“Giving Voice to Creation”
Sermon preached by Andrew Kukla
First Presbyterian Church, Boise
May 19, 2019
I lift up my eyes to the hills— from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber. He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade at your right hand. The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life. The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.
As we pause before our second text I want to recall what is going on in this story of Saul and David and Jonathan and the people of Israel. Saul is the rightful King of Israel at the time. We know – because we are privy to a private moment that David has been anointed as the next king. David does a lot bad but does some things that are utterly amazing. One of those is his great respect for Saul as the anointed of the Lord and his unwillingness to do anything to bring harm to Saul. And that is amazing because Saul has been trying to kill David for quite a while now. We may recall that David had become the musician of Saul’s court. Saul had come to suffer some form of either mental illness or physiological issue that causes Saul pain and distress and what gets named as madness. And David’s music soothes Saul’s pain. But Saul grows to be jealous of David – both of his music that soothes him and his prowess in battle (being the apparent true measure of a king) and the refrain, “Saul slays his thousands and David his tens of thousands”. This does not sit well with Saul so he is trying to kill David, but David never loses the sense that Saul is his rightful king. Meanwhile, Jonathan is the friendship, the deep and abiding friendship, that helps David navigate life and sustains him. So these are the words that will come to him when he learns of Saul and Jonathan’s death and the conflicted feelings going through him. Their family is a mess, and I know that ours are all prefect but theirs are not. So here is David’s profound reaction upon hearing this news.
2 Samuel 1:17-27
17David intoned this lamentation over Saul and his son Jonathan. 18(He ordered that The Song of the Bow be taught to the people of Judah; it is written in the Book of Jashar.) He said: 19Your glory, O Israel, lies slain upon your high places! How the mighty have fallen! 20Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon; or the daughters of the Philistines will rejoice, the daughters of the uncircumcised will exult.21You mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew or rain upon you, nor bounteous fields! For there the shield of the mighty was defiled, the shield of Saul, anointed with oil no more. 22From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan did not turn back, nor the sword of Saul return empty. 23Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lovely! In life and in death they were not divided; they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. 24O daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you with crimson, in luxury, who put ornaments of gold on your apparel. 25How the mighty have fallen in the midst of the battle! Jonathan lies slain upon your high places. 26I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. 27How the mighty have fallen, and the weapons of war perished!
David’s lament for Saul always reminds of a favorite poem, which – if not inspired directly by David’s lament – is most certainly inspired by the same feeling as David’s. The poem is by W.H. Auden and is called Stop all the clocks and I want you to hear that connection between the sentiments of this poem and David’s desire that even dew should stop forming and raining stop falling because no good should happen in this moment. David laments not only for himself but for all Israel and creation itself. Hear that sentiment here in Auden’s poem as well:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead,
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
In poetry we express delight and our despair, we can give voice to ecstasy and heartache… we give voice to our emotional world. And a good poem sticks with you forever. You say after you hear it, ‘that person gets me’. You know what I mean: you can read a line, or hear a verse and think: that person gets me. And its often in a way you feel few others get you… and maybe, until this moment, you didn’t even understand about yourself.
One of my favorite poets who “gets me” and gets a lot of us is Mary Oliver. Mary died this year and is a renowned poet of wildlife and spirit and brokenness and peace and healing… my all-time favorite poem of hers is about a loon, in the midst of all of the loons dying. I like dark poetry, its just a thing I do, but I particularly love the way she ends this poem.
I tell you this to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.
I want to break your heart… that is never close again… to the emotional world of everyone.
These various words always come to mind when their subjects come to mind. This is what powerful words do for us, they name our life and reality, but they also shape our vision – they form what we are able to see and be in the world. Mary Oliver doesn’t just want to name a hurt you are feeling but she wants to change the way you experience the world and she will. That’s why we must take such care with them… that adage, “sticks and stone may break my bones, but words will never hurt me?” yeah… it’s wrong. Word shape the reality around us limiting what we can see or expanding our horizons.
David hears that Jonathan and Saul are dead and doesn’t just evoke his personal lament – though that is there – he gives voices to the grief of a nation and gives voice to “the daughters of Israel” … stop the natural world from functioning and just… grieve. Something our culture doesn’t much do anymore. One of the things that we note in pastoral circles is that where once upon a time not too long ago the death of a loved one was cause for a quick and immediate gathering of family in lament and celebration and worship as we grieved and broke up and shared our emotional world with each other. Now… it means in about 2 and a half months we will do some of those as our busy schedules allow. We do not stop. For anything or anyone.
David breaks open the heart of Israel. And we all stop to feel the pain.
But while we read his words, we also recall at this point that this is not simply a poem – for all it is that, it is not simply the grief-stricken words of a lyricist. It’s a song. The text calls it The Song of the Bow and tells us that David commanded all of Israel to learn the song. Its meter and measure, tones and chords are lost to us… but in its origins it didn’t simply speak lament – it sang a lament. For all that our words powerfully emote and shape and name our world sometimes life goes further… and sometimes we can’t even get that far. And in the spaces before words and after words… we find music. I’m reminded of Romans 8 when in the moments that we have no words the Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words… music.
I grew up a child of musicals. I grew up watching them on VHS tapes… yes I’m VHS tapes old. I can sing every word of Music Man, and South Pacific, and West Side Story… I know the exhilaration of a surrey with the fringe on top, and I most definitely know that the hills are alive with the sound of music just as I know that every time you go to watch that the first tape won’t have been rewound because it was a two VHS tape musical and when you got to the end of the first you never stopped to rewind it, you had to put the second tape in right away and continue the story.
As much as I have always loved musicals I do at times find them humorous. I mean where do these people live that everyone sings everything. I mean this seems so fake.
Have a conversation: break out in song.
Get in a fight: sing about it.
Fall into unrequited love: surely there is a song for that…
Dream a dream of time gone by… I won’t tell you, I will sing it out for you.
These words set to music are scripted into my life. Even more so than the poems that give voice to love and heart-ache that which is set to song captures, even more, our spirit. The very notes imprint on our memories and the music can drone and sail and even fly where we cannot go. And at its most powerful music can express even that which words will fail to capture. And there are two stories that describe that ability of music to speak beyond our words poignantly for me.
The first is the story behind the anthem that the choir sang for us today. Total Praise, by Richard Smallwood. It is a great gospel song, and interestingly he wrote it in about an hour and a half as he plunked it out on a keyboard recording it on cassette players and playing it back to himself so he could hear it as someone listening would hear it. Smallwood describes the time that he wrote the song when he was a caregiver to two people: his mother and a godbrother who was terminally ill. And he was their primary caregiver and he felt very inadequate in what he was able to do for them. This is what was going on with him when he sat down to work on the song and he says that the song was pulling him in two different directions. He was writing a praise song but he kept turning into a pity-party song. So these two movements pulled at each other. “I lift my eyes to the hills,” he said, “and I know that this where my help comes from… but I wasn’t feeling it.” And this is pulling him and his song in two different directions. It was pulling to praise and to lament. And he wanted the praise to win. And what I, and I’m speaking for myself now, what I – Andrew – love about that is you can feel that tension in the song. This is the gift of a song that is a meeting of music and of words. Smallwood creates a palpable tension between the words and the music where the words speak one thing and the notes say another. You have to not simply hear that but feel that. The best demonstration of that is the last line before the Amen chorus. He writes “I lift my hands in total praise” but while the words are lifting up the notes successively go down. (sing: I. Lift. My. Hands. In. to-tal. Praise.) You feel that? He is talking about going up but he is singing about going down. So Praise / Lament. Praise… lament. And he holds these in tension within the music. Something you cannot do with mere words.
I lift my hands in total praise…. And then! What’s the Amen mean? Exactly: so-be-it. He is going to respond to what seemed like a statement but was essentially a question and the response is what he needs to hear – the affirmation to believe what he wants to believe and make it so!
I lift my hands in total praise? Yes, so bet it.
And then Amens go back up. It lifts us up and then the sopranos and tenors almost shout an Amen at us. Because this thing that we didn’t feel was true and is true and he conveys that with music in a way he could not with words alone… and that sets us free.
The other example of this that I really like is from the movie Shawshank Redemption.
The main character Andy has been building a library and he gets all these donations and he is sorting them and it includes music. And he finds a record of the Marriage of Figaro by Mozart and he starts playing the opera and then he gets inspired by this gift of music and he locks the door of the prison office and puts the music over the loudspeakers so everyone in the prison is hearing it. And everyone stops to listen to these two beautiful voices. And his friend Red, played by Morgan Freeman, reflects about the experience:
I have no idea to this day what them two Italian ladies were singin’ about. Truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I like to think they were singin’ about something so beautiful it can’t be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it.
I tell you, those voices soared. Higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made these walls dissolve away…and for the briefest of moments — every last man at Shawshank felt free.
Andy got two weeks in the hole for that little stunt. (Andy smiles and leans back as he is locked in solitary) When Andy gets out they ask him if its worth it.
Andy: I had Mr. Mozart to keep me company. Hardly felt the time at all.
RED: Oh, they let you tote that record player down there, huh? I could’a swore they confiscated that stuff.
ANDY (taps his heart, his head): The music was here…and here. That’s the one thing they can’t confiscate, not ever. That’s the beauty of it. Haven’t you ever felt that way about music, Red?
RED: Played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost my taste for it. Didn’t make much sense on the inside.
ANDY: Here’s where it makes most sense. We need it so we don’t forget.
ANDY: That there are things in this world not carved out of gray stone. That there’s a small place inside of us they can never lock away, and that place is called hope.
RED: Hope is a dangerous thing. Drive a man insane. It’s got no place here. Better get used to the idea.
ANDY: (softly) Like Brooks did?
Brooks was their friend who when released from prison couldn’t bear life outside the structure he had known most of his life and ended his life.
The world teaches us to lock a lot up in our hearts and minds. The world teaches us it is not good or safe to be vulnerable and it’s dangerous to have hope and imagine a better world.
Music. The vibrations of music get in there and breaks down our defenses. Music gives voice to hopes and nightmares; despair and dreams. It is the gospel which is meant to come and set us free. Music is the gospel in felt experience. The gospel freeing us from that which binds us up – even ourselves. And broken open for to the world we will be free: free to feel, to express, to hope, to dream.
To shape our world in tune to God’s heartbeat. This is the Word of the Lord, thanks be to God.
“All Things New”
An Easter Sunday Resurrection Sermon
April 21, 2019
By Rev. Dr. Andrew Kukla
First Presbyterian Church, Boise
Isaiah 43:1-10, 18-21
1But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. 2When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. 3For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I give Egypt as your ransom, Ethiopia and Seba in exchange for you. 4Because you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you, I give people in return for you, nations in exchange for your life. 5Do not fear, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you; 6I will say to the north, “Give them up,” and to the south, “Do not withhold; bring my sons from far away and my daughters from the end of the earth— 7everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made.”
8Bring forth the people who are blind, yet have eyes, who are deaf, yet have ears! 9Let all the nations gather together, and let the peoples assemble. Who among them declared this, and foretold to us the former things? Let them bring their witnesses to justify them, and let them hear and say, “It is true.” 10You are my witnesses, says the Lord, and my servant whom I have chosen, so that you may know and believe me and understand that I am he.
18Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. 19I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. 20The wild animals will honor me, the jackals and the ostriches; for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, 21the people whom I formed for myself so that they might declare my praise.
But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. 2They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, 3but when they went in, they did not find the body. 4While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. 5The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.6Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, 7that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” 8Then they remembered his words, 9and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. 10Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. 11But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. 12But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.
The last part of winter was a little unique here at FPC Boise. Death is one of those things that sometimes comes in cycles. And we had death at a peak as December turning into a new year…. And that lead to a stretch of five Saturdays out of six in which we had a memorial service here at the church. Toward the end of that stretch I admit that it was getting to me. I’m no stranger to death. My calling puts me in close proximity to death with some frequency. When I did my yearlong residency in hospital chaplaincy at Grady Memorial Hospital in downtown Atlanta (Georgia). I was very acquainted with death. I recall one weekend shift: that was 72 hours without ever leaving the hospital, in which I worked through 11 deaths in a row without sleeping. Each death walking with a family through tragedy and grief and coming to grips with it. I am no stranger to death. But there is a different task when it comes to leading worship for each of those deaths. Giving testimony to Resurrection and standing before the grieving community and pronouncing that death is not the final word. And I love that responsibility, and I take that responsibility very seriously – and even joyfully. But when you stand before the same community Saturday after Saturday with what is basically the same message in the wake of death… well, I was weary and with the sense that all I had were the same words… again and again and again and again and again… I wanted to get up at service number four and basically say: everything I said last week? Same thing…
It’s not that I couldn’t say them again… it was the sense that I had nothing new to say… and one of my ordination promises was that I would “serve the people with energy, intelligence, imagination, and love.” But I wasn’t finding such imagination… no newness… let’s admit it: somedays its just work.
I lamented that among friends on FB, the weariness my own unoriginality… and a strange and unexpected thing happened to me, a bunch of them said: “well Andrew there is nothing new under the Sun.”
The quotation, if you aren’t sure, comes from the Book of Ecclesiastes (which, by the way, I never spell correctly the first two attempts) which is self-attributed to the “Teacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem” which would make that Solomon… Solomon the Wise.
The full quotation is: “What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has already been, in the ages before us. The people of long ago are not remembered, nor will there be any remembrance of people yet to come by those who come after them.”
The text is a philosophical musing on the emptiness of accumulation – be that stuff or knowledge. It restates again in chapter 2, “Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun… So I hated life, because what is done under the sun was grievous to me; for all is vanity and a chasing after wind. I hated all my toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me —and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish? ”
Solomon begins to lament that he did great work… and leaves it to unworthy people. “A great evil” that he should have to entrust his good work to… less qualified people who will come after him. Solomon… kind of seems like a jerk.
I continued to go through the whole book and while there are some parts of Ecclesiastes with some profound insight and counter-testimony to his sense of life as vane and empty… what I really ended up thinking was “Solomon really needs a sabbatical.”
This is not good news. And while I love my friends I do not know what they were thinking by telling me “there is nothing new under the Sun”. What was that supposed to accomplish? To mean? Was that good news they were offering me? I am sure they did not mean it so but what it did to me was make me feel unheard, unloved, and unappreciated. It made me kind of fighting mad to be honest. I heard them tell me that I just needed to get over myself because plenty of people have dealt with this and I’m just having a pathetic pity party… pick yourself up by the bootstraps, Andrew, and get back to it – we all have.
In the full observance of Holy week there is a forgotten day. A very important but mostly unobserved day… Holy Saturday. For the followers of Jesus, it was day of Sabbath and worship. It was the day of rejuvenation at the end of the week when – like God in creation – they rested from their toil. Only on this particular Saturday, Holy Saturday, they did so in the midst of the great horror of Friday… of the Cross… of the death of Jesus… of the death of God? – certainly, of God’s Son… the innocent one. The suffering one.
They had to sit there in silence without the ability to work or distract… for a whole day.
We can’t really give it an hour… or a minute. But they had to… they had no choice.
And I wonder if that is the very place that Solomon found himself when he wrote Ecclesiastes… a time of deep hurt, heart-rending lament and grief, a time of despair-laden emptiness… and it all felt – life felt – pointless. All that we gave up… all that we did right… and that we worked so hard to do… and it came to this? Nothing??? A dead end. A tomb. Death. We gave our all… for nothing.
“But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared, and they found the stone rolled away…”
What? …. What is this?
I say that and what comes to mind is that scene in the Nightmare Before Christmas – when a despondent Jack Skellington who is skulking in fatigued vanity – his own Holy Saturday moment and he finds himself suddenly in Christmas land in the snow – something he has never seen before:
What’s this? What’s this? There’s color everywhere
What’s this? There’s white things in the air
What’s this? I can’t believe my eyes
I must be dreaming, Wake up, Jack, this isn’t fair
What’s this? What’s this? There’s something very wrong
What’s this? These people singing songs
What’s this? The streets are lined with
Little creatures laughing Everybody seems so happy Have I possibly gone daffy?
What is this?
What is this… and then, then, two men in dazzling clothes appear in a space that is closed off from all possibilities – appear out of nowhere and say: “hey… hey… why are you here? Don’t you remember? Don’t you know? Jesus isn’t here. Jesus… isn’t dead. He told you. He let you in on this from the beginning… he is alive. Death can’t hold him. Tombs? Are thoroughfares of life as far as he is concerned… there is no such thing as a dead end.”
And that? Blew their minds.
Nothing new under the Sun? With all due respect to Solomon – everything is new. Everything is being made new. And that wasn’t something new just now in this moment… hear the prophet Isaiah again as if its God speaking to the tombs of this world, the exiled, the dying, the lost:
“Give them up… do not withhold; bring my sons from far away and my daughters from the end of the earth— everyone! Everyone! … Bring forth the people who are blind, yet have eyes, who are deaf, yet have ears! Let all the nations gather together, and let the peoples assemble. … do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old. I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.
All things new. Of all the places I think Lamentations 3 says it best: “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
All things new. There are no dead ends. Vanity is the illusion, despair is a nightmare… grief and loss – while real – do not get the final say.
The women went to what was final – they heard Jesus say it, “It is finished” – so they expected that to be the case: and it wasn’t. Because it isn’t. Because it never has been. And the power of this story is that it isn’t only true of Jesus.
In ancient tradition when Jesus dies he descends into hell – the ultimate place of no return… the tomb of tombs. But it cannot hold him. And when Jesus rises? He comes not alone.
The scourging of hell is Jesus destruction of bars, and despair, and dead ends. He doesn’t rise for his sake – but for the sake of all creation. For you and for me. A reminder in the midst of all our dead ends that whatever despair has hold of us – it doesn’t define us… and it certainly doesn’t speak to us of the end.
“Why do you look for the living among the dead?”
Whatever ails you. Whatever is weighing on your heart. Whatever deep weight is causing you to sink in the swamp of despair. Whatever walls are being put before you and shutting you off and away and out. Whatever futility is making you question why and for how long and what the hell. Whatever dead end is defining you.
This week Jesus says: no more. Remember not the former things. The past need not define the future. Probability holds no sway over the breath of God. And tombs cannot hold me. You are not alone. Life rises. I rise. And you will rise with me.
So what now?
There is this old story that’s been retold a bunch of times and a bunch of ways. One such goes like this – compliments of the show The West Wing:
This guy’s walking down a street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep, he can’t get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, “Hey you, can you help me out?” The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up “Father, I’m down in this hole, can you help me out?” The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. “Hey Joe, it’s me, can you help me out?” And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, “Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.” The friend says, “Yeah, but I’ve been down here before, and I know the way out.”
Jesus has shown us there is a way out of even the darkest corners of life, the strongest tombs of Death. There are no dead ends. All things can be made new.
And he jumped in that hole with us and he shows us that way out. And then he invites us to do the same for others. So… you have seen. You have heard. You know: life wins. Go tell that story in every pit you can find, in every dark room, and to every heavy heart. And walk with them through it – because life will rise, together.
The following “poem” is rough and raw because its just stream of consciousness poetry in the moment… but a Holy week poem for this year:
Dots, Connecting and Colliding
A shared lament with a friend rooted in her experience of Christian disdain for her Jewishness…
A quick text conversation about ministry where narratives of a sovereign God make no sense…
A call of tears and laughter; pretending we can say “have a good day” knowing it’s not possible…
Another call to one where all their concern is not for self but others… but the self needs care…
A process of renewal set on tracks and ready to roll when a disastrous but temporary halt is called…
Efforts at vulnerability mistook for weakness because real is so unexpected it’s unappreciated…
Planning a service that is about the unplanned…
Conveying the overwhelming power of a moment… to friends who fell asleep…
Holy Week is so good at being Holy Week.
It’s only been 4 days… that cannot all have happened in a mere four days… right?
And we really haven’t even gotten to the “good” parts yet.
Here we are: Thursday. This is where all will start to unravel.
When a God-plan unravels… are we left with God at the end of it?
Or did we perhaps overstate from the beginning the idea of plan… and the idea of God?
We presumed far too much in the way of knowledge about how this was all supposed to work.
We were busy agreeing that this must be what it was supposed to be to see what it really is.
We love it when a plan comes together. Because so many of them don’t.
Painfully. Anxiously. Frustrating to a point of maddeningly so. Plans unravel.
All our plans.
And we look to find one whose plans don’t as if aspiring to lofty unattainable perfect will help.
We look to connect our unraveled self to “the well put together” as if it all rubs off on us.
And we try not to notice when it does… because its tarnished and not all that real after all.
Perfection is that way… it simply isn’t and cannot be.
But does the weaver of life do in response to the cycle of non-being???
The weaver of life chooses real over desirable.
The weaver of life sets about to unravel pretentions.
Disabuses perfection of its power.
Shatters its own lofty achievements.
The weaver dashes desirable to hell… and pulls the real up out of it.
Because lateral love is better than condescending ideals and hierarchical worship.
And still… we struggle to replicate it. Because the desirable is just so… desirable.
And the weaver is moved to greater and greater depths to show the beauty of loving what’s is
Really broken. Really pained. Really longing.
But always too: really loved. really worth giving up all the perfects for.
really worthy in all our unraveled quandry
That’s a story we all should all show up to… every week, but at least, in its own Holy week…
Damn…. maybe that was always the plan after all… eh, let’s not pretend to know. And bask instead in the knowing… no great love than this…
- What is your pain telling you?
- What does the pain of your neighbors tell you as well?
- Do you have people with whom you can share your pain?
- Are you hearing the cries of friends, your neighbors, and the “other”?
- Are we resolved to change the sources of our pain?
- Are we resolved to change the ways we inflict pain?
Hang with me for a moment… there is a point to this and perhaps worthiness hanging around for…
Early today I posted a sermon from 10 years ago. That sermon was posted today because it tells my sister Sally’s story with rare disease and today is rare disease day… and that sermon has become probably my most memorable sermon for the way that story preaches. But that sermon was never about Sally. And I think that’s important. Let me tell you that story of how that sermon came to be…
You see. I fell in love with the Book of Daniel. Such a weird little book. So misunderstood and underutilized. We know of Lion’s dens and giant bunnies (thanks Veggie Tales)… we know of the “writing on the wall” and the fiery furnaces… and then we know very little because it gets really weird. like really weird. So we stop tracking.
That’s where Sally came in… you see Daniel 12 comes up in the lectionary for the Reign of Christ which loves apocalyptic texts… it came up one day while I was assigned to preach and I gravitated to it because I had just fallen in love with Daniel in a class and part of my struggle when I came to it to preach it was: how do we understand these texts? How do we preach a text born out of religious persecution at the culmination of generations of oppression? How do you preach that to…. mostly affluent Americans?
That is when I realized that we do know futility, the death of hope, and need for resilient love… I knew it as well… I knew it in my sister’s story (and today I would say in the stories of several of my family members who might continue to wonder… what did we do to deserve this and how do we surviving it???). So I told Sally’s story.. or a small portion of it. Not to tell her story but to tell OUR story. As Frederick Buechler says in his book Telling Secrets, “My story is important not because it is mine, God knows, but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours…it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity, as I have long believed and often said, that God makes himself known to each of us more powerfully and personally. If this is true, it means that to lose track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished not only humanly but also spiritually.”
In 2008 (wow that was like forever ago and yet just yesterday) I began a Doctor of Ministry. I wanted a single course of study but ended up in a place where that wasn’t easy to manage. I wanted to make the whole thing be about discipleship… and what was I to do in the modern world of membership while telling a biblical story of discipleship. So each semester I picked a course to come at that subject from that courses particular lens. And in 2009 I took a class that was translating the book fo Daniel. I had no idea what I got myself in for…. and it was amazing….. holy… and transformative.
For a 2 week period I was in a class with only 4 students and one professor where we spent all day, every day, translating the Book of Daniel from start to finish. Hebrew and Aramaic (the book uses both) we spend all day given English voice to this ancient Hebrew texts and debating nuance and defending point of view and intent and modern equavalence. And in that process I fell in love with the Book of Daniel. I fell in love with apocalyptic literature. I fell in love with something I had previously labeled weird, un-understandable, and without pedagogical value. I fell in love with it as I, day after day, spent hours of intimacy looking into its inner self and finding out how to give it voice.
I will never loose that love. I will not always understand it well. I will not always get it right. I will not always remember fully what I learned and came to knew… bu the love I have for it will never let me go.
And I think in that there is something very preaching about the power of intimacy. The power of interpretation. The power of learning to give personal voice to a personal story that was previously stranger to you. And the transformations and close-knit-ness that results.
And that’s also a fitting message for this Rare Disease Day. Seek to come to know it intimately.. and it will change your life. Not in all good ways… but in memorable ways, transformative ways, empowering ways. And you will never be the same.
Thanks be to God.
It is the last day of 2018… so I guess I need to get this written. 2018 is a bit of blur to me. It has felt like a year in which all the important things in our immediate family went well… kids are healthy, school and music and sports are going well, the parents are appropriately exhausted, and there is no reason to believe that it won’t continue that way into 2019.
Warren keeps very busy because he loves keeping his options open: soccer, cross-country, track, oboe, saxophone, piano, science bowl, and honor society… and he does it all well… from what I can tell. Even family-oriented, responsible 13 year old boys are hard to get much out of… in Warren language the word ok means about 23,641 different things.
Elizabeth is finding her own way. She has come to a time of learning to opt out of things that aren’t exciting to her that she used to do because she followed in her brother’s footsteps. She is also a lot like having a 25 year living in the house when it comes to her desire to run a household… she is Caroline to a t (if the name Caroline had a t in it). What defines her this year uniquely? She spends hours and hours every week out on the hammock swing listening to music on her ipod. That girl was born to swim and fly… and she only visits the land now and then.
Meredith… Mere-Mere… or most properly: The Mere. She is who she has always been which is a strong willed and yet tender and caring individual. The Mountain Goat is her spirit animal. She excels at school… and being different than anyone else. I think that is her life goal. To never travel a trail… but to always make her own with flair and agility (and when that won’t work.. to simply bust on through).
Danielle is joy to everyone… except maybe her immediate family. But I wish I could capture the sheer joy with which she does everything… and I’d give my life to make sure she doesn’t lose that. She is a Valkyrie on the soccer field, an amazing helper in the kitchen, a smotherer (with love) of dogs, and can take forever to put to bed because she has to first tuck in 20 some dolls and stuffed animals for whom she has made their own beds out of pieces of cloth and cardboard.
Like I said… we’re good. But…
The flip side is it feels like all the little things went horrible or were way more a time suck than they should have been in this last year… last 3 years actually. I joke.. but my house and yard are literally falling apart. My neighbors are annoyed because there is now a wire stretched across the road to get us internet (which Caroline requires for work) because the line under the road is dead and they don’t want to dig it up for just our house. And that’s just one example that seems to define so much of our life from a functional aspect.
Work feels like swimming upstream and uphill for both Caroline and me… I don’t think either of us really admit that because we love our jobs… but its been a year in which that work felt… a lot like work. We can point to things that we wish we could fix but cannot… and we live in frustration about our own futility. It’s hard to sit idle around people in pain, or systems that are broken, but… what do you do when there is nothing that can be done? Which gets me to the swirling maelstrom that is the world around us. I feel very strongly that many of the justice issues of our day have hit devastating roadblocks that make me question the reality of many of my primary values: connectedness, love, and the “common good”. I find it hard to wake up in the morning in a good mood… and yet personally we have nothing to complain about because we are all good.
This has been 2018. I’m really not sad to put it behind me. But just as I’m sure my kids will have another great 2019… I don’t imagine the shadows of these ills will be a thing of the past either. So… what does one resolve to do in the face of this… how do we find that energy to continue to pursue hope, love, and justice?
I found my wisdom just in time from the strangest of sources. The movie Aquaman. Without spoiling the plot in the movie a husband who has been separated from his wife spends every morning at sunrise walking out to the end of the dock in the ocean to wait for the day his wife joins him there as promised. Every day he walks out there… and every day he stands alone… waiting for the beloved who doesn’t show. Every day. And yet he keeps walking out there. And I realized something. Every day my dock is full. It is abundantly full. Maybe its not as many people as I’d like. Maybe some of them come bearing more weight and baggage than I’d like. But my dock is full. Friends, family, coworkers. And they are out there for us, each and every day. And that is enough. All the other things… all those little things. They aren’t what I will remember in twenty years. And maybe sooner than later I will learn to not let them bug me even now. But what matters the most is that my dock is full with people who share my values and together we will not give up on hope. We will continue to pursue justice with love, and more than a little joy along the journey.
So here is what I hope to leave you all with as we make this transition from 2018 to 2019. Who is it that you wish to join you on your dock when you walk out there each day? Who powers up your day so that morning is brimming with more hope than despair? And on whose dock are you showing up?
So many of you made appearances in so many ways on the Kukla dock this last year. We thank you for it. We are grateful for the constant reminder that together we shall overcome all things… or, at the least, survive them. And its you – sharing in the journey of us – that gives us peace. So a happy send off to 2018… and 2019? Bring it on.
This morning I wore a Darth Vader shirt to work.
I always have to rationalize my clothing choices.
I picked it because it’s light-weight-cozy and its a rainy morning.
I picked it because I will go home and change soon anyway.
But… I rationalized it by saying, “I’ll give the Empire its morning… because with the night comes rebellion.”
And then it hit me: Vader is Herod.
Herod was born and raised a Jew. By family link he was royalty.. but a client kingdom of a powerful and distant Empire. When Herod’s life is crumbling around him in desperation he seeks the aid of the Empire… and they name him a King. Borrowing Imperial power, casting off / betraying his original wife (whom he eventually had executed) and children to make a political marriage, Herod returns to secure the rule of Jerusalem and begin the Herodian Dynasty.
Herod then becomes known for his grand building projects, a polarizing personality, and by general historical consensus a despotic and tyrannical rule with the use of Imperial power to create a police state to suppress his own people and their criticisms of his rule.
Herod will respond to the word of a potential child of rebellion with fear and lies – and set his whole kingdom on edge to see what this means… and it would mean the slaughtering of countless children to protect his power even from unsubstantiated rumor. He forced a whole kingdom to bear the same sacrifices he had made in his own life for the propagation of his personal power and the Empire he represented with iconic visage.
Yes. Herod gets the morning… but the night will still be his undoing – he will be his own undoing – because that is how rule by fear works. It necessarily destroys you from within even as it inspires the very hope that will outlast you. The trappings of Empire are grand, and the human toll of their oppression is real and heartbreaking. Let me not downplay either one. But let us also not pretend that inside the hard shell of their exterior power lies anything but a very fragile and pathetic man. Nothing there is worthy of worship. Let us not pretend that any Empire – as impressive as they look and as powerful as they feel – was good news to the common person, the inside stranger, or the outsider.
I will repeat what I said yesterday… all the Goliaths the world has ever produced have failed to bring us any closer to the Community of God.
The way to Empire is never a way to peace and wholeness. So tonight… what we celebrate is not the birth of a king… that language was only ever helpful as the language of the Empire to understand the threat to its power on its terms. But what we celebrate is the birth of a way freed from kings. We don’t play on their terms… if we do they win again. So we let it go. We look to a child to show us a new way. The child who is not-king. The child who is friend. The child who is not, and will not be, co-opted by Imperial terminology… even the language of Messiah (which is ultimately a term of religious empire) to lead us in the foolishness of the gospel. The foolishness of vulnerability, openness, and humility. The way of not-kings that will grant us peace.
And that we, as a people, have not yet figured out how to make this way work in scale does not mean it doesn’t work. It means that it is… not-yet.
So the Empire gets the morning… but the sunset is coming, and it will birth a new day.
So this sermon ended up long as I tried to walk the line of it being too much about me but also the vulnerability that connects because we all have these same thoughts and struggles and I think the willingness to admit that out loud is relationally important.
Video to this text can be found here (they are slightly different but basically the same).
If you had been here…none of this would have happened.
Jesus… if you could just have been here… if you had cared enough to be here… none of this would have happened.
That had to have been hard to here. Jesus, who loved him greatly, has a lot of places to be, and ministry to do. And this friend, in hurt and grief, looks at Jesus – who had been doing that ministry elsewhere – and says, “If you had just cared enough to be here, none of this would have happened.”
And Jesus probably agreed.
Earlier this week on Tuesday I woke up with this disquieted and discomfortable (yes I know the word is uncomfortable but this word makes grammar people uncomfortable so it better speaks to my sensibilities at the moment) sense of self. Have you ever woken up and just felt wrong? Not healthy wrong, but your sense of self is wrong. I don’t know if I am making any difference in the world. I do not know if I’m getting any of the things done that I want to accomplish. At any given time, I don’t know if I’m where I need to be to keep “all of this from happening.” I don’t even need Martha to look at me and tell me that… the reflection in my mirror is saying it: if you had just cared, Andrew… none of this would have happened.
This isn’t the only time we become aware of Jesus’ failings. When Luke tells the story of Jesus’ rejection in his hometown he recounts that when Elijah saved the widow’s child in Sidon there were many languishing in famine and dying but Elijah was only sent to, and saved, one of them. ‘I may work miracles, but I don’t raise all the dead.’ Even when we reach the end of this story we are reflecting on today there is only one Lazarus that is raised from the dead… so many other people that Jesus… failed (?)… stay dead. Jesus understands what it is like to have to choose places and people to be present to in his powerful personhood. And he knows what it is to look in the mirror knowing that for thousands and millions of others, “if I had just been there… none of this would have happened.”
For six years I have been the pastor of this church. I think every pastor knows when they come into a new call that they are not going to grow the church. But every pastor secretly thinks that they could…. And that they will. I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling disquieted for many reasons. One of those was because on Monday night doing our responsibility in caring ways the Session removed 38 people from membership. People who had really removed themselves from membership years ago. It took our membership number down to 302 people. Now, Andrew in a good moment knows that number means very little. But Andrew in a bad moment, when he looks into the mirror and thinks about where he could have been and what he could have done to keep “all this” from happening, says to himself, “wow, when I came here it was a 375 member church, and then it was a 350 member church… and then 325… and then 302. And it’s just not what I thought would happen 6 years later…. Does anything that I do matter?”
(Don’t worry about me… that was, as I said, a discomfortable moment… a self-doubt moment.)
I went on Tuesday afternoon (part of my role as the President of the Board of CATCH, housing homeless families, is to serve on the Executive Personnel team) and met with executive staff members and we had lunch to assess our ministry at CATCH. CATCH does great work towards the goal of ending homelessness. But it feels as if there are more people experiencing homelessness this year than last year. Did we fail? Did we succeed? With more money coming in because we have done good and trustworthy work… we served not a single person more than the year before… did we fail? Are we making a difference if the problem we are trying to solve that IS solvable seems to be getting worse before our very eyes? Does what we do matter?
I work with an interfaith group and we talk about and practice being there for each other, the things that unite us as spiritual communities are as many as those that divide us, and we CAN focus on what unites us. But as you come together as an interfaith community in the wake of 11 people being killed in a Synagogue as the gunman declares that he wants to kill all the Jews… when the same things happen in Christian churches, and mosques, and people of color because far too many of us are driven to kill that which we disagree with than defend each other… it makes me wonder if what we do matters. Or am I in all the wrong places at all the wrong times.
I think that is what was going on when I woke up on Tuesday feeling all discomfortable. It wasn’t simply about fatigue or a poor nights sleep. It was futility. And I feel that sense of walking uphill. Trying to swim upstream. The fact that we are called to be a light in the darkness, but the darkness seems to be winning. Wouldn’t it be easier if I decided I really don’t care? If I went on about my life and focus on me and my enjoyment: eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
I think it would be easier. But it wouldn’t be true. And it wouldn’t be good.
And the end of the day, when I am not in the “that mood” I remember that a hundred families aren’t experiencing homelessness because CATCH is out there working uphill. I remember that for every 11 people shot the vastly greater majority gather around the world in solidarity for people they don’t even know – but they love – to remind each other that one person does not define our country or world by their hate. And whether my ego thinks that ministry over six years would lead to 450 members and not 302… it is wonderful to be here with you. And find people who empower me and remind me why it is I do what I do.
Bonnie Lind, who is here today from Portland where she moved a couple of years ago, gave me one of my favorite stories to hold onto for my life. We had a session meeting to change worship times and styles… remember that? And the motion changed in the meeting to an idea I honestly didn’t like and didn’t think would work. And I kind of freaked out after the meeting and I had just closed on my house and was completing my first year here and I called up Bonnie Lind who was the chair of Personnel at the time and I said, “The church is going to die this summer! And I just bought a house!” And she said something to me like, “Andrew this church has been here for 135 years… you are not good enough to kill it.” Ok, she didn’t say it quite that way, but she reminded me that I’m not alone, and that is not simply about whether or not I show up – in fact, my showing up is almost the least important – because there are all manner of leaders here who will and do show up. And we will work through this together… to keep all this from happening, or to keep all this from being worse than it would be without us. She put me at ease.
A couple of years after that the Personnel Committee had turned over completely and was made up of several of you who I won’t name right now – really I won’t – and the whole committee at that time was about as different politically from me as any four people we could have chosen at that time could possibly be. And I had done something that caused some community consternation with the church on an issue in which none of those four people agreed with me. And I confessed to them… ok, I did this thing, and it may blow up around us. And you know what? Not even one of them said, “Andrew what were you thinking?” They said they didn’t agree with me, but they respected my right to say and do what I did and moved right on to what we needed to do to protect the church. And in that moment, I realized that they, and I, would charge hell with a bucket of water for each other even though they are wrong about all their political opinions.
Because it’s not just me that has to show up. In fact, I do a pretty poor job of it… alone. I am grateful I am not alone… to keep all this from happening.
Yesterday we hosted a small conference and a Presbytery meeting. And I never really agreed to host the conference… it just sort of happened. Hosting a Presbytery meeting, which is our obligation, turned into to hosting a Friday night and all Saturday event almost 3 times larger than what we thought we had signed up to host. I regularly think about our church as one that is wrestling above our weight class. We are a church that holds ourselves to a higher standard, a church hitting goals that churches with 302 members don’t usually even attempt. And about 18 of you all came out to help us host. And let me tell you that you didn’t meet a normal standard of hosting, you didn’t meet a 302 member church standard or the high standards I try to hold us too… you met the Kingdom of God standards for radical hospitality all throughout the weekend, and I was so overly proud to serve this church at that moment. It was just a meal and meeting… but it was the hospitality work of keeping the light on and being a home and holding back the darkness – even if it was only for seven hours.
Jesus wept…. that his friend died. Jesus wept that he wasn’t there. Jesus wept that he knew that no matter that he was the very son of God he would still fail people’s expectations of him. Jesus wept that as much heart as he might have… every single one of us are finite beings who can only do so much. Jesus wept… and it’s powerful.
And then Jesus looked into the tomb in all his power and said, “Lazarus, come out.” And he did.
What the hell do we do with that?
Because wouldn’t that be awesome if we could do that?!?!?! Talk about your All Saints Sunday…we could really whip up some members. We could get the 4,000 past members of the church and we wouldn’t have pews enough for them.
What do I do with this scripture ending…. Because I can’t, we can’t, do that… Or can I? Can we?
Jesus says, “Unbind him.” That is way more important to him than the ‘Lazaraus, come out’. Sure, I don’t have the power of God to raise Lazarus from the dead, but Jesus then gave me a role in the story. Unbind him so he can live. And there are people all around us who are living their lives bound by oppression, bound by finiteness, bound by depression, bound by societal structures that don’t offer them the same opportunities they offer me… bound by so many things. To which Jesus cannot go to all them, and be there for all of them, Jesus said it himself. And so, Jesus found us and told us to unbind them so they can live.
There are people in our world who are targets of hate, there are minorities denied rights, vulnerable left unprotected, unrepresented, and targets of hate. And it’s our role to go to them and help unbind them that they can live.
A friend of my working in law enforcement reminds me that in a country that has great consternation about how our country polices itself there are some good men and women working hard by their presence to unbind life from death and they are having to do it with our scorn and hatred and so they are killing themselves literally and figuratively. Our job is to go to them and in solidarity unbind them so that they can unbind others so that those others can unbind us so that we can live. And that? That we can do. And that has value, and worth.
So, whether you look in the mirror and tell yourselves you are not doing enough, or avoid the mirror so you don’t have to hear your own inner dialogue, “thank you.” For in every moment you have been there for me, or for someone in your pew, or a stranger you didn’t even know even in a small forgettable act you unbound them and enacted the power of Jesus to give them life. And there is no better calling them that.
Unbind them, that they may live. This is the word of our Lord, thanks be to God.
Today I am feeling a sense of despair, futility, and failure. There are so many people hurting in the world. And while I understand its impossible to be “there” for everyone… I feel like I am there for less and less people in less significant ways each day than the day before…
I feel like I’m probably not alone in feeling that… but I don’t know that there is a way to change that… and thus the sense of despair.
As I reflect on that I’m drawn to the Apostle Paul’s words from jail in the beginning of his letter to the Philippians. “For to me, living is Christ and dying is gain. If I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me; and I do not know which I prefer. I am hard pressed between the two: my desire is to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better; but to remain in the flesh is more necessary for you…”
I don’t know what in the world Paul is actually talking about but I think… I think perhaps he felt that dying was easy and living was hard. But living well, living good… living as light in a dark world was so important that it was worth the struggle. Worth the struggle, perhaps (I add), even if you cannot tell if you are actually making any headway at all…. even if it seems all you are doing is putting up sandbags before rising waters. Because a slight flood is way better than total devastation… even if it still feels like a failure because you did not actually beat the waters.
In this world in which it seems the powers of selfishness, greed, and enmity are winning… I refuse to go quietly into that night. I may not succeed at all in ending that darkness. In fact I know without doubt that I will not. But – following in the footsteps of greater guides than me – I will not let the light I seek to reflect into the world, insufficient as it feels, go out. Its not enough…. but its still worth it.
I love you all… apparently or not I’m fighting for you and trying to stand with you, and I’m seeking to create whatever dry solid ground I can… and together: we will keep the light on.
The term ex nihilo is a Latin term for “out of nothing”. Its most notably used in conversations about creation as the claim that God created out of nothing, one that is core to Christian theology. God pre-exists creation and everything that is… is from God. The claim was something that for years I would have taken as a given of my own theological framework. It was. And it is no longer.
Pastoral life has cracked and fractured many of the givens of my theological framework. I have a mind that loves systematic thought. I love Philosophy. I love the task of Systematic Theology, and of articulating clear doctrinal understandings of the world, of God, and of the relationship between God and all things. But as my love of narrative grew, a Scriptural theology that embraces the messiness of life began to not only appeal more to me… but fracture previous foundations – I know longer saw “realness” to the clean clear lines of doctrine. My vocational life places me (gifts me) in people’s confidence where I hear and see their constant struggles and the angst-ridden existential task of meaning-making in their stories and this, again, makes me continually question, restrain, and flat out toss out many of the “right answers” I thought I knew.
The Bible has a fair amount of creation theology. It goes far beyond Genesis 1 and 2 – the twin creation stories we all typically conflate into one and call it the THE creation story. John begins his Gospel with a creation story. Hebrews and Revelation both give strong creation claims of creation ex-nihilo. Psalms and Proverbs both speak to creation and its unfolding. There is creation theology throughout our scriptures – we can hardly point to one story and there is no single authoritative voice to a single absolute theological understanding of how it all came to be. John’s Gospel is, in my opinion, is the strongest “ex nihilo” argument. Its hard to argue with “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being.” (John 1:3)
It’s a captivating claim. And I’m not saying there isn’t truth in it. In my world of mystery and limited knowledge and resistance to claiming to understand ultimate things, I have plenty of space to hold two truths together. And I certainly have no need to disabuse anyone else of their foundations. But I think the cracks are helpful… because life filters through them. Because that is how life works – it comes out of other things far more than it does out of nothing.
Years ago, I was at a Discipleship conference that was being run simultaneously to a conference on New Church Development. I remember at a break I was talking to one of the new church development pastors and I made some very ignorant comment like “it must be nice to start a new church and get to work with a blank slate. No old culture you need to change but getting to begin things fresh and new.”
He quickly smashed that fiction. My thoughts that new church development was creation ex nihilo couldn’t be more wrong. In fact, he said, what you have is no agreement at all on what the slate should be. Everyone comes with their baggage from other churches, everyone comes with their own vision for what this new thing should be… there is no “out of nothing” but rather “out of many somethings”. And a culture still needs to grow and be nourished and directed and pruned… and it still has a mind (and minds) of its own.
I hold on to that comment. I have fallen back on that wisdom time and again because it reveals deep truth to me. Our lives don’t need someone that can create out of nothing. I think that way lies the foundations of an oppressive imperial theology that wants to cut it all down and sculpt the world in its own image. That creation story endorses Missional imperialism. We bring the blueprint for how it is supposed to be, and you have nothing to offer us. Let’s make, or imagine, a nothing from which we can create that which is good. The story of creation ex nihilo horrifies more than claims me.
My life is messy. My tomorrow seems less than palatable on many fronts than my today. A thousand tiny neglected threads making the canvas of my life seemingly unravel before me. In the midst of that story, how powerful for me to hear and remember and take comfort in these words:
“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.”
How many times does this feel like our reality? Our lives have become formless void… we are living in a darkness from which its hard to imagine hope. Chaos seems to reign, and the wildness of that life puts our own lives at threat. Hurricane. Forest fire. A cresting river. These are all signs of abundant life – too abundant for you and for me. Literally and figuratively we know what it is live in the darkness of the deep where the forces at play in the world are about to blow apart our lives. Chaff in the wind.
But God’s spirit is blowing over us too: we are not alone.
“Then God said, “Let there be light’”; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from darkness.”
In this creation story, we are not only ‘not alone’ but God is in our corner. God is coaxing up from the abundant powers of this world a sustainable abode for life. God has “heard us in our distress” and rises to answer with creative activity. Light, air, boundaried shores of much more static dry land… each in their turn is coaxed out of what already-is to create something good… something more livable, more productive, more unanticipated expectation filled with hope. And no.. it is not ex nihilo nor even a solo project. God continually invites creation, the beasts, and then us to help in the task of creating. This is a group project – from the beginning, a group project about letting life emerge and discerning (separating out / naming and claiming) what is good.
And for this reason and many more, I find a theology of creation ex nihilo no longer helpful for me. I’m not saying God cannot and did not do such a thing – who am I to claim such knowledge as all of that – but what I’m saying is that it is far more powerful in my life to attend to the witnessed claim that God continues to create from our messiness. A story of God’s desire, participation, and power to work with creation, with the somethings that we already have that feel.. tattered, torn, and absent of hope. God did this, and God does this still.
God able to work with my baggage… and call it good? That’s a powerful story I need to hear. Every. Day.
You are God’s creation friend… you are your creation. You are the creation of a thousand lives that have formed you in ways good and bad and everything in between. But never forget… through all that tosses you about – you are not alone. God is in your corner. And God is coaxing up from the world of possibilities a place for you to feel… home. Safe. Loved. Partnered. Important… Good.
Thanks be to God.