in Paris.[3] He was there with his very young son, who was quite worried that they would have to move away because the “bad guys” might harm them with guns. The father said to his son, “It’s okay. They have guns, but we have flowers.” Come, O Christ. Maranatha!

Christ has come, Christ lives among us, Christ is coming to us, still.

“O Come, Desire of Nations, bind all peoples in one heart and mind;

Make envy, strife, and quarrels cease; fill the whole world with heaven’s peace

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to you, O Israel.”[4]

---

[1] Portions in quotations are from “A New Creed” from the United Church of Canada.

[2] http://www.today.com/kindness/groups-volunteers-donate-baby-slings-syrian-migrants-t56056

[3] http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3e8rah_paris-attacks-november-2015-le-petit-journal-du-16-11_tv

[4] From “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” lyrics to verse 7 translated by Henry Sloane Coffin, 1916 and altered by the New Century Hymnal committee.

“Following Jesus in the Midst of Violence”

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

November 15, 2015

Sermon Texts: Isaiah 2:1-4, Matthew 5:43-48

Just like the scripture passages were wrong in the bulletin, the sermon title is wrong, today, too. I wrote that sermon earlier this week, but it’s not the one I’m giving today. One of the risks of writing a sermon on Thursday each week is that sometimes the world changes between Thursday and Sunday.

Did the world change between Thursday and Sunday this week? I don’t actually think it did. What happened in Paris this weekend was tragic, horrific, unsettling, sickening….and, sadly, it’s nothing new. We who live at the beginning of the 21^st century are accustomed, by now, to living with terror. Our nation has been involved in a “war on terrorism” for 14 years now – longer than some of us in this room have been alive.

And so I have mixed feelings about the fact that I rewrote this sermon on Saturday afternoon. After all, I did not rewrite my sermon after Boko Haram killed 2000 people in Nigeria this past January. And I did not rewrite my sermon when 147 were killed at a Kenyan university in April. And I probably wouldn’t have rewritten my sermon after the attacks in Beirut, Lebanon on Thursday killed 40 people. Many of us might not have even heard about the attacks in Beirut - or if we had, might have just lumped them in as "all that violence in the Middle East" in our heads.

But Western Europe makes the news. And the fact that so many in the U.S. are reacting so strongly to the attacks in Paris speaks volumes about what garners our attention. It’s a sad, sad state of affairs that the deaths of 2000 people in Africa barely made the news, while the deaths of 11 journalists in Paris a few days later made us sit up and pay attention. There is no excuse for the shameful reality that some lives seem to matter more than others.

I strongly considered just going on ahead and preaching that other sermon I prepared, simply because I feel so very uncomfortable with the disparities in our responses to attacks in different parts of the world. I’m still not sure I made the right choice.

And yet - I've been carrying within me this weekend such a heaviness. Just such a sense of profound sadness when I ponder the brokenness of our world right now. I'm guessing I'm not alone in this feeling of sadness. I feel that one of my tasks, as a preacher, is to attempt to create a space where the Good News of Jesus Christ and the beauty and terror of the world can comingle. A place where we can set aside the noise of CNN and Fox News and our Facebook news feed and the impassioned anger of politicians.

Our job, as followers of Jesus, is to intentionally cultivate a space where we can put aside our national identities, our ethnic identities, our political identities and re-center ourselves in our first and most-important identity: Beloved Children of God.

To be human in this particular moment in time is to clumsily attempt to hold space for so very many conflicting emotions at once. The world that we live in seems particularly fragile and unmoored these days. It sometimes feels like there is a crisis lurking around every corner. But, then, five minutes later, we experience the bliss of a perfectly blue sky, or a small child’s laughter, or the aroma of freshly baked brownies, or the simple pleasure of a kiss or embrace…and all seems right with the world. Until we turn on the news again and discover the world is so very broken.

The 24-hour-news-cycle and immediate availability of so very much information is enough to, quite literally, make us lose our minds. Or perhaps our souls. Finding a balance often seems impossible. I know some have chosen to unplug completely and others wake up at 3:00am and reflexively reach out for their iPhones to see if they’ve missed anything important. I don’t know exactly where the balance is. My guess is that it lies somewhere between those two extremes.

What I do know is this: when the world is filled with chatter, we who are people of faith often dive more deeply into our sacred texts to find a way to re-center ourselves and restore our souls for the very difficult work of being human.

In the midst of politicians that speak stern words of retribution, promising and eye for an eye, we hear now the voice of Jesus: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy,’ but I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for God makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.”

Love our enemies.

But how? How can we do this when we are scared? How can we love people who hate us? How can we love those who commit unspeakable acts of evil against innocents?

My friends, I don’t know. I really don’t. And yet I believe that Jesus calls us to struggle mightily with his teaching. I don’t think he said it casually. I think he meant it and I think we’re called to do it and I think we need each other very much if we have any hope of succeeding.

Because it takes courage to love our enemies. We have to realize that others will call us names and say that we’re disloyal and call us cowards. We have to realize that our friends may tire of listening to our constant love-talk when it’s so very much easier and more socially acceptable to engage in hate-talk. But the biggest thing of all, I think is this: we have to realize that it’s not safe to love our enemies. Because there is absolutely no guarantee they’ll love us back. In fact, they might just kill us instead.

Jesus tells us to love our enemies and pray for those who wish we were dead. And there’s no if, and, or but after that statement.

Let Us Beat Swords into Plowshares, a sculpture by Evgeniy Vuchetich in the United Nations Art Collection

The other text that has been resting on my soul this weekend is from the First Testament. It actually exists in several places – the prophets Isaiah, Joel, and Micah all have recorded some version of it. “They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks, nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they study war any more.”

Some hopeless dreamer wrote these words. Did John Lennon somehow get translated into Hebrew? Or Marvin Gaye? A world without war? A world where humans use their creativity to create tools that nurture and sustain rather than destroy and kill? Where is this place? How do we get there?

A plow is an agricultural tool created by human ingenuity. The plowshare is the sharp metal part on the front that actually cuts into the ground, disturbing the earth. By carving out furrows, the farmer breaks up anything old that might stand in the way of new growth, brings needed nutrients to the surface, and creates a safe landing space for seeds. It is an act of hope. What appears to be cold, hard, dead ground is transformed – with a little ingenuity and a lot of sweat – into a supple place for new life to grow.

And so on this particular day, when – once again – the threat of violence seems closer than we would like and the world seems more broken that we even know how to begin to understand – I find myself clinging to that image of the farmer and her plow.

Where there appears to be no way, God, help us make a way.

When the work seems too difficult, God, help us use our creativity and shared wisdom to lighten the load.

When fear closes in and crowds out love, God, help us to create furrows where small seeds can be nurtured and sustained and provide much-needed nourishment for all of your children…..those we call our neighbors and those we call our enemies.

God of peace and justice, help us to never lose sight of you in the midst of the voices that clamor for our attention.

May we seek to love all, especially when it seems impossible.

May we remember to pray, especially for those who hate us.

Examine our hearts, God of Knowledge, and bring our attention to the weapons we each harbor. Together, may we give up the false sense of security we find in our swords and spears and guns and hate-filled-speech and drones and bombs.

Guide us, O Holy One, in the more peaceful way.

Use our creativity and brilliance for good; that we, your children, might begin to plant seeds of peace in the furrows of your Love.

Amen.

"The Redeemer"

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

November 8, 2015

Sermon Text: Ruth 3:1-9, 4:13-17

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there was a woman named Naomi who had two sons. She and her husband, Elimelech had moved from Bethlehem, in Judah, to a foreign land, Moab, because there was a famine. After they moved to Moab, Naomi’s husband died. Her two sons were grown and they married Moabite women named Orpah and Ruth. After they had lived there about a decade, Naomi’s sons died, too, and she and her daughters-in-law found themselves in the midst of a nightmare situation. They were three women, living alone, far from family that would take care of them.

Naomi decided to return to Bethlehem in hopes of finding food because the famine was over. In the day and age which she lived, women were utterly dependent on men and so Naomi encouraged her daughters-in-law to stay in Moab, their home country, because she knew she had no way of providing for them.

Orpah listened to her mother-in-law and decided to stay in Moab. But Ruth – Ruth had other plans. She told her mother-in-law, “Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.”

I often encourage people I marry to write their own wedding vows, but, really, I can’t think of any vows better than these. Ruth, for whatever reason, was faithful to Naomi. Naomi, who had nothing to offer. Naomi, who was an outsider in the land of Moab. Naomi, who had lost everything. Naomi, who could not care for Ruth. Ruth chose her anyway and refused to leave her side.

Many people love the story of Ruth and Naomi. It’s a beautiful tale of fidelity and it’s one of the few Biblical stories about women. It is the story of two brilliant and self-sufficient women working the system of their day and place to their advantage. In their culture, widowed women had no one to provide them with the necessities and were cast out into the margins of society.

Being a widow was terrifying, but there was one hope for these women. Because the God of the Israelites cared for widows, the people of Judah were required to care for them, too. Over and over again in the Hebrew Scriptures we hear God’s call to care for the widow, the orphan, and the foreigner.

There were customs in place to provide a safety net for women like Ruth and Naomi. If a man died and left his wife behind, his next-of-kin was supposed to marry her and provide for her. Of course, Naomi’s sons were both dead, so there was no brother-in-law for Ruth to marry. But Naomi was a resilient and hopeful woman, so she set her sights on a man named Boaz who was a relative of her deceased husband. It was kind of a long shot – especially since Ruth was a foreigner – but Naomi knew it was their only chance, so she sent Ruth out day after day to pick up leftovers in Boaz’s field and to try to capture his attention.

And Ruth did capture his attention. Boaz was drawn to Ruth because of her fidelity. He watches out for her when she comes to his fields day after day. He tells her she can act like one of his own servants and drink all the water she wants. He even instructs his field hands to leave some extra food laying for her on the ground so she can find it easily. Ruth is surprised by his kindness and asks why he is kind to her when she is a foreigner. He says that he’s heard of her faithfulness to her Naomi. He is impressed that she has stayed with Naomi and that she was willing to come to a foreign land to care for her. He is impressed by Ruth’s character.

Ruth’s fidelity and steadfastness seems to inspire the same in Boaz. It’s amazing how we can be so influenced by the company we keep, isn’t it? When we surround ourselves with people who seek to be kind and true, we often find ourselves working harder to do the same.

So when Ruth comes to Boaz at night and slips under his blanket, I’m sure he is shocked.

Naomi has sent Ruth here in desperation. Naomi feels certain that if Ruth will simply offer herself to Boaz, he will surely want what is being offered. She can only hope that he will also be a decent man and offer her marriage after they spend the night together.

There is so very much at stake in this moment. To put herself out there and hope against hope that she’s guessed right and that this man is a good one – that’s what Ruth had to do. I think we can all imagine the horrible things that could have happened. At the very least, he could have shamed her. He could have seen to it that she and Naomi were kicked out of Bethlehem and left with no other options.

But Boaz did none of these things. Instead, he talked with her. He listened to her plans. He told her, once again, that he greatly admired her faithfulness and capabilities.

Ruth basically proposed to Boaz, saying, “Please? Won’t you take me in? You’re the closest relative I have.” And Boaz, rule-follower that he was, responded by saying that he thought there might be another, even-closer, relative. He promised to check on things the next day and work it out.

When I was re-reading Ruth this week, I just happened to pick up my copy of the Common English Bible. I love to read different translations of familiar texts because I often find an entire story can turn on a word or a phrase. And that’s what happened this week.

In the NRSV, Ruth asks Boaz to protect her because he is her “next-of-kin.” But in the CEB, she says, “you are my redeemer.”

Boaz is her redeemer. And yes, of course, of course, this smacks of patriarchy and it makes my 21^st century feminist ears bleed. But taken in its context, it opens up worlds and worlds to me about who God is and who we are called to be.

To be someone’s next of kin is to be their redeemer. To be family is to be faithful. In this way, Boaz isn’t the only redeemer in this story. Ruth is a redeemer, too. She could have easily left Naomi and found her own way. Instead, she stayed with Naomi, no matter what.

Boaz, inspired by Ruth’s faithfulness, does the same. He sees that he has the opportunity to help these women and he wants to. But first he has to check with the other guy. Because there is another kinsman who is technically more closely related than Boaz and according to their customs, he has the right to take Ruth if he wants her.

So Boaz, the redeemer, goes to this other nameless man and says, “I am thinking of buying the land that used to belong to Elimelech, Naomi’s deceased husband. But I need to check with you first – do you want it?”  And this nameless man jumps on the opportunity. He is more than happy to discover he can own some new land.

But then Boaz says to him, “Oh, by the way, the land also comes with Elimelech’s daughter-in-law, Ruth.” And the nameless man backpedals, saying he doesn’t want the land after all.

Given the opportunity to be the redeemer, this other man doesn’t take it. Given the opportunity to take in a person who has been dealt a bad hand, he refuses. Given the chance to engage in a new relationship with a person who needs him, he backpedals. He has the chance to be a redeemer, and he takes a pass.

We don’t know his name. He is not the redeemer in this story.

The redeemer in this story is Boaz. He is the one who willingly takes notice of a woman that no one else noticed. He sees her for the person she is and he praises her for her faithfulness. He recognizes her need and does what he can to keep her safe.

There is a wonderful quotation that I love from Clarissa Pinkola Estes, who is a psychologist and poet. She says: "Mend the part of the world that is within your reach."

I believe this is what it means to be a redeemer. We are to mend the part of the world that is within our reach. We are to keep our eyes and hearts open and look for those who may need help. And then we are to do whatever is within our power to love and care for them.

God gives us the power of redemption. Because we have been redeemed by God – rescued from self-loathing, loved as we are, caressed and fiercely loved by the One who knows all of our weaknesses – because we have been redeemed by God, we are freed to redeem others.

There are people all over this world who are in need of redemption. Our world is just overflowing with people in need of salvation. But before you get on your fancy horse and go looking for a princess to save, let me give you a word of caution: all of these people, no matter how disparaged, have within them the ability to redeem themselves.

All of these people have within them the ability to redeem themselves.

They do not need me to come swooping in on a fairytale horse and tell them how much easier their lives would be if they would just be like me. That’s not what Boaz the Redeemer does. Boaz watches Ruth from afar and he learns from her. He sees in her this fierce fidelity. He recognizes that which his Holy in her and, in turn, uses the power and privilege he has to shine a light on the Holy that lives inside this woman.

No one else was looking for God in the person of Ruth. No one else was expecting to learn from her. Boaz saw her. Boaz trusted in what she had to offer. And then he became her partner and together the two of them found redemption.

To be a redeemer is to recognize the Holy in another person. It is to humble yourself and recognize that all of us, no matter how privileged or poor we are, have something to offer and all of us, no matter how privileged or poor, have something to learn.

Today and every day, we are all given the chance to be a redeemer. It is my prayer that we will open ourselves to the possibility of walking in the footsteps of Boaz and Ruth.

“The New Guy”

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood 
at First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 25, 2015

Sermon Text: Mark 10: 46-52

Image by Jesus Mafa

If Jesus is right – which he usually is – this new guy, Bartimaeus, is going to see a lot more than he probably bargained for this week. Tomorrow we’re walking to Jerusalem. The new guy says he’s coming with us. Jesus has been telling us and telling us that he’s going to be killed soon and then will be raised again – whatever that means. So I suspect this trip to Jerusalem may be our last.

Apparently, when we get to Jerusalem we’re going to be greeted by a parade. Jesus pulled me aside after dinner and said something about a colt and palm branches and that Bart was going to need a cloak. He left his behind earlier today on the side of the road here in Jericho. So guess who gets to go out at dusk, knocking on doors to see if they can find the new guy a coat? Me, that’s who.

The new guy really likes to talk. When I left them a few minutes ago they were chat, chat, chatting by the fire. I dunno why he can’t go find his own cloak. I mean, he can see now and everything. But I get it. Jesus wants to visit with him. He’s new. And everybody wants to have a little one-on-one time with Jesus.

Bart has a loud voice. It’s one of those voices that really carries, you know? Kind of gets under your skin? Which I guess is good for him because when he heard us walking down the street in Jericho this morning, he yelled out in that big voice, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” You couldn’t miss it.  

The people around him tried to shush him. I mean, really. Did they really think a guy as famous as Jesus would want to stop and talk to a blind beggar on the side of the road?

Of course, they don’t know Jesus like I do. I could have told you he was going to stop. That’s what he does. I mean, what else was he going to do, anyway? Because Bartimaeus just kept yelling louder (“Son of David, have mercy on me!” ) and LOUDER (“SON OF DAVID, HAVE MERCY ON ME!”).

It was awkward, you know? He wasn’t polite like so many of the others who come asking for help. Like that guy from earlier this week, the rich guy. I never caught his name. He was polite. Walked up to Jesus quietly and knelt before him. Called him Good Teacher.

Bartimaeus? Not so much. He was brazen. He didn’t even kneel when he came over. And he called Jesus by an odd name – one I’ve never heard anyone use before. “Son of David.” I think that caught Jesus’s attention. Because he’s always talking about how he’s about to die and then be raised again. I don’t fully understand it. But I do understand that he’s special somehow. That’s he’s somehow come to set us free. To provide relief to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind. To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

I guess Son of David – that messianic name – makes sense. I wonder if it’ll catch on.

So, anyway, Bartimaeus is yelling and we go get him and he jumps up and leaves his cloak behind on the side of the road. I mean, come on. It’s the only thing you own, dude. You couldn’t bring it with you?

Funny. That makes me think about the rich guy earlier this week. The one who called Jesus Good Teacher and asked him how he could inherit eternal life. Jesus told him he needed to sell everything he owned, give the money to the poor, and follow him. He couldn’t do it though. Can’t say that I blame him. I mean, most of us that are here following Jesus didn’t leave a lot behind, if you know what I’m saying. Not anything much that we wanted, at least. Most of us were running from something. If I had had a perfect life with all kinds of nice stuff….I dunno if I would have left it all behind.

But Bart left everything he owned behind! Kind of on accident, I guess. Ha! He did it without even being asked. And so now I’m out here knocking on doors at dusk because Jesus says he’s gonna need a cloak tomorrow. (As per usual, Jesus’s great ideas are more glamorous in theory than in practice.)

So Bartimaeus jumps up and leaves the cloak behind. And unlike the rich dude, Bart’s question wasn’t all esoteric. It was practical. He wasn’t worried about eternal life. He was worried about the next five minutes and then the five after that and the five after that.  He asked Jesus to restore his sight.

Now, I knew he’s do it. Jesus is really good at this trick. I’ve seen him do it tons of times. And not to get too philosophical on you, but Jesus is really good with sight in general, you know? I mean, not just the actual eyeball stuff, but the other kinds of sight….helping us see what’s important, helping us focus on what matters, helping us see God in every person we encounter….even the beggar on the side of the road sometimes.

And speaking of philosophy – does anyone else think it’s interesting that the new guy’s name is Bartimaeus? Bar Timaeus. Son of Timaeus? Come on – tell me you’ve heard of Timaeus? It’s that really famous bit by Plato….all about the meaning of life and seeing what really matters. An apt name is all I’m saying.

So Jesus restores his sight and everyone oohs and ahhs and then Jesus tells him, “Go! Your faith has made you well.” Only Bart doesn’t go. He stays.

Again, I probably shouldn’t be surprised because people are often doing the exact opposite of what Jesus tells them to do. Like the rich guy. Jesus told him to follow and he went away, grieving. And Bart, he stayed with us, even though Jesus told him to go.

I dunno, maybe Jesus secretly finds this amusing. I mean, he’s always celebrating opposites. It’s like opposite-day all the time around here. “The first will be last, the last will be first….Those who want to be the greatest must become least and servants of all….And a little child will lead them….” That kind of stuff. He’s into opposites. I tell ya, you never know what to expect. It never gets dull with this guy.

So Bartimaeus is sticking with us, it seems. And all I can think is this: does he really know what he’s getting into?

I mean, why is he doing this? He could just as easily stay here in Jericho and start a new life now that he can see and everything. He’s putting himself at considerable risk coming to Jerusalem. According to Jesus, some pretty intense stuff is gonna go down there this week. And I’m not going to lie to you….I’m a little nervous about it. I’m not entirely sure I’ll make it out the other side.

And yet, the thing is – if Bart is right about this “Son of David” stuff – I don’t want to miss it, you know? Because if Jesus is really the Chosen One, the Anointed, the Messiah, the One We’ve Been Waiting For….I mean, how could I miss that? Everyone needs someone to follow. And if you’re really lucky, you find that one person or idea or whatever that gives meaning to your life, helps you really understand all the pain and agony of this world…the person or idea or whatever who makes each day a little more bearable, and helps guide your decisions.

Anyway, there I go getting all philosophical again. But that’s what Jesus is to me, I suppose. Not just a friend – not just a guy. But an idea. A way of life. A revelation.

So, yeah. It seems like Bart is sticking with us and Jesus says I gotta go find him a cloak. Where’s the rich guy when you need him? I bet he has several extra cloaks laying around. Maybe Jesus could have taken it a little easier on him, “If you want to find eternal life, go and give away 10% of your cloaks and then come and follow me.” Ha.

Oh, Jesus. Why do you have to make everything so darn hard? I mean, you kind of pushed that rich guy away with your big demands. If you could have just convinced him to stick with us and give us a little, we’d be better off. I probably wouldn’t be wandering around looking for a cloak for Bartimaeus.

Jesus. He really pushes my buttons sometimes.

But then I think about what he looked like just before I left a few minutes ago. Sitting there by the fire with Bart. They were joking around a bit and Bart laughed at one of Jesus’s jokes. It’s probably one I’ve already heard a hundred times…but they’ll all be new to Bart.

So Bart laughs and then looks down at the fire. I bet that’s really cool – seeing the flames dance when you’ve maybe never seen a fire before.  

And Jesus looks down, too. And I can kind of – I dunno – sense that he’s thinking about the rich guy. Just sort of wishing he was here with us. Maybe even wondering if he was too hard on him.

It’s getting dark out now. The stars are coming out a bit. “God took Abraham outside and said to him, ‘Look toward the heavens. Number the stars, if you are able. I will make your descendants as many as those stars in the heavens.”

Abraham, the old guy. Who would have thought he could have children at all? And yet I am reminded of what Jesus keeps telling us. What he told us right after the rich dude walked away. “For mortals it is impossible, but for God, all things are possible.”

And…I dunno, on this perfect night just before we head into whatever the week holds in Jerusalem, I find myself thinking, maybe Jesus is right this time, too. After all, if I can start over again and if Bart can see again and if a nobody-of-no-account from a dingy little town like Bethlehem can threaten the Roman Empire enough that they sit up and take notice….well, maybe there’s hope for all of us.

Maybe I’ll even find this stupid cloak before it gets really dark.

Gotta go.

“Curse God, and Live”

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood at First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 18, 2015

Sermon Text: Job 1: 1; 2: 1-10

There’s something strange that happens to my watch when I go inside a hospital. It always seems to stop working.

I find that when I sit in hospitals and ask questions like, “What time did the doctor come by earlier today?” or “What time did you eat lunch?” no one really knows the answer. We all sort of look at the clock, think hard, and then shrug and admit that we just can’t remember.

In a hospital, minutes drag on or rush by. Days and nights get all mixed up. You get discharged on a Sunday morning and are shocked to see people walking into a church as you drive home. Is it a Sunday? You had no idea. You’ve completely lost track of the days.

Outside the hospital, the world keeps spinning. People get up and make their coffee and head out the door to work. Presidential hopefuls participate in scheduled debates.  Hometown teams continue their march through the playoffs. Life just keeps ticking.

But for folks in a hospital waiting room, none of this seems to matter much any more. They are consumed with matters of life and death – either for themselves or someone they love dearly. It’s hard to imagine making coffee or caring about the debates or the playoffs.

The ash heap where Job sat, scratching himself with a broken piece of pottery seems to exist out of time, too.

I doubt that Job could have told you what day of the week it was as he sat there amidst the total destruction of his life, mourning. He started to feel a strange itchiness on his skin and absentmindedly reached for something to scratch himself, scarcely realizing that this tiny itch was the beginning of a physical malady that would take him to death’s door and back again.

The best stories are the ones that seem to exist outside of time, and Job’s is certainly a story that could exist in any time or place if you just changed a few details.

The questions this story presents are immense – and although this is one of the older books in the Bible, believed to be written some 2500 years ago – we still don’t have the answers to the questions it poses. Especially the big one. You know what it is: “why do bad things happen to good people?”

We don’t know the answer to that question. Honestly – I’m not even sure it’s the right question. I tend to think that God isn’t in charge of suffering, but that suffering just happens sometimes, and God, like the rest of us, can only control of how he reacts to the circumstances that present themselves.

The story of Job doesn’t answer the question of why bad things happen to good people. At least not in any serious way.

One thing you need to know about the Book of Job right from the start: Job was not a real person. Uz is not a real place. God did not actually sit around up in heaven and make some sort of cosmic wager just for kicks.

This story still speaks to us because all of us have known a Job at some point in time. All of us have known people who were blameless, righteous, good, people and still, despite their loveliness, had terrible things happen to them.

In the beginning of the book, we see God hanging out with other divine creatures and a character named ha-satan. This is not the Devil with pointy red horns that you might be picturing. Satan is simply the Hebrew word for an adversary or accuser. Or, as a seminary professor once told me, the best translation might be the Prosecuting Attorney. Now that’s not to say anything negative about prosecutors! It’s simply to say that the role of this character in Job is to accuse, just like a good prosecutor. And the Prosecutor’s accusation in the opening chapters of Job is that Job is really only a good guy because he’s had it easy. The Prosecutor maintains that if God were to allow Job’s picturesque little life to be wrecked, he would cease being such a goody-two-shoes.

That’s the case against Job. And in this fantasy story, God says, “Sure, let’s give it a try.”

I’ve heard a lot of people say that God comes off as a jerk in this story. And if you thought that the point of the Book of Job was to answer the question, “Why does God allow suffering?” then, yes, God seems like a terrible, terrible God in this story. Because God not only allows for Job’s suffering, but encourages it.

I honestly think that one of the things that happens when we examine Job is that we get to let that “why does God allow suffering” question take the back seat simply because the answer given in this book is so far off from the loving, compassionate, healing God that we know to be real.

So in this grand drama, the Prosecutor wrecks Job’s life – destroys everything he owns and kills his beloved children. And Job responds quite calmly, saying, “I came into this world with nothing and I’ll leave this world with nothing. God gives and God takes away – blessed be the name of the Lord.”

So the Prosecutor comes back for round two and afflicts Job with intense physical suffering. That’s where we find Job sitting in the pile of ashes, scratching himself with a piece of broken pottery.

Job’s wife comes up to him as he’s sitting there, in the midst of their ruined life. Remember, his fate is also her fate. She, too, has lost everything, including her children. And she has one simple response to the situation. She says, “Why are you still trying to be perfect? Curse God, and die.”

She knows what we know from the very first sentence of this drama: namely, that Job is perfect. He can’t seem to help it. He is described as being without fault.

Regardless of what happens in the rest of the book, Job maintains his “good person” status. His wife doesn’t think all this goodness is getting him much of anywhere at this point, seeing as he’s sitting in pile of ruins and using a broken piece of their former home to scratch his disgusting skin. She’s gotten a lot of flak for this short piece of advice over the millennia, beginning with her husband, who laughs her off for the time being.

But do you know what? She’s right. She really is. She knows her husband well and what she knows is this: even if he does curse God, he will still be good. Even if he dies, he will live.

Of all the righteous and God-fearing men in this book, this nameless woman may have the best piece of wisdom of all: Even if you curse God, you can still be good. Even if you die, you will live.

Although Job laughs at her from the ash heap when his sickness is just beginning, he changes his tune as the days go by.

Job does curse God. If you want to read some intense, angry, cursing of God, just read the rest of the Book of Job. For thirty-some chapters, Job and his friends argue back and forth about what’s going on. And Job’s constant refrains are some variation of “God is ruining my life. Why is this happening? I don’t deserve it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Job says some things about God that I am certain my Sunday School teachers would not have allowed me to say out loud as a child. Job says some things about God that many sick or dying person has said (or at least thought). And do you know what? It’s okay. It’s okay that he says these things. He has every right in the world to be angry, given the situation.

I read somewhere once that when people are telling you they’re angry at you, you should be thankful. The rationale is, “If they’re coming at you, at least they’re not walking away.”

Job was certainly coming at God.

The Hebrew word his wife uses when she says he should curse God is actually not curse at all. It’s the Hebrew word for bless – barak. It’s a euphemism that is used several places in the Bible. It’s as if it’s too scary to actually say the words, “curse God” so, instead, they would just say “bless God” but everyone knew what they meant – wink, wink.

I wonder, though, if God doesn’t experience it as bit of a blessing when we curse her? When we are engaged enough to come at her with everything we have? When we are honest enough with ourselves about what’s happening in our lives to be as magnificently angry as we have every right to be? Because when we simply are who we are – when we feel what we feel – and when we bring that to God, we are engaging. We are coming at God. We are not backing away.

You can say a lot about Job’s behavior in this story. But one thing you cannot accuse him of is walking away from the relationship. Enraged and confused and afflicted and broken down, he stumbles blindly, relentlessly, desperately towards God. The one thing Job begs for in the midst of his deep anger is to talk to God directly. Cursing and crying and groping, he seeks God’s face.

God is blessed by Job’s curses. God rejoices that his beloved child is continually stumbling towards God, not away from him. God can handle what Job is dishing out. God can handle anything you have to dish out. Despite the difficulties of this very old story, there are gleaming, solid pieces of truth to be found in it.

And one of those truths is this: no matter what happens, no matter how broken things become, God does not turn away from us. We can stumble and curse and shout all we want and God is simply standing there, walking towards us with open arms, ready to engage. Ready to be in relationship.

Ready to lead us through cursing to blessing, from death into new life. Thanks be to God. Amen. 

“Brooding Before Jesus”

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Mark 10: 17-31

First Congregational United Church of Christ – Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Earlier this week, I was in my kitchen at home, standing near the window, and saw something out of the corner of my eye in our yard below. A flutter of orange. “David!” I called out, “One of the chickens is loose in the yard!”

We have a small flock of backyard chickens – Sprinkles, Cupcake, Blondie, Oreo, and Peaches. They have sturdy coop and a large run that they can access whenever they want. We used to let them free-range in the yard…but then we got a dog. More precisely, a bird dog. So, yeah. They don’t free-range any more, which is why I was so surprised to see one of them on the loose.

Turns out, it was Oreo who had escaped. Oreo is….an odd bird. She’s been broody for almost a year now. When a hen becomes broody, she obsessively sits on top of a clutch of eggs. Now, we don’t have any roosters. So Oreo can sit on those eggs from now until kingdom come and nothing is going to hatch. Ever. But she doesn’t realize that. And so she sits.

And because she rarely gets off that clutch, she rarely eats. And because she rarely eats, she is a scrawny little bird. Small enough, in fact, that she was able to slip out of the chicken run through a small hole in the chicken wire. In the yard, she was free as a bird (see what I did there?) but she was also in grave danger. If we had put out dog out into the yard, it wouldn’t have been a pretty sight. Living beyond boundaries has risks, you know. When David went out to put her back into the run she tried to squeeze back through the hole and got stuck. He had to help her back into safety.

And so when I hear today’s passage from Mark, and think about a camel trying to somehow get through the eye of a needle, I see Oreo in my mind’s eye….squeezing  through that bit of fencing on her way to freedom and danger.

We don’t know much of anything about the man who comes to Jesus and asks, “What must I do to inherit boundless life?” He kneels and calls him “Good Teacher.” He comes in respect and questions earnestly. He’s not trying to trick Jesus or make a fool of him. He truly wants to know the answer to this question.

It seems to me that the man is a bit like my Oreo. Kind of an odd one. A little broody. While his peers are caught in an endless cycle of wake-up-go-to-work-make-money-spend-money-pay-bills-check-facebook-fold-laundry-make-the-kids-lunches-watch-the-news-fall-asleep-wake-up-do-it-all-again this man is a little different. A little odd. A little broody.

Can you see him now, hovering over his clutch of eggs? He’s worried about things. And not just small things. Big things. He’s up at night pondering the big questions. And the biggest question of all he brings to this odd teacher from Galilee. He bows down before him, calls him Good Teacher, and says, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”

Now, when I hear this question my mind immediately goes to the afterlife….what happens to us after we die? But eternal simply means without beginning and without end. Boundless. Limitless. So take of his question what you will. I’m not 100% convinced he’s asking about what happens after death. He might just be a little like my Oreo. Peeking through the chicken wire and wondering, “What happens if I break out of these confines? What would it be like to be out there in the Big Beyond?” We don’t know what’s constraining this man, but we can imagine all kinds of things. Most of us know what it’s like to feel trapped, don’t we?

Jesus, being the Good Teacher that he is, is happy to enter into dialogue with the man. He says, “You know the rules…” and he lists them. The man says, “But I’m already doing all of that. I’ve done all of those things since I was a boy!” And Jesus looks at him and loves him.

And then he says, “You lack one thing. Go, sell what you own and give the money to the poor. Then come and follow me.” And this man – this broody, worried man – hangs his head low. He went away grieving. He is unable to do the thing Jesus asked him to do because – and here we find out one more thing about this nameless man – he had many possessions.

Too many to sell, I suppose. Too overwhelming. Too odd, even for this odd man who was already out of step with his peers. Too demanding. Too scary. Too much. The security and dependability of the always-available chicken feed and water is too appealing. The protection of the chicken wire begins to look more like a comfort than a constraint. Jesus the Good Teacher has taken it too far. The price is too great.

As we move through our stewardship campaign this month, we are asking ourselves to dream with God. What might the future of this congregation look like? What things can we accomplish together with God’s help? How can we let our light shine more brightly in our community and in the world? Those are the big questions. And underneath all of those questions about our capacity for ministry together are the dollars and cents facts and figures that our very capable leaders brood over – financial reports and pledge cards and endowment policies and bills from the plumber, the electrician, the gas company.

It makes me a little glad Jesus isn’t the one doing a Moment for Mission today. Because I fear that if I asked him how much money I should be giving to our church and to the Crisis Center and the Breadbasket and Shepherd’s Crossing and Emergency Shelter the answer would be overwhelming. Too demanding. Too scary. Too much.

A funny thing about this story, though: while the subject at hand is money, there are several other things happening in this story.

For starters, and I’m indebted to David Lose who called my attention to this one, the format of the story suggests that it is primarily about healing.[1] All of the healing stories in the Gospels follow a formula. Someone comes, they kneel before Jesus, they call him by an honorific name, and ask for help. In today’s story, Jesus interacts with the man and offers an answer to his question. But instead of going away healed, as so many others do, he goes away shocked and grieving. It’s like a healing story gone awry. And if it’s a healing story, then there has to be something that ails the man.

His question is about breaking out beyond the boundaries – “How do I find life that has no beginning and no end?” And Jesus’s answer is that he needs to sell everything he owns. It makes me think a bit about our possessions and the way they possess us. We covet and buy all these things because they think they will make us happy. And maybe they do, for a time. But they are also a lot of work.

Maybe you’ve heard of Marie Kondo, who wrote The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, which became a New York Times bestseller this past year. Her methods for figuring out how to get rid of things we own have become so popular that her name is now a verb. The other day, I heard someone say, “Yeah, I really need to go through and Kondo my closet.” Apparently, it’s so difficult to get rid of things that we have to buy another thing (a book) to teach us how to get rid of our stuff. The things we possess often possess us.

And so Jesus’s prescription for this man who possessed many things was fairly simple: get rid of it all. But he couldn’t take the pill and so he went away still sick.

The other thing that’s happening in this story is that they’re on The Way. In verse 17, “As Jesus was going on the way, a man ran up to him…” Biblical Scholar Mark Vitalis Hoffman notes that “The Way” is code-language in the Gospels.[2] Jesus’s earliest followers said they were followers of The Way. Jesus said, “I am The Way.” Whenever we see stories about Jesus or his followers on The Way, we know it’s a story about discipleship. What does it mean to be a follower of Jesus?

After all, the cure for whatever ails the man actually had three parts: 1) sell what you own, 2) give the money to the poor, 3) follow Jesus. The path to limitless life is found by following Jesus.

Those of us who live in the 21^st century don’t have it as easy as the people in Mark’s Gospel. They could just follow Jesus in the flesh and blood. We don’t have that option. And so, those of us who find this Jesus character compelling have to find other ways to follow.

We all have spiritual practices that breathe new life into us and enable us to experience the Holy more fully. A few weeks ago, I preached about prayer. Last week, several of us walked in the CROP Walk. Some of us are music-makers, casserole-bakers, Sabbath-keepers, labyrinth-walkers, hospital-sitters, kindness-givers. A rich Christian life draws upon many spiritual practices as we work to follow The Way.

As we consider our financial gifts to this church during stewardship season, I invite us all to consider more fully the deepening of relationship that comes with generous and sacrificial giving. In my own life, the practice of regularly, intentionally giving away a significant portion of my income – both to the church and other worthy non-profits – has been utterly transformational. It has reduced my anxiety, rearranged my priorities, and given me a true feeling of freedom. For some strange reason, the more I’ve given away, the less worried I am about what I have. The more focused I am on the needs of others, the less I feel trapped by the what-ifs of my own financial situation.

I fear, my friends, that Jesus may have been on to something when he told the man to give away his possessions.

I, for one, am awfully glad he’s not here today because I know I can’t bear to give them all away. But I also know that I can continue to push myself to do more. And I can prayerfully consider how to continue the work of allowing God to radically reorient my own values and fears and desires.

After all, I can see Jesus standing there. We come to him asking how to be free. And he looks at us and loves us. He loves us before we can even respond to the prescription he’s about to give. And whether we can swallow the bitter pill of giving it all away, or go away grieving, or land somewhere in between, I believe he is still standing there. Looking at us. And loving us. And continuing to invite us to follow him. Even when it’s hard. Amen.

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[1] http://www.davidlose.net/2015/10/pentecost-20-b-curing-our-heartsickness/

[2] http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=2640