January 29, 2017 Matthew 5:13-20

Matthew 5:13-20

“You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, 

how can its saltiness be restored? 

It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.

“You are the light of the world. 

A city built on a hill cannot be hid. 

No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, 

and it gives light to all in the house. 

In the same way, let your light shine before others, 

so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven. 

***

If you look at my call log from Thursday it reads in twenty minute increments of doctor’s offices, health insurance, prescription health insurance, nurses, labs and scheduling, except for one point around 2:00p.m., when, still with a handful of places to contact, I remembered the other thing I needed to do. Pray and I thought of my friend Sheri, she lives much more in the prayer world than the doctor’s appointment world. Her name alone serves as a reminder to me, to practice being close to God, and so, I texted her and asked her to pray for healing for me and that I would explain in a bit. I put on my gloves and snow-boots and some music on my earphones, and headed out to shovel and take time with God. (I pray best when moving, that Be Still and Know that I am God, verse was not written for me). Someone watching might have noticed that I didn't shovel quite straight in normal lines but scraped from here to there as erratic as my thoughts. But they were calm, and I processed a lot with the weight of the snow, and when I was done shoveling, I was done praying. After a few to-do phone calls I called Sheri and explained and she and I talked, not about radiology or different procedures but where God was and where I was with God, and she gave me some advice. And she was a light, shining before me, giving glory to our Father in heaven. 

Later that day a friend came with a book of medical papers with definitions and explanations in a language I couldn't read, and he and I sat across the coffee table on the floor and he translated piece by piece, and we worked through the book, both us laughing, sometimes me crying, and easily going off topic only and at the end, he put his hands out palms up on the table, and I looked at him and said with surprise, “Your going to pray for me?” and he did. And he was a light, shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven. 

About a year ago now, there was one night I stopped by the church late to pick up something, and I decided to go into the sanctuary just to sit and pray. There was a faint light coming through the purple stained glass highlighting the top edge of the pews; it was Lent and looked like it. First I sat up in the front pew, where nobody sits, and I thought about the view, one lacking distraction from what’s up front but devoid of the congregation even in the periphery. I understood why many of the kids choose sit up front in on the action, but one pew back with a corral to keep some semblance of space for the parents. And I wondered what it would be like to sit in each person’s spot. I found when I got to that spot I would start thinking about them, and praying for them. 

I thought about those kids and their parents, about just what it takes to get them all ready to get out the door and to come here. I thought about the exuberance of Maddy and Alex during children’s time and the big brotherly duty of Jake leading the offering and the sweetness of Grace with her hugs and I prayed for them. I thought about their parents, Jason and Annie, and Melissa and Bill, and prayed likewise. And there in the dark, each one was a light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven. 

Then I moved to the next pew. I paused trying to remember whose spot I was in and finally remembered the Cassidy’s, who would have needed a long pew growing up for their numerous boys. Martha Cassidy was sick during that time and I prayed in their empty feeling spot and I thought about Martha with her silly hats going to visit patients and friends older than she in nursing homes and homebound. And there in the dark, each one was a light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

Amber and Benny

I sat in where Mark and Betsy sit, and thought it was one of the best views and figured its part of what made it easy to listen, easy for Mark to be the encourager smiling and nodding from the pews and for Betsy to see and hear all those who needed prayer and checking in on from their middle seats. I thought about their son Andy and I prayed for those with addiction, and I thought about Anthony and I prayed for his growing up and thanked God for Mark and Betty in his life, and I prayed for Jenny in Boise and her new husband and child. And I prayed for health for Mark and Betsy and gave thanks that there in the dark, they were a light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

I sat in Irene Estabrooks seat, who had been coming for awhile, I thought about her small voice but her adventure in moving here from Colorado and the way she had surprised me by writing and sharing beautiful prose to one of the Advent devotions. And there in the dark, she was light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

I sat in LaVonne’s spot and thought about how similar we were in a lot of ways, having lived a lot, and being strong outspoken women but also I thought about her big heart and how I will never forget that one time she prayed for me right before I had a funeral of a woman my own age. And I prayed for Gary’s ministry with the Giedons and the way he melts talking of his grandkids and I prayed for them. There in the dark, they were light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

I remember thinking that the pew right by where I had moved the font was the perfect spot. The sanctuary seemed almost symmetrical and even and you could see all around, and it made sense to me that Sharon Defrees who with her mother had helped plan the interior of the sanctuary, sat near there. When I got to the end where Rick Rembold sat I thought about how hard it was to see from that angle and I noticed the places the church needed some work here and there, and then I wondered which came first Rick fixing things around church, or his sitting in that place and how they were connected. And for Rick and Sharon and their family’s care of the church, and their community, I prayed there in the dark, they were light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

When I got to the back next to the Fellowship Hall I thought of Bob McKim in his spot and how as a doctor he must have needed to slip out the door if there was an emergency and I thought about how many children he had brought into this world and how many Sharon had raised and cared for, and there in the dark, they were light shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

It was like as I prayed each spot in the pews, that their once dark empty rows became filled with light and figures of faces from whom God’s presence shown, and I was in awe but how bright the sanctuary had become once my eyes had adjusted to that vision of God. It makes sense to me that when I read this scripture I think of all of you, whether you have sat in these pews for as long as you can remember, or you are still finding your just right spot. You are people whose light is shining before me, giving glory to our father in heaven.

January 22, 2017 Matthew 5:1-12

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain;

 and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. 

Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying: 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. 

“Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. 

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. 

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. 

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. 

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. 

“Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. 

A Blessing for NOW

I can’t tell you how many times I have heard this scripture, but I had never heard it like I did the other day. I had always heard the Beattitudes like promises unkept or still unrealized, those who are poor, in mourning, meek, hungry - you will someday see the kingdom of heaven, you will someday be comforted, you will someday inherit the earth, and someday you will be filled but not today. What is someday if a person is persecuted now, what is someday if they seek for peace now, what is someday if you need mercy now? In this way, reading these Beatitudes always seemed more like platitudes, that is until they were read to me. 

In Bible Study, I asked Jim Lissman to read the scripture aloud. His deep voice took its time rolling over the words, and each came like waves of blessing washing over us, “yours is the kingdom of heaven, you will be comforted, you will inherit the earth, you will be filled, you will receive mercy, you will see God, you will be called children of God, yours is the kingdom of heaven, and your reward is great,” You could tell, Jim knew the verses, by his cadence, speaking familiar words without the falsity of being rote, his voice made them both times warm and comforting, like a lullaby. It was like Swing Low, not the instructions verse of, “if you get there before I do,” but instead the bolstering chorus of, “coming for to carry me home.” In that Spiritual, there is a promise buoying the chorus in the same way there is a promise buttressing the Beatitudes. Maybe I heard it such because it was read differently, and maybe I heard it such, because it was what I needed to hear. These Beatitudes spoken as a reassurance of a future yet to be. 

You see, I had shared where I needed God, was with some medical issues, that were quickly changing my future. In short, fibroids were going to make birthing children not as easy as it might have been when I was younger. Up until that point, I had always considered myself exceedingly healthy. I could hike, I learned to ski at thirty-one, I could run, I could put my palms flat on the ground and bend my elbows with straight legs, I still had something like 20/12 vision, and to be honest, I thought I was pretty enough and interesting enough for men to still be curious on occasion, despite my odd occupation. But genetics doesn’t always pay attention to whether you can ski the blacks or read the clock across the room. And so at thirty-three, the all too common, but rarely spoken of, fibroids, decided to take over, along with months of nonstop bleeding and subsequent weight gain due to hormones intended to stop said-bleeding. It has been incredulous and out of control for a life and a person very much optimistic and quite functional. The week I went home from the doctor with pamphlets outlining my not so stellar options, different friends turned thirty, got pregnant, were “trying,” and got engaged. It was hard not to look at the contrast, and after truly excitedly congratulating a friend on his upcoming engagement, I walked to bathroom, as women are apt to do, and took a moment to settle my brain and breathe. I went home, and bawled as the garage door closed behind me. It felt as if life was passing me by.

Though it was late I texted a few friends, some told me that there was some plan that would unfold, which sounded more like an empty fairytale of someday, which my life itself had proven otherwise, that you don’t always end up with the prince in the castle. It made me think the Beatitudes likewise, shouldn’t be read as specific predictions. Other friends told me, I wasn’t old, which denied the bloody evidence that was suggesting otherwise. It was like telling the Beatitudes’ Peacemaker that there was already peace and no protesting was necessary. Finally, one friend reassured me, “Katy you will have kids, if you want them, when you want them.” It was its own Beatitude. Not because it pretended I could easily birth children, but because it reminded me, of what I knew somewhere deep down, that life will be what it will be, and even if it’s not a fairy tale, there is goodness in the world, and through that goodness promises are kept, that though someday may look different, there still exists happily ever after. He was right, and I pictured it, maybe I was like my own parents, who when I asked about their being unable to have kids and needing adopt reminded me, “Katy we wanted someone to tuck in, we wanted someone to read to.” Maybe it was like another friend said, “that though it is not a vaginal birth, that when a kid comes, a C-section isn't going to make that kid, or the experience, any less wonderful.” I knew this was also true. It was like I had told myself over and over, “When it is time, if it is just me and having a kid on my own, I can do it, and I will, and it will be good.” These were promises of someday that allowed me to hold out hope, and in that hope, find comfort. “Katy you will have kids, if you want them, when you want them.” “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” When I looked at the Beatitudes, “is,” and, “will,” seem stronger words than the “someday,” I was reading into the scripture and it is these words, of “is,” and “will be,” I believe in. And I know I am not alone.

Saturday night, I checked my Instagram and scrolled though dozens and dozens and dozens of picture of friends in handfuls of different cities at women’s marches across the country, in Austin, in Boston, in Boise, in LA, in New York City, in Atlanta, in D.C., in Portland, Blessed are you in Seattle, Blessed are you in Miami, Blessed are you in San Francisco, Blessed are you in San Antonio and Kerrville, Texas, Blessed are you in Pendleton, Blessed are you in Phili, Blessed are you in Helena, Montana, in Denver, Blessed are you, Blessed are you in the Berkley Arts Center making signs, Blessed are you from San Diego to the Vermont State House, Blessed are you to the 300 people in the town of Joseph Oregon, and those few in Stanley Idaho, LaGrande, Oregon, Raleigh and Greensboro, North Carolina. Not because you are marching for one political party against another, because I don't think you were, but because you were being the Beatitudes, naming a future yet to be, naming that it can be good even if it’s right now, naming that Women’s issues are important.

I thought about how Baker City had no march, and I thought about how far I had had to go to find care, over snowy passes and back to LaGrande, to Boise - across time zones and state lines, and couldn’t help but think these two might be related. What does it mean that Baker City citizens had to travel to another place to support women’s rights? How much do we care about women’s health when we do not care for women, with issues as common as mine, within our town lines? Why can’t there be a Title-Nine for healthcare, that no procedure, or medicine, or research, or location, could discriminate on gender such that there had to be equal services for all genders? It seems it’s been separate and unequal for a long time, I thought about the hemorrhaging woman in the Bible, and wondered if she had the same thing I do, and I wonder why has it taken so long to figure this out, with very few good options, when even Jesus sought that the hemorrhaging should be healed, preexisting condition or not. And I think about what Jesus did in that story, when she came over and touched his robes, he asked who had touched them, and he said to her, “Your faith has made you well.” It’s been another verse that hasn’t been my favorite for the same reasons that I didn’t like the Beatitudes, because they seemed empty promises to those suffering now. But I can see differently now, the woman reaching out and touching Jesus’ robes is like millions of marchers on Saturday’s streets, people naming a need, and believing it can change, and will change, and is changed, people reassuring others that this goodness is the future. In those pictures some held signs that said, “women’s health is women’s rights,” others reframed words like, “nasty women, blood coming out of her, and grab them by the __ into images of kittens, depictions of biological fact and words of strength rather than shame. And I think too this is what the Beatitudes are doing, this is what Jesus is doing when he speaks them, taking those, “who are poor in spirit, those who mourn, those who are meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, those who are merciful, those who are pure in heart, those who are the peacemakers, those who are persecuted for righteousness sake, those who are reviled,” and turning their suffering upside-down, that they are the ones who are blessed, that by the very reassurance of those words they are blessed, not someday, but now, and that that blessing is and will be always. 

They are words for wherever we find ourselves, it is a blessing for those deep longing places in ourselves. So for me, still bleeding with a long road ahead, I am reassured as if hearing a lullaby, because I know I am blessed. Likewise, in an ever changing world, even if someday or today looks different than the fairy tale we desired, we all can be blessed by the marchers and their signs, declaring a future of goodness and care, whose cadences echo words from long ago, blessed are you, blessed are you, blessed are you. Amen.

January 15, 2017 Matthew 4:12-23

Now when Jesus heard that John had been arrested, Jesus withdrew to Galilee.
He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of
Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled:
“Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali,
on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—
the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light,
and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.”

From that time Jesus began to proclaim,
“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

As he walked by the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers,
Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother,
casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen.
And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”
Immediately they left their nets and followed him.

As he went from there, he saw two other brothers,
James son of Zebedee and his brother John,
in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and he called them.
Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed Jesus.

Jesus went throughout Galilee,
teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom
and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

***

We live in a don’t know why time
we are more likely Zebedee,
have grace for ourselves and others who might not spring up
Is he old, stuck in his ways, has the wisdom told to stay and help,
Does he feel unwanted,

This text is often referred to as, Jesus calling his disciples, and while that may be the point, I have always been more interested in Zebedee, the father of James and John, who stays behind.
The scripture says,

As he went from there, he saw two other brothers,
James son of Zebedee and his brother John,
in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets,
and he called them.
Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed Jesus.

Why doesn’t Zebedee go? Is he older and stuck in his ways? Is he so impeded in the Jewish tradition that he can’t see it anew? Has he seen too many people who claim to be the Messiah, only to be let down?

Why doesn’t Zebedee go? Is he like a rancher or farmer, who will work the land, or in this case the sea, until the day he dies? Is he called to this profession, such that another is unfathomable?

Why doesn’t Zebedee go? He had heard about Jesus, and perhaps had yet to make up his mind, but did something happen in the exchange between Jesus and Zebedee’s sons, that left Zebedee out? Even as it’s written Zebedee is excluded, “Jesus called to them, and immediately they left the boat and their father.” The word, “they,” to whom Jesus called, did not include Zebedee. Did Zebedee not go because he wasn’t included when Jesus called? Was this Jesus’ intention? Or did the scripture simply get written this way?

What we think about why Zebedee stays, says a lot about what we believe.
Is Zebedee an example of those who do not repent and turn to Jesus?
Will they be left behind when the reign of heaven comes?
Are some called and others not?
Is this Jesus’ intention to exclude?
Is staying behind permissible, or punishable?
Are some called to stay, and can they only stay if they evangelize
or can they stay stuck in their ways, the ways of a fisherman their whole life long?
Does what we believe about Zebedee come from our identifying with the brothers? Would we be kinder and more humble, if we thought of ourselves as the ones who remain mending our nets when the Lord is calling?

I ask this, because I think, we have to assume we are Zebedee, and not the brothers, when we place ourselves in the scripture. We cannot assume we are the bothers who are right, and it’s Zebedee who is wrong. Instead maybe we have to see ourselves and Zebedee and realize we may or may not be wrong. It humble to see ourselves as Zebedee, to recognize the places where we may have missed Jesus’ call, to recognize the ways we may be stuck in our ways, unable to see his, to be Zebedee is to realize, that life is more complicated then a simple go or stay, believe or unbelief. I think we live in a Zebedee sort of world.

In our country we have had quite a few prophets this year. Those who claim to know the absolute truth. Maybe our ears have become so deaf to the banter, we cannot filter out what is truth. Maybe we live in a Zebedee sort of world that hesitates to believe one ideology or another and so sticks to what it knows, melding nets.
Maybe that’s just it, maybe we know our calling, to the land, or the classroom, or the courtroom, or our desk in an office, or our children at home, or to serve others in retirement, such that get up and follow is to leave a people hungry, hungry for fish, for food, for learning, for loving, for justice, for shoveling one another’s snow. Maybe in the age of our wisdom we recognize that we can follow best by staying where we are.

Maybe, we can identify with Zebedee. Maybe Jesus called us, but the way the story was written by the church, excluded and vilianized us. Maybe we were told that it wasn’t okay to be friends with salty sailors, or those of other races or creeds, or values, or religions, socio-iconic status or sexual orientation. Maybe someone in leadership in the church said something snotty or maybe we felt unwelcome within the sanctuary walls. Maybe some well person said that something awful was God’s plan, when it wasn’t. Maybe we can identify with Zebedee, who chooses not to follow along with perhaps his overly righteous, often misinformed sons.

As Christians, we live in a complicated world, and perhaps as those who seek to be followers, we have to assume we are the ones who stay behind. We can’t read ourselves into the role of immediately jumping up and following, we can’t easily say we are right and others are wrong, sitting in their boats. We have to read ourselves into the humble spot, that we are Zebedee, and we may or may not, be correct to stay where we are, we have to read ourselves into the nuances of those who stay behind because we are those who stay behind. We have to understand their reasons, and be willing to name our own; we have to name those things that may keep us mending nets and measure them against what it means to follow. And then when we have claimed that the ways we mend our nets are actually following Jesus, when we have said that our political party, or church, or religion, or country, or occupation, or even the way we spend our time or talents or money, are following Christ, we have to again remember we are not brothers, and even the brothers aren’t Jesus. Every time we think we are the brothers, that we have absolute truth, we have to remember, that more likely, we are Zebedee, that faith isn’t as easy as immediately following. That maybe faith is to remain mending nets, without an absolute answer, that maybe following can be to continue to wrestle with the call of Jesus right where we are. Amen.

January 8, 2017 Matthew 3.13-17

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him.
John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you,
and do you come to me?”
But Jesus answered him,
“Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
Then John consented.
And when Jesus had been baptized,
just as he came up from the water,
suddenly the heavens were opened to him
and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.
And a voice from heaven said,
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

***
I was riding down our snowy mountain with Lisa Lauch, listening to her tell of her father’s recent funeral service. The things she and her brothers remembered and experienced differently now, like how hard it had been to put on skis for the first time since his passing, as he had taught her, holding her upright, her skis between his own when she was barely knee high. This past-time which had become and remained such a passion for her, came from him. She talked too, of how easily and unexpectedly the tears came, with memories she didn’t even realize were memories until they were no longer there, like calling her mother knowing she wouldn’t hear her father’s voice. She talked of the initial impossibility and ultimate catharsis of writing her father a eulogy and the subsequent inability to speak it, and how her own brother got choked up by her words. In the thick of her narration, something, low and grew moved just beyond a berm off the left hand shoulder of the road. In the road’s channel abutted by steep solid snow any movement and sudden change of color became an easy alert, a white surrender flag waving wildly over a hunkered down green battlefield. And before either of us could say anything, or even stop the sentence Lisa was speaking, a large grey spotted cat raced across the road. Even with its thoroughbred speed, time seemed to stop, its giant winter fur paws stretched and planted, its back bounded and lengthened, and just as it disappeared into the slope on the far side, its ears tufted left their imprint like a picture of shadow gone by.

I had clasped my hands in excitement, “I’ve never seen one, I’ve never seen one! I am so excited!” as Lisa pulled slowly over to a convenient shoulder. As the shock of what we had seen, settled in on us both, a couple cars past, unknowing the sight ten seconds difference would have made for them, nor what awakening was underway in the shouldered Subaru. “That was amazing,” we said over and over, as we relived each modicum of description we could remember, trying to name what we later identified as a bobcat.

We were paused there for awhile, not ready to move on, the moment having not left us yet, the humility of the rare experience still unsettling reality’s sense of routine,
and the coincidence of the conversation about her father creating meaning as if he and the Spirit had touched down upon us. I felt as if I had met her father, the bobcat and Lisa’s description of him came so intrinsically tied. Then, I remembered this verse, and said,

“You know, the scripture for Sunday is, the Baptism of Jesus, and just as he is coming out of the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him
and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him.
And a voice from heaven said,
“This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

I didn’t have to explain, as Lisa understood, as we laid our fresh memory over the scripture and felt the portents of both. That coming down the mountain was our River Jordan, that baptism happened in the middle of a road and the depths of the water was the depths of her memories of her father, and there the heavens opened, and with the rush of a bobcat the Spirit descended like a dove up on us, and a voice said, “This is my daughter, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

And I can only imagine how John the Baptist felt, the intimacy of another human in his arms, like the hearing of Lisa’s memories. And then, seemingly so coincidentally, us both, privy to witness God touching down in front of us, a bobcat and a dove, and hearing the father’s voice.

I remember with Maddie and Alex, my first baptism, the way I wept, without really knowing why, just being overcome, the way God was so alive and present, beyond our claiming or knowing, or being. I was in awe, the grace of holding other people’s children in my arms, and lifting them all the way up to the font, touching their heads with water, and speaking Madaline Loretta and Alexander ___ I baptized you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and setting them down, forever claimed by a God beyond their knowing, beyond explaining, beyond predicting, but so present in the sheer awesomeness of it all. This baptism into the humility of grace.