Holy and Healing God, we confess our fear—at bearing our souls, uncovering our wounds, pouring out our hearts, naming our shortcomings, and being seen for all we are, and all we do. We confess our reluctance—to set aside disappointments, find release for our anger, let go of deep hurts, and feel forgiven for failings.
When we give into easy apathy or frenzied fear, fuel in us passion, born of hope. When we are motivated by private ambition or greed, stir in us the commitment to be beloved community, to share and to serve. When we squander your bounty and take creation for granted, remind us we are all one, and the earth belongs to you, and we are called to tread lightly and care tenderly. When we dream of greatness and glory, shift our gaze to the last, the least and the lost. When we believe perfection will save us, reveal your sacred spirit at work in our cracks and broken places, and coax healing from our hurt. When we are paralyzed by guilt and failure, free us as your forgiven people.
Break our bondage. Receive our confession. Renew our hope. Restore our potential to live as signs of your Resurrection Power.
Holy and Healing God, in the midst of our fear and reluctance, help us remember your promise—You will find us. And forgive us. And free us. And love us. Without exception. Because you are God, and we are your beautiful, broken, beloved people.
May it be so. Amen, and amen.
"into the whirlwind"
First UMC, Osage
Transfiguration Sunday
2 Kings 2:1-12
Mark 9:2-8
These are not easy stories in scripture to hear. It can be hard to pay attention. We’ve got both chariots of fire and horses of fire. We’ve got revelation on a mountain top, and Jesus transfigured, transformed, all dazzling and perplexing. In the first story we’ve got Elijah, about to be lifted up into the heavens, and in the next story we’ve got Moses and Elijah, dropped back down to earth. Any questions?
Gospel group Sweet Honey in the Rock offer this introduction to the gospel song, “Wade in the Water.” A song appropriate for us to sing today, if only we could fit everything in, or extend worship by a few hours. Hear their words: “And when there is a promise of a storm, if you want change in your life walk into it. If you get on the other side, you will be different. And if you want change in your life and you’re avoiding the trouble, you can forget it. So as the prophet says, wade on in the water. It’s gonna really be troubled water.” Let us pray…
We have the promise of a storm. And the lure of a mountain top experience. And some dazzling, confusing changes taking place. Some troubled water, indeed.
In 2 Kings, the story begins with a whirlwind. In Mark’s gospel, the mountain top is overshadowed with clouds. Something big is about to happen. Enter our cast of characters. Elijah, a revered prophet and mentor. Elisha, the successor, the intern, gaining on the job training with the hopes of one day stepping into Elijah’s shoes. And from the gospel, we have Peter, James and John. People we have met in other Bible stories. They’ve become trustworthy to the hearers of these stories. We have seen them mess up. We know they aren’t perfect, but we also know they are faithful. They keep trying. We know they are committed to searching for the Holy One. They have experienced God’s transforming presence in their lives. They keep practicing their calling to become disciples, witnesses to the divine transformation that comes from our faith, and from our faithful action.
So something big is about to happen. Sweet Honey in the Rock’s warning rings true for individuals, as well as for communities. If we want change in our life, walk into it. If we get on the other side, we will be different. And if we want change in our life and we’re avoiding the trouble, we can forget it.”
Theologian H. Richard Niebuhr says that revelation happens when we gain insight into the mystery of our lives. For Niebuhr, revelation isn’t so much something new being given—some new insight or answer to prayer—but about us discovering, anew, what has already always been there…
Like God’s naming and claiming us as God’s own, through the waters of our baptisms…Like members of this community, mentoring future generations in God’s word…Like God’s grace, and God’s promise of forgiveness…
Like Elisha, realizing his mentor is about to leave this life, and refusing to leave Elijah’s side. In Bethel. And again in Jericho. And again at the Jordan… Over and over Elijah begins to take his leave. “Stay here,” he tells Elisha. And over and over Elisha resists. “As God lives and as you live, I will not leave you.” So the prophets try to nudge him back to reality. “But you know your mentor is going to be taken away, today, don’t you?” And again and again, Elisha offers a curt response. “Yes. I know. Now shut up about it. He is stubbornly refusing the trouble. Until he can’t avoid it any more.
Until the troubled waters are parted, and they wade right in. And transformation occurs. And Elisha realizes what he needs to keep doing the work of prophetic witness and transformation. His mentor, he will loose. What he needs now is a double share
of his spirit. And receiving this double share doesn’t take away his deep loss and grief. He grasps his own clothes and tears them in two. We need to know, the story needs to show, that after transformation occurs, nothing will ever be the same.
Seeing anew what has already always been there. If you get to the other side, you will be different.
And like Peter, James, and John. Up on a mountain top, a place where we know grand things happen, miraculous vistas are viewed, transforming memories are made, here these disciples see Jesus transfigured. And it is dazzling. And suddenly Moses and Elijah are there, too. A holy haunting. And it is terrifying. And it is also so good the disciples don’t want to leave. They don’t want it to end. Can’t I build some houses here, begs Peter? Then we won’t ever have to leave. One for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah. You can stay then, right?
After transformation occurs, nothing will ever be the same. Seeing anew what has already always been there. If you get to the other side, you will be different.
It is tempting to believe these moments of transformation require mountain tops. Or parting seas. Or holy hauntings where Moses and Elijah appear out of thin air or whirlwinds of chariots and horses of fire pull us up into heaven. This is tempting. But it misses the point.
In Grace, Eventually, Anne Lamott writes, “I used to believe if you could only get to see sunrise at Stonehenge, or the full moon at the Taj Mahal, you would be nabbed by truth. And then you would be well. And able to relax and feel fully alive. But I actually knew a few true things: Almost everyone was struggling to wake up, to be loved, and to not feel so afraid all the time.”
In Eugene Peterson’s translation of the Bible, The Message, he writes, “The streets and fields, the homes and markets of the world are an art gallery displaying new creation.”
On a mountain top, next to a dazzling, transfigured Jesus. And in the streets and fields around us in Osage. At the River Jordan, when a mantel’s touch parts the sea. And in the homes and markets of our world. In the whirlwind of chariots and horses of fire. And in the whirlwinds of our lives.
And when there is the promise of a storm, if you want change in your life, walk into it. If you get on the other side, you will be different. And if you want change in your life and you’re avoiding the trouble, you can forget it.
Welcome into the whirlwind. Wade on in the water. We can travel together. God will meet us. Transformation will happen. Amen, and amen.
Transfiguration Sunday
2 Kings 2:1-12
Mark 9:2-8
These are not easy stories in scripture to hear. It can be hard to pay attention. We’ve got both chariots of fire and horses of fire. We’ve got revelation on a mountain top, and Jesus transfigured, transformed, all dazzling and perplexing. In the first story we’ve got Elijah, about to be lifted up into the heavens, and in the next story we’ve got Moses and Elijah, dropped back down to earth. Any questions?
Gospel group Sweet Honey in the Rock offer this introduction to the gospel song, “Wade in the Water.” A song appropriate for us to sing today, if only we could fit everything in, or extend worship by a few hours. Hear their words: “And when there is a promise of a storm, if you want change in your life walk into it. If you get on the other side, you will be different. And if you want change in your life and you’re avoiding the trouble, you can forget it. So as the prophet says, wade on in the water. It’s gonna really be troubled water.” Let us pray…
We have the promise of a storm. And the lure of a mountain top experience. And some dazzling, confusing changes taking place. Some troubled water, indeed.
In 2 Kings, the story begins with a whirlwind. In Mark’s gospel, the mountain top is overshadowed with clouds. Something big is about to happen. Enter our cast of characters. Elijah, a revered prophet and mentor. Elisha, the successor, the intern, gaining on the job training with the hopes of one day stepping into Elijah’s shoes. And from the gospel, we have Peter, James and John. People we have met in other Bible stories. They’ve become trustworthy to the hearers of these stories. We have seen them mess up. We know they aren’t perfect, but we also know they are faithful. They keep trying. We know they are committed to searching for the Holy One. They have experienced God’s transforming presence in their lives. They keep practicing their calling to become disciples, witnesses to the divine transformation that comes from our faith, and from our faithful action.
So something big is about to happen. Sweet Honey in the Rock’s warning rings true for individuals, as well as for communities. If we want change in our life, walk into it. If we get on the other side, we will be different. And if we want change in our life and we’re avoiding the trouble, we can forget it.”
Theologian H. Richard Niebuhr says that revelation happens when we gain insight into the mystery of our lives. For Niebuhr, revelation isn’t so much something new being given—some new insight or answer to prayer—but about us discovering, anew, what has already always been there…
Like God’s naming and claiming us as God’s own, through the waters of our baptisms…Like members of this community, mentoring future generations in God’s word…Like God’s grace, and God’s promise of forgiveness…
Like Elisha, realizing his mentor is about to leave this life, and refusing to leave Elijah’s side. In Bethel. And again in Jericho. And again at the Jordan… Over and over Elijah begins to take his leave. “Stay here,” he tells Elisha. And over and over Elisha resists. “As God lives and as you live, I will not leave you.” So the prophets try to nudge him back to reality. “But you know your mentor is going to be taken away, today, don’t you?” And again and again, Elisha offers a curt response. “Yes. I know. Now shut up about it. He is stubbornly refusing the trouble. Until he can’t avoid it any more.
Until the troubled waters are parted, and they wade right in. And transformation occurs. And Elisha realizes what he needs to keep doing the work of prophetic witness and transformation. His mentor, he will loose. What he needs now is a double share
of his spirit. And receiving this double share doesn’t take away his deep loss and grief. He grasps his own clothes and tears them in two. We need to know, the story needs to show, that after transformation occurs, nothing will ever be the same.
Seeing anew what has already always been there. If you get to the other side, you will be different.
And like Peter, James, and John. Up on a mountain top, a place where we know grand things happen, miraculous vistas are viewed, transforming memories are made, here these disciples see Jesus transfigured. And it is dazzling. And suddenly Moses and Elijah are there, too. A holy haunting. And it is terrifying. And it is also so good the disciples don’t want to leave. They don’t want it to end. Can’t I build some houses here, begs Peter? Then we won’t ever have to leave. One for you, one for Moses, one for Elijah. You can stay then, right?
After transformation occurs, nothing will ever be the same. Seeing anew what has already always been there. If you get to the other side, you will be different.
It is tempting to believe these moments of transformation require mountain tops. Or parting seas. Or holy hauntings where Moses and Elijah appear out of thin air or whirlwinds of chariots and horses of fire pull us up into heaven. This is tempting. But it misses the point.
In Grace, Eventually, Anne Lamott writes, “I used to believe if you could only get to see sunrise at Stonehenge, or the full moon at the Taj Mahal, you would be nabbed by truth. And then you would be well. And able to relax and feel fully alive. But I actually knew a few true things: Almost everyone was struggling to wake up, to be loved, and to not feel so afraid all the time.”
In Eugene Peterson’s translation of the Bible, The Message, he writes, “The streets and fields, the homes and markets of the world are an art gallery displaying new creation.”
On a mountain top, next to a dazzling, transfigured Jesus. And in the streets and fields around us in Osage. At the River Jordan, when a mantel’s touch parts the sea. And in the homes and markets of our world. In the whirlwind of chariots and horses of fire. And in the whirlwinds of our lives.
And when there is the promise of a storm, if you want change in your life, walk into it. If you get on the other side, you will be different. And if you want change in your life and you’re avoiding the trouble, you can forget it.
Welcome into the whirlwind. Wade on in the water. We can travel together. God will meet us. Transformation will happen. Amen, and amen.
letter to the editor, mitchell county press news
“When a stranger resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the stranger. The stranger who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the stranger as yourself, for you too were once strangers in a foreign land…” (Leviticus 19:33-34)
This Saturday, February 28, from 12:30-1:30pm, First United Methodist Church in Osage is hosting an Immigration Prayer Vigil. We invite you to join us in praying for immigrant families, for just immigration reform, for our nation’s leaders as they discern how to combine security and hospitality, and for our own moral courage to reach out in compassion rather than recoil in fear.
As a pastor and person of faith, I am deeply concerned about the direction this country is moving on immigration. Immigrant families and workers are living in a state of constant fear due to increased raids, deportations and detainments, and anti-immigrant sentiments. Adopting just and humane comprehensive immigration policy is not an issue of the Democrats or Republicans. It is not an issue of the conservative right or the liberal left. It is a faith issue. It is a justice issue. It is a gospel issue. It is a Jesus issue. In the Christian faith, the scriptures show us and Jesus teaches us that our salvation is directly tied to our welcoming the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned. (Matthew 25)
Immigration reform isn’t a faceless problem—it affects our neighbors, members of our congregations, parents working to provide for their families, and innocent children. Raids instill fear and destroy families, and anti-immigrant rhetoric tears apart communities.
All faith traditions share a common mandate to welcome and care for all members of our community, and love our neighbors as we do ourselves. This principle must serve as the foundation as we seek to address the complex issue of immigration.
Please join us this Saturday at 819 Main Street, and please remember immigrant families in your daily prayers.
Peace,
Rev. Anna Blaedel
Pastor, First United Methodist Church, Osage
This Saturday, February 28, from 12:30-1:30pm, First United Methodist Church in Osage is hosting an Immigration Prayer Vigil. We invite you to join us in praying for immigrant families, for just immigration reform, for our nation’s leaders as they discern how to combine security and hospitality, and for our own moral courage to reach out in compassion rather than recoil in fear.
As a pastor and person of faith, I am deeply concerned about the direction this country is moving on immigration. Immigrant families and workers are living in a state of constant fear due to increased raids, deportations and detainments, and anti-immigrant sentiments. Adopting just and humane comprehensive immigration policy is not an issue of the Democrats or Republicans. It is not an issue of the conservative right or the liberal left. It is a faith issue. It is a justice issue. It is a gospel issue. It is a Jesus issue. In the Christian faith, the scriptures show us and Jesus teaches us that our salvation is directly tied to our welcoming the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned. (Matthew 25)
Immigration reform isn’t a faceless problem—it affects our neighbors, members of our congregations, parents working to provide for their families, and innocent children. Raids instill fear and destroy families, and anti-immigrant rhetoric tears apart communities.
All faith traditions share a common mandate to welcome and care for all members of our community, and love our neighbors as we do ourselves. This principle must serve as the foundation as we seek to address the complex issue of immigration.
Please join us this Saturday at 819 Main Street, and please remember immigrant families in your daily prayers.
Peace,
Rev. Anna Blaedel
Pastor, First United Methodist Church, Osage
"if you choose..."
Anna Blaedel, First UMC, Osage
Psalm 30
Mark 1:40-45
February 15, 2009
The story is simple. A leper comes begging. He is unnamed. Unclean. Untouchable. He is known, before and above all else, for being dirty. And diseased. In the context of this biblical text, leprosy destroyed lives not just because of the painful skin lesions and progressive damage to a person’s skin, nerves, limbs, and eyes. Leprosy caused fear in communities. People suffering from this disease were segregated, stigmatized. As in the early years of the now pandemic crisis of HIV/AIDS, when cause and cure where both unknown, anyone with leprosy was viewed as a danger to the community, a threat to the community’s health and wholeness.
That a leper appears in this story at all, and that a leper dares to approach Jesus, dares to show his face and kneel before the crowd…this is enough to shock those gathered, enough to shock the hearers of this story, and make them squirm.
The leper is begging. Desperate. Jesus, Jesus! “If you choose…” Do you dare? If you are willing. Might you be moved? I know you have this power…will you care enough to act? Jesus, God’s Incarnate Love, sees the need. Hears the call. And Jesus responds. Let us pray…
Pastor and writer Frederick Buechner reminds us of call. He writes—God calls us to the places where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet. Where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet. Deep need. Deep passion. “If you choose…” It is at this intersection where we meet God.
In this morning’s gospel text, the leper’s deep hunger meets and elicits Jesus’ deep gladness. The Greek word willing used in this story is the same as delight. If you choose…If you are willing…If it will make you glad, the leper asks, his hunger for healing, deep. If it will bring you delight.
The leper is calling Christ. And Jesus, moved with compassion, so delights. Without hesitation. Immediately. Jesus, this one of kingdom connection and beloved community, so desires. Jesus reaches out his hand, we are told. When the rest of the world recoils, Jesus reaches out. Touches the untouchable. And because connection is made, healing happens. Boundaries are broken. This man, set apart, isolated, feared, is restored to community. He comes alive. Experiences resurrection! Proclaims the good news of this one who embodies Love. Is filled with such joy that he cannot help but spread the word, share his story, and tell of the Good News of Jesus. Jesus, this one who restores, resurrects, reconnects.
This past week I gathered in DC with 45 other United Methodist clergy, all of us under the age of 35. We prayed and worshipped together. We shared our struggles. Our hopes. Our stories of call. We faced our differences and disagreements, and gathered at table, broke bread together, still. We started at 7:30 each morning, and often didn’t make it back to the hotel until past 10 at night. It was exhausting, and renewing.
We studied issues facing our communities: homelessness and poverty and addiction. Immigration. Dwindling membership in mainline denominations. Church politics. Gospel politics. The way fear and resignation keep people and pastors isolated and insulated from the gospel call to build beloved community.
On our last day together, four hours before my flight was scheduled to depart from National Airport and return me to Iowa, I preached on this morning’s gospel text at our United Methodist Building on Capitol Hill. Then, three hours before departure, I found myself sitting in a small room at the US Capitol Building. The Interfaith Immigration Coalition had gathered religious leaders together for a press conference. I found myself next to United Methodist Bishop Minerva Carcano. Bishop Carcano and I had met in Ames last June, where she was the guest preacher for Iowa’s Annual Conference. Some of you might have heard her preach. In DC, the room was filled—Catholics and United Methodists, Baptists and Unitarians, Jews and Evangelicals—all calling for humane immigration reform.
The scriptures show us, Jesus teaches us, that our salvation is directly tied to our welcoming the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned.
Bishop Carcano read from Leviticus 19—“The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you too were once strangers in a foreign land.” Deep hunger. Deep need.
David Vasquez spoke to the current context in Decorah, Iowa, a mere 60 miles from our homes here in Osage—He said, “Immigrant families and workers are living in a state of fear, as we have seen firsthand in our community…they are constantly worrying about the next raid that will rip parents and children apart or how the increasing anti-immigrant sentiment will impact their families…” Deep hunger. Deep need.
On Feb. 28, we will join with hundreds of faith communities across the nation, praying for immigrant families. Praying for just immigration reform. Praying for our nation’s leaders, as they discern how to combine security and hospitality. Praying for us, for our moral courage, for our gospel call as followers of Christ.
This is not a Republican or Democrat issue. It is not a political issue of the liberal left, or of the conservative right. This is a gospel issue. This is a faith issue. This is a Jesus issue.
God reaches across boundaries and borders to offer hospitality and healing. The leper came to Jesus, begging. He should not have been there. He was not supposed to be able to get to Jesus. But. And. Jesus welcomed him. Reached out to him. Moved by compassion, filled with gladness, Jesus restored him. And Jesus chooses, offers, to restore us. Calls us to the places where the world’s deep needs meet our deep gladness.
To follow this call, we need each other. And we need God. And God needs us. Every one of us. And every one of our sisters and brothers.
“If you so choose,” the leper asks. God so chooses. So desires. So delights. For us all, every one. Citizens and sojourners. Members and visitors. Rich and poor. Young and old. Women and men. Lay and clergy. Gay and straight. Those who hold power, and those pushed to the margins. White and Black, Latino and Asian. God’s love and welcome and healing knows no borders. Deep gladness, restored.
The call—to restore and resurrect. Until our mourning gives way to dancing. Until we are clothed not in sackcloths, but in joy. Until the hurt is so deep we share it. Until the fears are so sharp we name them, and lay them to rest. Until the shame shivers away, and we laugh our way, together, toward becoming whole. Until we are delivered from just going through the motions, and wasting everything we have: a chance, a choice, our creativity, God’s call.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Psalm 30
Mark 1:40-45
February 15, 2009
The story is simple. A leper comes begging. He is unnamed. Unclean. Untouchable. He is known, before and above all else, for being dirty. And diseased. In the context of this biblical text, leprosy destroyed lives not just because of the painful skin lesions and progressive damage to a person’s skin, nerves, limbs, and eyes. Leprosy caused fear in communities. People suffering from this disease were segregated, stigmatized. As in the early years of the now pandemic crisis of HIV/AIDS, when cause and cure where both unknown, anyone with leprosy was viewed as a danger to the community, a threat to the community’s health and wholeness.
That a leper appears in this story at all, and that a leper dares to approach Jesus, dares to show his face and kneel before the crowd…this is enough to shock those gathered, enough to shock the hearers of this story, and make them squirm.
The leper is begging. Desperate. Jesus, Jesus! “If you choose…” Do you dare? If you are willing. Might you be moved? I know you have this power…will you care enough to act? Jesus, God’s Incarnate Love, sees the need. Hears the call. And Jesus responds. Let us pray…
Pastor and writer Frederick Buechner reminds us of call. He writes—God calls us to the places where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet. Where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet. Deep need. Deep passion. “If you choose…” It is at this intersection where we meet God.
In this morning’s gospel text, the leper’s deep hunger meets and elicits Jesus’ deep gladness. The Greek word willing used in this story is the same as delight. If you choose…If you are willing…If it will make you glad, the leper asks, his hunger for healing, deep. If it will bring you delight.
The leper is calling Christ. And Jesus, moved with compassion, so delights. Without hesitation. Immediately. Jesus, this one of kingdom connection and beloved community, so desires. Jesus reaches out his hand, we are told. When the rest of the world recoils, Jesus reaches out. Touches the untouchable. And because connection is made, healing happens. Boundaries are broken. This man, set apart, isolated, feared, is restored to community. He comes alive. Experiences resurrection! Proclaims the good news of this one who embodies Love. Is filled with such joy that he cannot help but spread the word, share his story, and tell of the Good News of Jesus. Jesus, this one who restores, resurrects, reconnects.
This past week I gathered in DC with 45 other United Methodist clergy, all of us under the age of 35. We prayed and worshipped together. We shared our struggles. Our hopes. Our stories of call. We faced our differences and disagreements, and gathered at table, broke bread together, still. We started at 7:30 each morning, and often didn’t make it back to the hotel until past 10 at night. It was exhausting, and renewing.
We studied issues facing our communities: homelessness and poverty and addiction. Immigration. Dwindling membership in mainline denominations. Church politics. Gospel politics. The way fear and resignation keep people and pastors isolated and insulated from the gospel call to build beloved community.
On our last day together, four hours before my flight was scheduled to depart from National Airport and return me to Iowa, I preached on this morning’s gospel text at our United Methodist Building on Capitol Hill. Then, three hours before departure, I found myself sitting in a small room at the US Capitol Building. The Interfaith Immigration Coalition had gathered religious leaders together for a press conference. I found myself next to United Methodist Bishop Minerva Carcano. Bishop Carcano and I had met in Ames last June, where she was the guest preacher for Iowa’s Annual Conference. Some of you might have heard her preach. In DC, the room was filled—Catholics and United Methodists, Baptists and Unitarians, Jews and Evangelicals—all calling for humane immigration reform.
The scriptures show us, Jesus teaches us, that our salvation is directly tied to our welcoming the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned.
Bishop Carcano read from Leviticus 19—“The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you too were once strangers in a foreign land.” Deep hunger. Deep need.
David Vasquez spoke to the current context in Decorah, Iowa, a mere 60 miles from our homes here in Osage—He said, “Immigrant families and workers are living in a state of fear, as we have seen firsthand in our community…they are constantly worrying about the next raid that will rip parents and children apart or how the increasing anti-immigrant sentiment will impact their families…” Deep hunger. Deep need.
On Feb. 28, we will join with hundreds of faith communities across the nation, praying for immigrant families. Praying for just immigration reform. Praying for our nation’s leaders, as they discern how to combine security and hospitality. Praying for us, for our moral courage, for our gospel call as followers of Christ.
This is not a Republican or Democrat issue. It is not a political issue of the liberal left, or of the conservative right. This is a gospel issue. This is a faith issue. This is a Jesus issue.
God reaches across boundaries and borders to offer hospitality and healing. The leper came to Jesus, begging. He should not have been there. He was not supposed to be able to get to Jesus. But. And. Jesus welcomed him. Reached out to him. Moved by compassion, filled with gladness, Jesus restored him. And Jesus chooses, offers, to restore us. Calls us to the places where the world’s deep needs meet our deep gladness.
To follow this call, we need each other. And we need God. And God needs us. Every one of us. And every one of our sisters and brothers.
“If you so choose,” the leper asks. God so chooses. So desires. So delights. For us all, every one. Citizens and sojourners. Members and visitors. Rich and poor. Young and old. Women and men. Lay and clergy. Gay and straight. Those who hold power, and those pushed to the margins. White and Black, Latino and Asian. God’s love and welcome and healing knows no borders. Deep gladness, restored.
The call—to restore and resurrect. Until our mourning gives way to dancing. Until we are clothed not in sackcloths, but in joy. Until the hurt is so deep we share it. Until the fears are so sharp we name them, and lay them to rest. Until the shame shivers away, and we laugh our way, together, toward becoming whole. Until we are delivered from just going through the motions, and wasting everything we have: a chance, a choice, our creativity, God’s call.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
gbcs young clergy gathering, simpson memorial chapel, united methodist building, dc
Mark 1:40-45
The story is simple. A leper comes begging. He is unnamed. Unclean. Untouchable. He is known, before and above all else, for being dirty. And diseased. He is begging. Desperate. Jesus, Jesus! “If you choose…” Do you dare? If you are willing. Might you be moved? And Jesus hears the need. And responds.
Frederick Buechner reminds us of call—where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet. The Greek word willing, is the same as delight. If it will make you glad, the leper asks, his hunger for healing, deep. If it will bring you delight. The leper is calling Christ. And Jesus, moved with compassion, so delights. Without hesitation. Without consulting religious authorities or doctrinal statements. Immediately. Jesus, this one of kingdom connection and beloved community, so desires.
Jesus reaches out his hand, we are told. When the rest of the world recoils, Jesus reaches out. Touches the untouchable. And we are called to follow. And because connection is made, healing happens. Boundaries are broken. This man, set apart, isolated, is restored to community. He comes alive. Proclaims the good news of this one who embodies Love.
After these past 60 hours or so together, the world’s deep needs have me feeling dazed and confused. Filled to overflowing. Statistics and stories swirl. Exhausted and cracked open, I wish I could stay. And I don’t know if I could absorb any more. Restoring our connection. Recommitting to justice. Remembering our calls. Here are a few snapshots tucked away for my further examination. Remember: Clayton Childers calling us into God’s rebirth. Anothen. Torn apart, top to bottom. Never to be the same. Remember: Neil Christie’s Simple Sentence Call. That which is impossible, and will not let us go. Remember: O’Donnell. His witness at the Vietnam War Memorial. His story. His struggle. His call for solidarity. Remember: Steve, formerly Big Daddy, crying out: If you so choose, God, let me die. Bury me in this hole I have dug. “God threw dirt on me,” he said. “But God being God, God didn’t bury me. God planted me.” Remember: Emanuel Cleaver, finding grounding in God by placing himself at he center of the chaos. A crisis is a terrible thing to waste, he said. Remember: John Hill connecting us with Jeremiah, standing at the crossroads, seeking rest for weary souls. Remember: the photographs from Palestine; remember those who are dislocated, without food and water, living in violence; Remember: the senseless violence and utter human disconnection in BumFights. Will we have the sense to blush? Remember: looking at each other across the room, facing our difference, then gathering at table, somehow, still. Remember: Standing in circles, face to face, sharing stories and faith. Remember: “If you so choose…”
God so chooses. So desires. So delights. For us all, every one. Deep gladness, restored.
To follow this call, we need each other. And we need God. And God needs us. Every one of us. And every one of our sisters and brothers.
To restore and resurrect. Until the hurt is so deep we share it. Until the fears are so sharp we name them, and lay them to rest. Until the shame shivers away, and we laugh our way, together, toward becoming whole. Until we are delivered from just going through the motions, and wasting everything we have: a chance, a choice, our creativity, God’s call. Thanks be to God.
Amen.
The story is simple. A leper comes begging. He is unnamed. Unclean. Untouchable. He is known, before and above all else, for being dirty. And diseased. He is begging. Desperate. Jesus, Jesus! “If you choose…” Do you dare? If you are willing. Might you be moved? And Jesus hears the need. And responds.
Frederick Buechner reminds us of call—where the world’s deep hunger and our deep gladness meet. The Greek word willing, is the same as delight. If it will make you glad, the leper asks, his hunger for healing, deep. If it will bring you delight. The leper is calling Christ. And Jesus, moved with compassion, so delights. Without hesitation. Without consulting religious authorities or doctrinal statements. Immediately. Jesus, this one of kingdom connection and beloved community, so desires.
Jesus reaches out his hand, we are told. When the rest of the world recoils, Jesus reaches out. Touches the untouchable. And we are called to follow. And because connection is made, healing happens. Boundaries are broken. This man, set apart, isolated, is restored to community. He comes alive. Proclaims the good news of this one who embodies Love.
After these past 60 hours or so together, the world’s deep needs have me feeling dazed and confused. Filled to overflowing. Statistics and stories swirl. Exhausted and cracked open, I wish I could stay. And I don’t know if I could absorb any more. Restoring our connection. Recommitting to justice. Remembering our calls. Here are a few snapshots tucked away for my further examination. Remember: Clayton Childers calling us into God’s rebirth. Anothen. Torn apart, top to bottom. Never to be the same. Remember: Neil Christie’s Simple Sentence Call. That which is impossible, and will not let us go. Remember: O’Donnell. His witness at the Vietnam War Memorial. His story. His struggle. His call for solidarity. Remember: Steve, formerly Big Daddy, crying out: If you so choose, God, let me die. Bury me in this hole I have dug. “God threw dirt on me,” he said. “But God being God, God didn’t bury me. God planted me.” Remember: Emanuel Cleaver, finding grounding in God by placing himself at he center of the chaos. A crisis is a terrible thing to waste, he said. Remember: John Hill connecting us with Jeremiah, standing at the crossroads, seeking rest for weary souls. Remember: the photographs from Palestine; remember those who are dislocated, without food and water, living in violence; Remember: the senseless violence and utter human disconnection in BumFights. Will we have the sense to blush? Remember: looking at each other across the room, facing our difference, then gathering at table, somehow, still. Remember: Standing in circles, face to face, sharing stories and faith. Remember: “If you so choose…”
God so chooses. So desires. So delights. For us all, every one. Deep gladness, restored.
To follow this call, we need each other. And we need God. And God needs us. Every one of us. And every one of our sisters and brothers.
To restore and resurrect. Until the hurt is so deep we share it. Until the fears are so sharp we name them, and lay them to rest. Until the shame shivers away, and we laugh our way, together, toward becoming whole. Until we are delivered from just going through the motions, and wasting everything we have: a chance, a choice, our creativity, God’s call. Thanks be to God.
Amen.
"pry us off dead center" by ted loder
O persistent God
Deliver us from assuming your mercy is gentle.
Pressure us that we may grow more human, not through the lessening of our struggles, but through an expansion of them, that will undamn us and unbury our gifts.
Deepen our hurt, until we learn to share it, and ourselves, openly, and our needs honestly.
Sharpen our fears until we name them, and release the power we have locked in them and they in us.
Accentuate our confusion, until we shed those grandiose expectations that divert us from the small, glad gifts of the now, and the here, and the us.
Expose our shame where it shivers, crouched behind the curtains of propriety, until we can laugh at last, laugh our way toward becoming whole.
Deliver us from just going through the motions and wasting everything we have, which is today,
a chance
a choice
our creativity, your call.
O persistent God, let how much it all matters pry us off dead center, so if we are moved inside to tears
or sighs
or screams
or smiles
or dreams,
they will be real
and we will be in touch with who we are
and who you are
and who our sisters and brothers are. Amen.
(i adapted personal prayer for communal use, read in two parts.)
Deliver us from assuming your mercy is gentle.
Pressure us that we may grow more human, not through the lessening of our struggles, but through an expansion of them, that will undamn us and unbury our gifts.
Deepen our hurt, until we learn to share it, and ourselves, openly, and our needs honestly.
Sharpen our fears until we name them, and release the power we have locked in them and they in us.
Accentuate our confusion, until we shed those grandiose expectations that divert us from the small, glad gifts of the now, and the here, and the us.
Expose our shame where it shivers, crouched behind the curtains of propriety, until we can laugh at last, laugh our way toward becoming whole.
Deliver us from just going through the motions and wasting everything we have, which is today,
a chance
a choice
our creativity, your call.
O persistent God, let how much it all matters pry us off dead center, so if we are moved inside to tears
or sighs
or screams
or smiles
or dreams,
they will be real
and we will be in touch with who we are
and who you are
and who our sisters and brothers are. Amen.
(i adapted personal prayer for communal use, read in two parts.)
on anger and hope
"can we hold both anger and hope?...
if one doesn't feel outrage at the injustice we see and experience, we have numbed ourselves to levels of evil, detached ourselves from our connectedness. but if we don't experience the realty of hope as well, a vision of what can be, we have no compass. anger cannot be our only motivator. we will only burn. and hope, without the truth that anger unveils, can lead to a contorted, Pollyanna response to the human experience. they seem to be like two tracks for the train--we can proceed when hope and anger are real."
--mair honan, "being homeless, seeking god," the progressive christian
if one doesn't feel outrage at the injustice we see and experience, we have numbed ourselves to levels of evil, detached ourselves from our connectedness. but if we don't experience the realty of hope as well, a vision of what can be, we have no compass. anger cannot be our only motivator. we will only burn. and hope, without the truth that anger unveils, can lead to a contorted, Pollyanna response to the human experience. they seem to be like two tracks for the train--we can proceed when hope and anger are real."
--mair honan, "being homeless, seeking god," the progressive christian
"reality theology"
Anna Blaedel
First UMC, Osage
February 1, 2009
Psalm 111; Mark 1:21-28
One day a bus driver was driving along his usual route when a great big hulk of a man got on. He was six feet eight inches tall, built like a wrestler, and filled the doorway of the bus. He towered over the driver and hold him, “Big John doesn’t pay!” Then he walked to the back of the bus and sat down. The driver, barely five feet three inches tall, thin, and very meek, didn’t argue with Big John. But he wasn’t happy. The next day the same thing happened, and then again the next. Over and over, the same interaction. The bus driver seemed to shrink smaller and smaller. He began to lose sleep, and feel ashamed. How could he let Big John take advantage of him, day after day? Why did fear get the best of him, over and over? He even considered quitting his job. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He signed up for bodybuilding classes, karate classes, jujitsu classes, and self-esteem classes. After a few months, the bus driver had become stronger and more confident. When Big John entered the bus one day and again declared, “Big John doesn’t pay!” the driver finally confronted him. He stood up, faced Big John, collected his courage, and almost bellowed, “And why not?” Big John looked surprised. After a moment he replied, “Big John has a bus pass!”
Poet and prophet Alice Walker writes, “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” People convinced of their powerlessness cower. The power of the gospel confronts.
Let us pray: Come, Holy Spirit, Come. Come as the fire and burn. Come as the wind and cleanse. Come as the light and reveal. Come as the bread and nourish. Confront, convert, and consecrate, until we are wholly thine.
The bus driver’s confrontation was a long time coming. When he finally gathered his power and stepped into his authority and spoke his piece…well, I imagine he was amazed with what unfolded. Astounded. Weren’t we? What did we expect?
The conversation needed to happen. The build up was brutal. And, when the timid bus driver stepped up, showed up, summoned some fierce courage…suddenly everything shifts. Big John is no longer a bully, cheating the system, but a regular rider carrying his pre-paid pass. If only the bus driver had known. If only he had asked.
What conversations need to happen in our lives? What conversations need to happen in this community? How much energy do we spend dreading, avoiding, fearing these conversations?
One theologian claims the greatest sin of the church is that it is a place where people are not free to tell the truths of their lives. The greatest sin of the church is that it is a place where we are not free to tell the truths of our lives. To share our stories. To have fierce conversations. To cry out. To confront demons, and be restored. Because we’re scared. Because we feel powerless. Because these truths might create conflict. Because they interrupt. Because they confront.
In this morning’s gospel story from Mark, we meet Jesus at the beginning of his public ministry. And Jesus is doing anything but cowering. On the Sabbath, Jesus walks right into a synagogue in Capernaum, and begins teaching. Teaching as one with authority. Jesus makes no appeal to authority. He teaches, in word and action, with authority. And his message has power. And the people listen.
And, then, right in the middle of his teaching, comes a noisy interruption. A rukus. A man with an unclean spirit cries out! Noisily names Jesus as the Holy One of God. And Jesus rebukes him! Confronts the unclean spirit we are told has taken possession. Jesus knows his power. Performs a miracle. Casts out the demon. Heals the man everyone calls crazy. Right there in the middle of it all. And the people take notice. They respond. In fact, the story tells us they were amazed! “What is this? A new teaching—with authority!”
In Eugene Peterson’s translation of this text, the people witnessing this confrontation in the synagogue ask, “What’s going on here? A new teaching that does what it says?”
“A new teaching that does what it says!” And, to show this is a shift, the people are amazed!
We don’t actually know what Jesus is teaching. From the rest of Mark’s gospel, we can assume it is something about the Kingdom of God. A new kind of power, and new kind of relating. Building beloved community when and where there is division and fear. But, the details are left out. There is no Sermon on the Mount, as in Matthew. Nor the plethora of parables we find in Luke. We don’t know what Jesus was teaching, but we are told how he was teaching. As one with authority. One willing to see a destructive force, and call it out. One willing to have fierce conversations, with humans and with demons. One willing to address and reveal the truths of people’s lives. Including the unclean messes.
And it’s a teaching that does what it says. A teacher who practices what he preaches. Confronting demons. Naming them. Casting them out.
To cast out demons, we’ve got to be real. With ourselves. With each other. With God. In our prayers. In our worship. In our conversations.
Yesterday morning, people gathered in the chapel downstairs for Legislative Forum. For the 22nd year, people came to this church to hear locally elected officials discuss the issues impacting our community. People asked questions, and offered opinions. People disagreed with one another. People challenged each other. About cell phones, and whether to restrict their use while driving. About the gas tax, and how much it should be raised to keep investing in infrastructure. About a bicycle bill of rights, and sharing the road, and paying attention. About hog confinement and water quality and outside investors controlling and destroying community natural resources. About struggling schools, and children in need of health care.
Now, no one stood up shouting. To my knowledge, no demons were called out or cast out. Even to call it fierce is perhaps a bit of a leap. But. And. People talked about what matters. People listened to each other. Told the truths of their lives. Talked about what our community needs. What is broken, and what needs care. People learning how to live in community. A new teaching that does what it says. It was a community forum, not a worship service. There was no opening prayer, no bulletin, no benediction. But there was the power to create the Kindom of God.
In this gospel story in Mark, Jesus has a fierce conversation with the unclean spirit. And this conversation hints at something holy. A new teaching, a new kind of living, which values people, real people and their real lives, over rules or traditions or abstractions.
This can be scary. Can make us uncomfortable. Or, to speak for myself, this scares me. And can make me uncomfortable.
If, in the middle of this sermon, a person walked through the doors of this sanctuary, convulsing and crying out, “I know who you are! You are followers of the Holy One of God!” How many of us would squirm a little? Shift in our seats?
Or, if during joys and concerns someone here named their addiction, cried out for help, testified the truth not of a demon they’ve already conquered but one that is alive and conquering. Would we wonder why they hadn’t waited to make an appointment with the pastor for Monday morning?
Or, if during announcements a woman showed her bruises and asked for this community’s help for herself and her children, leaving a violently abusive spouse? Would we want to avoid getting involved and wish we could move along to the opening hymn as printed in our bulletins?
As nice Midwestern Methodists, any talk of demons tends to make us at least a little uncomfortable. But, as Fred Craddock writes, “Not believing in demons has hardly eradicated evil in our world.” Not acknowledging our hurts hardly helps us heal. Not sharing our stories hardly sets the stage for our salvation. And, if not here, where?
A new teaching, that does what it says. That teaches us that God meets us in the messiness of our lives. God reveals redemption already at work. God offers healing and help. And, sometimes, God does it publically. Noisily. Fiercely. On the Sabbath. In the middle of Jesus’ teaching. When it interrupts us.
At the communion table, we confront the demons of death and destruction. We partake in Jesus’ final meal. We are called to remember the power we hold. The power to betray, and to build up. Collectively, we cast out the power of crucifixion, and call on the reality of resurrection.
In this morning’s text, we don’t know what Jesus is teaching, but we know it is a teaching that does what it says. Where good news changes lives, and forgiveness restores souls. Where hope dares us to do it differently. Where pain is shared, and eased. Where an aching, hollering, unclean man is no longer ignored, but attended to and embraced.
Thanks be to God. Amen, and amen.
First UMC, Osage
February 1, 2009
Psalm 111; Mark 1:21-28
One day a bus driver was driving along his usual route when a great big hulk of a man got on. He was six feet eight inches tall, built like a wrestler, and filled the doorway of the bus. He towered over the driver and hold him, “Big John doesn’t pay!” Then he walked to the back of the bus and sat down. The driver, barely five feet three inches tall, thin, and very meek, didn’t argue with Big John. But he wasn’t happy. The next day the same thing happened, and then again the next. Over and over, the same interaction. The bus driver seemed to shrink smaller and smaller. He began to lose sleep, and feel ashamed. How could he let Big John take advantage of him, day after day? Why did fear get the best of him, over and over? He even considered quitting his job. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He signed up for bodybuilding classes, karate classes, jujitsu classes, and self-esteem classes. After a few months, the bus driver had become stronger and more confident. When Big John entered the bus one day and again declared, “Big John doesn’t pay!” the driver finally confronted him. He stood up, faced Big John, collected his courage, and almost bellowed, “And why not?” Big John looked surprised. After a moment he replied, “Big John has a bus pass!”
Poet and prophet Alice Walker writes, “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.” People convinced of their powerlessness cower. The power of the gospel confronts.
Let us pray: Come, Holy Spirit, Come. Come as the fire and burn. Come as the wind and cleanse. Come as the light and reveal. Come as the bread and nourish. Confront, convert, and consecrate, until we are wholly thine.
The bus driver’s confrontation was a long time coming. When he finally gathered his power and stepped into his authority and spoke his piece…well, I imagine he was amazed with what unfolded. Astounded. Weren’t we? What did we expect?
The conversation needed to happen. The build up was brutal. And, when the timid bus driver stepped up, showed up, summoned some fierce courage…suddenly everything shifts. Big John is no longer a bully, cheating the system, but a regular rider carrying his pre-paid pass. If only the bus driver had known. If only he had asked.
What conversations need to happen in our lives? What conversations need to happen in this community? How much energy do we spend dreading, avoiding, fearing these conversations?
One theologian claims the greatest sin of the church is that it is a place where people are not free to tell the truths of their lives. The greatest sin of the church is that it is a place where we are not free to tell the truths of our lives. To share our stories. To have fierce conversations. To cry out. To confront demons, and be restored. Because we’re scared. Because we feel powerless. Because these truths might create conflict. Because they interrupt. Because they confront.
In this morning’s gospel story from Mark, we meet Jesus at the beginning of his public ministry. And Jesus is doing anything but cowering. On the Sabbath, Jesus walks right into a synagogue in Capernaum, and begins teaching. Teaching as one with authority. Jesus makes no appeal to authority. He teaches, in word and action, with authority. And his message has power. And the people listen.
And, then, right in the middle of his teaching, comes a noisy interruption. A rukus. A man with an unclean spirit cries out! Noisily names Jesus as the Holy One of God. And Jesus rebukes him! Confronts the unclean spirit we are told has taken possession. Jesus knows his power. Performs a miracle. Casts out the demon. Heals the man everyone calls crazy. Right there in the middle of it all. And the people take notice. They respond. In fact, the story tells us they were amazed! “What is this? A new teaching—with authority!”
In Eugene Peterson’s translation of this text, the people witnessing this confrontation in the synagogue ask, “What’s going on here? A new teaching that does what it says?”
“A new teaching that does what it says!” And, to show this is a shift, the people are amazed!
We don’t actually know what Jesus is teaching. From the rest of Mark’s gospel, we can assume it is something about the Kingdom of God. A new kind of power, and new kind of relating. Building beloved community when and where there is division and fear. But, the details are left out. There is no Sermon on the Mount, as in Matthew. Nor the plethora of parables we find in Luke. We don’t know what Jesus was teaching, but we are told how he was teaching. As one with authority. One willing to see a destructive force, and call it out. One willing to have fierce conversations, with humans and with demons. One willing to address and reveal the truths of people’s lives. Including the unclean messes.
And it’s a teaching that does what it says. A teacher who practices what he preaches. Confronting demons. Naming them. Casting them out.
To cast out demons, we’ve got to be real. With ourselves. With each other. With God. In our prayers. In our worship. In our conversations.
Yesterday morning, people gathered in the chapel downstairs for Legislative Forum. For the 22nd year, people came to this church to hear locally elected officials discuss the issues impacting our community. People asked questions, and offered opinions. People disagreed with one another. People challenged each other. About cell phones, and whether to restrict their use while driving. About the gas tax, and how much it should be raised to keep investing in infrastructure. About a bicycle bill of rights, and sharing the road, and paying attention. About hog confinement and water quality and outside investors controlling and destroying community natural resources. About struggling schools, and children in need of health care.
Now, no one stood up shouting. To my knowledge, no demons were called out or cast out. Even to call it fierce is perhaps a bit of a leap. But. And. People talked about what matters. People listened to each other. Told the truths of their lives. Talked about what our community needs. What is broken, and what needs care. People learning how to live in community. A new teaching that does what it says. It was a community forum, not a worship service. There was no opening prayer, no bulletin, no benediction. But there was the power to create the Kindom of God.
In this gospel story in Mark, Jesus has a fierce conversation with the unclean spirit. And this conversation hints at something holy. A new teaching, a new kind of living, which values people, real people and their real lives, over rules or traditions or abstractions.
This can be scary. Can make us uncomfortable. Or, to speak for myself, this scares me. And can make me uncomfortable.
If, in the middle of this sermon, a person walked through the doors of this sanctuary, convulsing and crying out, “I know who you are! You are followers of the Holy One of God!” How many of us would squirm a little? Shift in our seats?
Or, if during joys and concerns someone here named their addiction, cried out for help, testified the truth not of a demon they’ve already conquered but one that is alive and conquering. Would we wonder why they hadn’t waited to make an appointment with the pastor for Monday morning?
Or, if during announcements a woman showed her bruises and asked for this community’s help for herself and her children, leaving a violently abusive spouse? Would we want to avoid getting involved and wish we could move along to the opening hymn as printed in our bulletins?
As nice Midwestern Methodists, any talk of demons tends to make us at least a little uncomfortable. But, as Fred Craddock writes, “Not believing in demons has hardly eradicated evil in our world.” Not acknowledging our hurts hardly helps us heal. Not sharing our stories hardly sets the stage for our salvation. And, if not here, where?
A new teaching, that does what it says. That teaches us that God meets us in the messiness of our lives. God reveals redemption already at work. God offers healing and help. And, sometimes, God does it publically. Noisily. Fiercely. On the Sabbath. In the middle of Jesus’ teaching. When it interrupts us.
At the communion table, we confront the demons of death and destruction. We partake in Jesus’ final meal. We are called to remember the power we hold. The power to betray, and to build up. Collectively, we cast out the power of crucifixion, and call on the reality of resurrection.
In this morning’s text, we don’t know what Jesus is teaching, but we know it is a teaching that does what it says. Where good news changes lives, and forgiveness restores souls. Where hope dares us to do it differently. Where pain is shared, and eased. Where an aching, hollering, unclean man is no longer ignored, but attended to and embraced.
Thanks be to God. Amen, and amen.
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