Locked In

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli for Foundry UMC April 19, 2020, the second Sunday of Easter.

Text:  John 20:19-31

There’s long been a tendency to think of church as a place to go.  And perhaps to think that the work of the church is to go “there” and to get other people to go there… If our understanding of what the church is and is for has to do with a building, a place to gather, then it is easy to think that to be a Christian—a disciple of Jesus—is primarily about going to that place and getting other people to go to that place. This, of course, is overly simplified and few if any would actually say this way of thinking is what it means to be the church. But I think this imbalanced view of what the church is and what the church is for is fairly common—if not intentionally, then at least in practice. 

But on this first Sunday after Easter, not only is the tomb empty, but so are our church buildings. We’re not able to safely “go” to church in our buildings. Out of care for one another, we are staying home and practicing social distancing. But in this moment, the church is newly alive in so many profound ways. We’re being reminded of what the simple song many of us learned as children teaches, “The church is not a building, the church is not a steeple, the church is not a resting place, the church is a people.” The people who are the church—Foundry Church and countless others all around the world—are finding creative ways to connect, to care, to serve. And in conversation after conversation with colleagues, the trend is clear: new people are being reached and encouraged and supported and inspired by the love of God extended in and through the people and work of our congregations. Generous giving to support direct service and the sustained ministries of our churches is happening. Worship attendance is strong and some folks are describing a sense of feeling closer to our pastors as we “talk” with folks from our homes to yours. New ways of connecting—like our Virtual Coffee Hour—are providing folks an opportunity to meet people and form relationships they’d never have engaged in person. 

Even though we might never admit it, it’s easy to make our spiritual lives about a place. And we at Foundry have a pretty spectacular place so it’s especially tempting. Our place and what it helps facilitate are beautiful gifts, never to be underestimated or devalued. Most of us have been grieving not being able to be in our places of worship and gathered with our friends at church. That is understandable and a sign of the beautiful ways God has been at work in our lives in those places. 

And also, we are being offered a chance to experience what church is and can be when we move outside the walls, we’re given a chance right now to experience all sorts of newness. So often in our congregations, we get locked in to certain ways of doing things. It can be very easy to end up contained, in a holding pattern, even with locked doors, somewhat afraid of going outside our familiar, protective spaces. 

Today we see Jesus come into that place where the disciples have gathered in a locked room out of fear. Mary Magdalene has told them of the empty tomb and her encounter with Jesus, but the rest of the disciples haven’t seen him yet. I’ve often wondered if they weren’t only hiding out because they were afraid of meeting the same fate as Jesus, but also on the off-chance Mary was telling the truth…after all, what would Jesus do to those who’d fallen asleep, denied, and abandoned him when things got real?  In any case, Jesus appears not with words of judgment, but with peace, embodying the forgiveness he commissions the disciples to practice. And he says to them, in essence: “Get out of this locked room!”  “As the Father has sent me, so I send you…” And as he sends them out of the building, Jesus breathes Spirit into them—the same Spirit who brings life and order out of chaos at creation.

God sent Jesus into the world out of love to share the gift of life in God, the gift of hope, the gift of peace and forgiveness—these gifts of God that mend, that save, that bring new life. And Jesus sends his disciples—sends us—in the same way. As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are a people who are not only gathered into the family of God, but we are also, inherently, a people sent. God breathes into us Spirit, enlivening us to participate in God’s mending and life-giving work in the world. // We often talk about the church having a mission—but as we claim our call to be a “sent people” we will understand that it’s not so much that we, the church, have a mission, but that God’s mission has a church. 

To participate in God’s mission—God’s mending, life-giving work in the world—is at the heart of what it means to practice sacred resistance. As I’ve defined it, Sacred resistance is anything—any word, deed, or stance—that actively counters the forces of hatred, cruelty, selfishness, greed, dehumanization, desolation, and disintegration in God’s beloved world. Today, I want to focus a few moments on the work of mending creation. This Wednesday, April 22nd is the 50th anniversary of Earth Day. On that day in 1970, 20 million Americans — at the time, 10% of the total population of the United States —demonstrated for a healthy, sustainable environment in massive coast-to-coast rallies. 

Groups that had been fighting individually against oil spills, polluting factories and power plants, raw sewage, toxic dumps, pesticides, freeways, the loss of wilderness and the extinction of wildlife united on Earth Day around these shared common values. Earth Day 1970 achieved a rare political alignment, enlisting support from Republicans and Democrats, rich and poor, urban dwellers and farmers, business and labor leaders. By the end of 1970, the first Earth Day led to the creation of the United States Environmental Protection Agency and the passage of the Clean Air Act. Two years later Congress passed the Clean Water Act. A year after that, Congress passed the Endangered Species Act.

Fifty years have passed and even with the efforts of many, the planet, its resources, habitats, and creatures continue to be deeply wounded by human action. The most tender creatures and plants are quietly disappearing. The less obvious effects of climate change are taking their toll. Just because you and I can’t see the shrinking ice caps and the warming of the oceans doesn’t mean these things aren’t happening. Just because our windshields aren’t as splattered with bugs as they once were doesn’t mean this is a good thing. We know the webs and cycles of interconnection on our planet. Things in the web are disrupted and everything is adversely affected. 

Sacred resistance calls us to do something in the face of the disintegration of our planet. Our Judeo-Christian faith specifically calls us to be caretakers of the world and to remember that we are, ourselves, part of the creation. We are creatures, the human animal, made in the image of God.  We are, ourselves, woven into the fabric of this beautiful, broken world. And we are “sent” as the church, sent by God to mend, to care, to nurture, to tend, to protect, to share. I’m always amazed at the tenacity of creation. Even with all we’ve done and continue to do, life is stubborn and continues to find a way to flourish, to flower, to bear fruit. 

As I reflected on this and pondered the Gospel reading for today, I noticed that, like the wounded earth that continues to offer itself to us with visions of renewal and life season after season, Jesus offers his risen, wounded body to Thomas, an invitation to a renewed relationship of mutuality.  The power of life, the power of God, is stubborn, refusing to be destroyed even when we do our worst.  But there, in Jesus’ wounds, we see that there are lasting consequences to our thoughtless, selfish, destructive actions.  We are invited to enter into those wounds, to reach out and touch the brokenness of our created world, brokenness for which we, in part, are responsible.  What does that mean?  It means choosing to do something about it—because it’s simply a cop-out to say that the problem is too big to do anything about.  We can make choices that make a difference. Right now we are seeing what happens when human activity shifts away from practices that do harm. Even after a relatively short time, earth begins to renew itself.  

On Friday Pastor Ben interviewed Rev. Jenny Phillips whose ministry at the General Board of Global Ministries is focused on environmental justice and climate care. Pastor Ben asked Jenny to help us think about what we are seeing and learning about climate care in this moment and what we can do right now in this time of quarantine. She invited us to ponder the ways that shifting to more local economies affects the planet, to notice how shifts in modes of transportation make a difference, and to pay attention to energy and product use in our homes and all our buildings. She emphasized the critical importance of government policies and the need to encourage and hold our legislators accountable for common sense legislation that supports industry and jobs in ways that are sustainable for the planet. And in this moment, even as most of us are at home most of the time, there are things we can do! We can buy less stuff, use what we already have, repurpose what we have, make do with less, and make things at home. It’s a great time to establish new practices for creation care at home… What a gift to realize that in this time when we may feel so helpless to heal the suffering of many, we can do things to bring healing to the earth!

Today we’re reminded that the church is the people of God gathered in God’s love and sent to participate in God’s mending work in the world. To say we are a sent people is to recognize it’s not just about “going to church” only to save or nurture ourselves, but rather that we are to “breathe in” the gifts and grace and love and mercy of God as we are gathered so that we can be breathed out, sent into the world to live our whole life in a way that participates in God’s mission of saving love and mercy in the world.  Rather than just going to church, it’s about being the church all the time and in all the places that we find ourselves.  That means participating in God’s mending work and care for this beautiful, broken world.  

In these days of quarantine, we may feel a bit locked in. But I want to encourage all of us to realize that we are the church no matter where or how we’re gathered. God’s Spirit breathes into us and inspires our response. And though we can’t be “sent” into as many places as we might normally go, through these 50 days of Easter we can care for creation and maybe even participate in the evolution of a new creation—of ourselves, the church, the world… Wouldn’t it be just like God to show up and do a new thing just when we feel most locked in?

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Raising Expectations

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli for Foundry UMC April 12, 2020, Easter Sunday.

Text: John 20:1-18

I don’t know what I expected. It was my first trip to the Holy Land and I’d seen pictures and heard others share some of what had been most powerful for them, but I didn’t really know what things would be like. Over the years, I’ve seen all sorts of artistic renditions of the holy places, the Jordan River, Jacob’s Well, the Mount of Olives, the garden of Gethsemane, the Sea of Galilee, Calvary, and Jesus’ tomb—so I had all sorts of ideas floating around in my interior image files. 

But somehow it never occurred to me that most of these places are no longer really as they once were. Even though I surely knew better, I think some part of me still imagined that pilgrimage to the place where the first Easter happened would mean walking into an ancient Jewish cemetery to a traditional cave tomb in a garden space outside the walls of Jerusalem. But what you will find instead is that the stone slab where, according to archaeologists and historians, it is highly likely Jesus’ body was laid is now incased in several layers of marble, which is in the highly decorated original cave tomb over which is built an intricate shrine called an “Edicule,” which is encased in the ginormous Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is found within the walls of the expanded city of Jerusalem. Something that was so basic and simple and small is now something ornate and big and complicated. 

I understand some of why this is so. Precious moments and places are important to return to, to remember, to celebrate, to adorn. We humans raise our Ebenezers, our monuments, and remembrance stones at all sorts of places that mark thin places in our experience, turning points, and spaces where we crossed over into new life. What we should know by now is how easy it is to make idols of our monuments, how easy it is to get to wrapped up with guarding the thing or the place or the memory as we picture it to the point that we believe we are in control of all of it, that we know how things should be and be done. Something that began as beautiful and life-giving can so easily sprout division and judgment and exclusion and hatred. 

The place where Jesus laid in the tomb for three days, the place where Jesus and Mary had their Easter encounter, is now guarded by a certain brotherhood of Greek Orthodox priests and the church that surrounds it tenuously “controlled” by three major Christian denominations whose shared history has its high points but has been marked by conflict and division.

And what else would we expect to find? That is our history. That is our world. That is the way things are. 

But can we not—should we not—expect something different? What would we want to find at the place where Easter happens? “Whom are you looking for?” Perhaps we yearn to find someone or something that will mend the torn fabric of human mutuality and cooperation in our world, release our hearts and communities from the bonds of fear and greed and prejudice, restore our capacity for trust and deep commitment to a common good instead of a good that always favors the privileged and wealthy. Perhaps we yearn to receive the capacity to believe that things in the world can really change, that the much-lauded arc of the moral universe will at some point really bend toward justice. Perhaps we yearn to discover at the place of Easter one who offers what we need to fill the empty places within our own souls and what we need to be able to dwell in the empty rooms we inhabit these days without sliding into unhealthy ways, that will give us courage to cling to hope right now when the challenges and bad news and suffering exponentially grow; someone who can assure and console, guide and renew, who will shine a light into this present moment of darkness. Perhaps we yearn for these things… but can we expect them? Do we really expect them?

Mary Magdalene certainly didn’t. “While it was still dark,” the scriptures say, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb grieving, having lost the one person who, according to tradition, had given her life back to her in more ways than one. She had journeyed with Jesus who embodied and offered a truly different way of life marked by love and liberation, compassion and justice. And then she had witnessed the powers of fear and jealousy and control and greed destroy him. If Jesus, so full of love and life and power and hope, Jesus, so wise and brave and strong, Jesus whose intimacy with God granted him extraordinary life-giving power couldn’t overcome the death-dealing ways of the world, then all hope is gone. Mary Magdalene comes to the garden with this expectation: The bullies will always win. Injustice will remain our daily bread. Death and fear of death will continue to paralyze and terrorize and devour. Mary comes expecting death, expecting to find the tomb firmly sealed, as it was when she’d left, because that’s the way things work. 

So when all seems hopeless, with no expectation for anything but death, Mary, alone, simply shows up in the garden with her love and faithfulness and care for Jesus. But things do not meet her expectations on this morning. On this morning, Jesus, alive, shows up with his love and faithfulness and care for her, calling her by name and commissioning her to go and share what has happened. It is just the two of them in this moment…a pretty quiet, simple, intimate encounter…a pretty unexpected Easter.

But simple, intimate, unexpected Easters can change everything. 

Mary Magdalene had watched the Lord of Life humbly buckle, break and fall under the weight of the world’s brutality, humiliation, and injustice. And now sees the Lord Jesus rise, alive…scarred, but standing. What had been dashed hopes and shattered expectations for her life and for the life of the world are raised right along with Jesus. She now knows that even in the midst of the worst the world can do, God has the power to bring unexpected, unimaginable newness and life. Mary comes to the garden expecting to find the dull familiarity of death and is met by a whole new life, a whole new world, a world where Christ is alive.

Even now, even when we forget, can’t believe it, don’t expect it, we live in this world where the living Christ wanders through the grocery aisles and loading docks in the middle of the night checking on the stockers and delivery drivers breathing encouragement, where Jesus moves among the frantic field hospitals and overrun ICUs to touch nurses and doctors and anesthesiologists and all medics with grace, among all those on the front lines of public safety and public care infusing them with courage, into the alleys and entryways where unhoused folk sleep to cover them with presence and to shield their social workers with protection, to all the places where vulnerability and fear and exhaustion and the weight of responsibility cry out for God…at every bedside of those close to death, where a family member is not able in this time to dwell, the living Christ shows up, scarred and standing, to proclaim that we are never alone and not even death gets to have the last word.

Of course we know that powers and principalities continue to rage and roar. We know that empires and those seduced by the power of worldly idols regroup and reassert themselves with a vengeance at any sign of a loosening of their stranglehold of comfort and control. They use all the considerable resources at their disposal to lower our expectations, to convince us that we are powerless, that the best we can do is muddle through and put up with things as they are, to believe that infighting and manipulation and unnecessary violence and injustice are inevitable, and that Easter is a great excuse for a party but doesn’t matter in the big picture, that there is no evidence for hope, that expecting the worst is the wisest option. //  

I’m choosing to side with Mary Magdalene on this one—gonna believe her— because all that other garbage is literally no way to live. Lord knows I struggle to really believe that things in this world will be different, I struggle to expect that we will allow this present moment of suffering and all the things it is revealing to motivate real change in our ways of living together. But, y’all, Jesus has gone through hell to show us the life that is possible—the life that is possible for us and the life that is possible for the world. And today Jesus meets us in all the simple spaces we are with love, faithfulness, and care, calls us by name, and promises that we, like him, can endure the pains of this world and emerge… scarred, but standing. Jesus meets us in all the places we are to raise our expectations for a world that is more gentle and just. And then commissions us to do our part to make it so. 

By the power of God loving us to life in this present moment, we may, from the relative smallness of our spaces, be given a big new vision for how things can and should be. By the power of God loving us to life right now, the better angels of our nature can rise up and reassert our common humanity, the dignity, reciprocity, justice, mercy, and compassion our shared vulnerability requires to survive; can not only show us who and what are essential, but how to reorder values accordingly; can give us the courage to work with instead of against one another; can concretely show us the healing that happens when we walk more gently upon the planet. By the power of God loving us to life, we may learn just how strong we are—and how much stronger we are when we are together. 

These Easter promises have been the same forever. Though it seems that for a very long time thousands upon thousands make their familiar, annual pilgrimages to the holy places to gather for the grand rites of Easter… and then go to their brunches and dinners with no expectation that anything is, can, or should be different in the world or in their lives. It’s almost like what began as a small, intimate, life-changing, purpose-giving, world-shaking, encounter with the living Christ has gotten overshadowed by the monuments we have built around it. 

If that is at all the case, then this is the moment of all moments to shake ourselves loose of anything unessential, to clear away anything that keeps our feet from standing directly on the solid rock of the living Christ, the one through whom and in whom and by whom we are given strength to stand and serve, scarred, but shining, sent into the world to raise expectations and, by the power of God, to meet them.

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Who Is This?

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli for Foundry UMC April 5, 2020, Palm Sunday. “How Can You Believe This?” series.

Text: Matthew 21:1-11

Just as Jesus passed through a gate into the walled city of ancient Jerusalem, we pass through this day to enter the experience we call Holy Week. Jesus entered a place full of danger and tension. And this day holds the tensions of the week ahead in stark relief. We celebrate along with the many people who on that day long ago, hailed Jesus as the one bringing liberation, justice, and healing. We wave our branches (of all kinds!) as we join the throng through the ages who’ve been drawn to Jesus of Nazareth out of deep hope for things to be different in their lives and communities. And it is tempting to stop there, to shout hosanna and give thanks for the one who comes in the name of the Lord. But we know the story doesn’t stop there. Even in these opening moments, the story pivots quickly from “Hosanna!” to “turmoil.”

“When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil.” (Mt 21:10) …the whole city was in turmoil…That line hits a nerve. Because there’s turmoil in the whole city, the whole nation, the whole world… There’s turmoil as a microscopic virus upends life as we have known it, as this global pandemic shines a light on all the fault lines and fissures of human relationships, values, and systems at every level. There’s turmoil not just on a day more than 2000 years ago in the city of Jerusalem. Not just in that place and time where religion and government were in bed together to protect the status quo, to support the power brokers, and the privileged, not just then, when masters of war and industry played their games in palaces and shadowed halls and alleys, not just there, where tribes, cultures, religions, and races mingled and clashed, but also in this place and time where the story is the same, where the context is the same—and not just in this moment of our history, but from the very beginning. There is turmoil…

Was the whole city of Jerusalem in turmoil because Jesus entered on a donkey with “Hosannas” rising? In the old city of Jerusalem, someone entering one of its many gates—even with some flourish—would easily go unnoticed except by those who happened to be there at the time. Though from the walls and rooftops, I imagine things were monitored and word could spread pretty quickly. Jesus came to Jerusalem when pilgrims were gathering for the Feast of the Passover, a time when, according to scholars, “it was the standard practice of the Roman governors of Judea to be in Jerusalem... They did so not out of empathetic reverence for the religious devotion of their Jewish subjects, but to be in the city in case there was trouble. There often was, especially at Passover, a festival that celebrated the Jewish people’s liberation from an earlier empire.” Tension and turmoil would already be stirred at this time, you see. And then here comes Jesus, riding a donkey—not a small detail. It signals fulfillment of well-known prophecy, and the crowds who’d heard he was one to watch hail him as the promised one, the Son of David, a hearkening back to Israel’s beloved King. In that “game of thrones” world (as in this one), agents of the empire would have been watching closely for anything or anyone they might deem a problem to their continued ascendency. Jesus and his ride fit the profile.

In the midst of the turmoil the question arises: “Who is this?” And that is the real question both then and now. 

Between the moment he rides in and the moment of his arrest, Jesus makes clear what he’s about. Jesus turns over tables to challenge the system that takes the money of the poor to prop up a community who values money and power more than prayer or people (21:12-13). He takes the Temple leaders to task for their hypocrisy (23:13-36). Jesus calls out those in power for tying “up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay[ing] them on the shoulders of others” but not being willing to “lift a finger” themselves to help (Mt 23:4). Jesus zeroes in on the way those with money and power throw their weight around to get special treatment at all the trendy spots and ignore matters of justice and mercy and faith. (Mt 23:6-7, 23)  These represent “the way things are,” the status quo. And Jesus is having none of this system in which every transaction is to the benefit of those with wealth and power and to the detriment of the poor and suffering.  That is what Jesus comes to confront—the injustice of the whole system. 

And in the midst of his critique, Jesus continues to practice and preach what inspired the crowds to cry “hosanna” in the first place: Jesus brings healing (21:14), proclaims that the greatest commandment is to love God and love neighbor as self (22:39), teaches and models that the greatest are not the ones who lord over others and throw their weight around but the ones who serve (23:11), and paints a picture of God’s vision for human community: whoever is hungry is fed, whoever thirsty is given a drink, the stranger is welcomed, the naked clothed, the sick and imprisoned visited and cared for (25:31-46).  //

“Who is this Jesus?” The answer is clear through Jesus’ actions and words: Jesus is a prophetic critic of systems and agents of injustice. Jesus is a prophetic companion with impoverished, oppressed, sick, suffering ones. Jesus is a prophetic visionary of a world in which relationships are set right, the idolatries of empire are toppled, and value is placed on things that matter most of all. Jesus is a prophet. And that got Jesus hung on a tree.

What seems true through the ages is that we love our prophets once we’ve killed them. When they’re dead we no longer have to deal with the ways they put before us things we don’t want to perceive or try to change—because those things are too painful, complicated, or beneficial toward our own interests. When the prophets are dead we are free to tidy them up, to manipulate their image, actions, and words so that they can be made to support our positions, so that they no longer really ask anything of us or challenge our pettiness, greed, selfishness, sloth, and all the other things that, in ways large and small, lure us away from the Kin-dom and into the numbed consciousness and habits of empire.

This manipulation of dead prophets allows us to make Jesus only interested in saving souls but not bodies or in saving only bodies and not souls. This allows us to twist the words of Jesus into a crown of thorns we make others wear as we sit in judgment of them. Jesus, the dead prophet, becomes the mouthpiece for pithy quotes that get made into feel-good memes instead of the disruptive and transforming words of the living God. A memory or story of Jesus, the dead prophet, may still occasionally prick our conscience with an awareness of our hypocrisy, but it is no longer that difficult to simply move on with business as usual. Jesus, the dead prophet, can be manipulated so that we don’t have to be moved by his words and actions any more than those who got swept up in the movement to crucify him.

But the good news is that Jesus is more than a prophet. The words proclaimed as he rode into Jerusalem were appropriate not just as acclamation of praise. The “Hosannas” were not just “You go, Jesus!” not just, “Yay, JC!” These are cries of joy because hope is riding into town. One who has proved his worth and power, who has spent years in humble solidarity with people from all walks of life to bring love and justice and healing and renewal and restoration and LIFE—this one is coming—is putting himself at great risk—to take on the things, the powers, the people of this world that do such harm. “Hosanna! (as Pastor K.C. taught us means) Save, please! Deliver us! Save us, we pray!” These cries and prayers for salvation are directed toward the one who has power to save. 

More than once over the years when I’ve taught Confirmation class I’ve done a simple exercise in which I ask the students the question, “Do we need a savior?” We take some time to think about that. And then I lay out magazines and newspapers and ask them to cut out words, images, and phrases that might explain why we need a savior. The collages are always heartbreaking.

Lord knows we need a savior. Think of the collage we could make on this day of all the things so deeply broken in our world, some of which might be mended by human generosity and cooperation, though those are so often in short supply. It is true that the Kin-dom vision is always one in which humans participate in the mending work of God in the world. We have our part to play. But we simply cannot do it alone. We need one another and we need God.

We need a savior to save us from our small-mindedness, our obsession with violence, our tribalism and factionalism that shreds the beautiful fabric of truly human bonds, bonds of friendship, tenderness, compassion, patience, compromise, creativity, and love. We need a savior to restore our vision to perceive what is truly of value, to restore our hearing so that we listen with compassion for understanding, to restore our minds so that we are able to hold ideas in tension as we work together toward solutions, to restore our bodies from centuries of inhumane work demands and stress, to restore our spirits so that we might know lightness and play, to restore our hearts so that we finally see every human as family, to restore our capacity for wonder so that we might not miss the beauty of the world even now. 

We don’t need a dead prophet re-fashioned in our own image. We need a living savior who is able to restore in us God’s image. And we have one—one who doesn’t peddle in manipulation or shame, in violence or fear, but who simply shows us what we need to see and gives us grace to do something about it. And when we falter and fail as we inevitably do (because this stuff is hard), our savior is compassionate and merciful and helps us try again. In the turmoil of our lives, our city, our nation, our world, Jesus the living Christ enters in to move in ways both simple and profound that we might do our part to prepare the way for the fullness of the Lord’s Kin-dom to be manifest on earth as it is in heaven.

Perhaps we can join our voices again and yet again: “Hosanna! Save, please!” And then forever add, “Thanks be to God.”

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Where Is God In Suffering and Death?

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 29, 2020, fifth Sunday of Lent. “How Can You Believe This?” series.

Text: John 11:1-45

Today’s Gospel is about a funeral, something we all know something about.  A beloved brother and friend has died and the family and community has gathered for the rituals of grief…in the midst of the casseroles and crying and storytelling and remembering, there hangs the question that so often lurks at funerals—where was God?  Where is God? Both Martha and Mary give voice to this deeply human response to death:  “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  Those gathered also mutter under their breaths, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” Alongside these words, so often left unspoken, there are also words of hope and faith. At funerals we hear words of God’s loving presence, of hope in the life to come. And in our story Martha says:  “I know that Lazarus will rise again…” But Mary, unlike Martha, can’t muster any words.  She just cries.

Suffering and death are THE human mystery, the place before which all our best efforts and all our striving reach their ultimate limit. It’s one of the most persistent questions begging for an answer: How can you believe your God is “loving” when that God allows suffering and death? Lord knows, I can’t tidy that up in a handful of words today, of all days…

Right now, as ever, there are people grieving. There are those facing the end of their earthly life, there are people waiting and watching as loved ones travel the final stretch of their journey. We also know that in this present moment there are people experiencing PTSD. There are people fighting temptations to fall back into the bonds of addictions and other destructive ways of thinking and living. There are people who are sinking into depression, dissociation, and anxiety. There are folks walking on eggshells, just waiting for the stress and tension of lost wages and hunger or simply broken relationships to make their partner or parent snap into rage and violence. And all of this—and more—as a result of forced isolation and the layers of disruption and loss that mark these days. Where is God in all this?

Our story today isn’t straightforward in addressing the question. At the beginning, we learn that Jesus knew his friend Lazarus was gravely ill but purposely stayed where he was for two more days, so that by the time he arrived in Bethany, Lazarus had been dead four days.  Tradition of the time taught that the soul lingered near the body for three days, after which there was no hope of life returning. Jesus waited to arrive until the fourth day, until things were truly hopeless, when the full impact of God’s power might be displayed. This feels not only frustrating, but cruel—like a confirmation that God is playing with us, messing with us, for God’s own self-glorification. 

Last week, I reminded us that in John’s version of the Jesus story, there is a clear symbolic, theological frame for the whole book. Part of that frame is this: “What has come to being in [Jesus] is life, and the life is the light of all people.” (Jn 1:4) The writer of John is determined to help us understand that God desires that we experience life in all its fullness. John 3:16 says that God loved the world so much that Jesus came that we might have eternal life. And in John 10:10 Jesus is recorded as saying, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” A couple of weeks ago, we were led to living water at Jacob’s well. Last week we were led to liberating light that shines in the darkness. And today, our spiritual path leads us to a tomb where Jesus arrives late on purpose in order reveal the life-giving power of God’s compassion, mercy, and love. This extraordinary promise—not divine callousness or ego—is what the writer of John is trying to convey.

In the story, the disciples remind us that Jesus’ return to Bethany puts both his life and theirs in danger. In our current context, I feel this on a whole new level. I’m mindful of so many who are putting their own lives in danger to be present in places where illness, suffering, and death are lurking everywhere. And yet they, with courage and purpose, keep stepping into those places to bring care, comfort, and healing. And Jesus does the same—even when those around him want him to stay at a distance. Jesus draws near and, upon seeing the deep grief of his beloved friend Mary and of those who mourn with her, Jesus reveals one of the most important things we will ever know about the heart of God.  Jesus wept. As Jesus cries, we learn that the God whom Jesus reveals shares our pain, weeps with us, and is deeply grieved by anything that threatens human wholeness and flourishing.

But Jesus’ coming into this situation isn’t only to reveal the compassion of God for our human grief and suffering—though that’s certainly a word we need to hear.  If that were the only message from Jesus, it would mean that God ostensibly could remain far off, sad for us, but incapable of doing anything to affect human life. Jesus’ purpose was to reveal even more than the great compassion of God.

Jesus comes into a place of death, a hopeless moment, the point of despair and deep grief and he speaks words of faith in the power of God’s love to call forth life that is full and free even in the midst of death.  

If we pay attention to the story, we’ll see the many obstacles Jesus had to navigate to get there. There were those who—out of fear—tried to keep Jesus from showing up at all. There were all the emotions and reactions to the death of Lazarus that needed to be cared for before Jesus could get to the tomb. There was cynicism from some on the sidelines. There was the deterrent of physical discomfort that would ensue—things were going to smell. And then there was a stone in the way. And when he had gently worked his way through the obstacle course, Jesus speaks and Lazarus, alive, steps into the light to have the final obstacle to life removed: “Unbind him, and let him go.” 

The Gospel writer is determined—as is Jesus in the story—to show that God will overcome every obstacle to bring liberating love and new life to us. And there are so many obstacles in our lives: fear, emotions, reactivity, cynicism, defense against discomfort, heavy things of all kinds that others have used to keep us trapped in places where we are not able to be fully alive, and the old clothes and uniforms that bind us to old identities and ways of being. There is the reality of suffering and death itself and all our reactions and defenses in the face of it all.

My own struggle with all this has been ongoing. A kind of breakthrough happened years ago on retreat when God and I wrestled over the reality of suffering—my father’s long debilitating illness, loved ones’ deep pain, and the reality of suffering everywhere. On a morning walk, I saw a baby rabbit, alone, out in the open, and nibbling on tender grasses still slightly dewy from the night. It didn’t run away at the sight of me. // Baby animals are one of my most favorite things. But it wasn’t delight I felt at the sight, but panic. I regularly saw hawks circling and swooping in those fields. I was so aware of the bunny’s vulnerability. And I started to cry. Why did God make a world like this, a world where this precious baby rabbit could so easily become food? 

That year, in the monastery bookstore, the volume that fell into my hands is the classic text written by Rabbi Harold Kushner, When Bad Things Happen to Good People. There’s a reason the book is a classic. The thing I have remembered most clearly is this: “Is there an answer to the question of why bad things happen to good people?...The response would be…to forgive the world for not being perfect, to forgive God for not making a better world…” Imagine that. Imagine forgiving God for allowing suffering, for making a vulnerable creation, for trusting human creatures so much when we’re so likely to screw things up. For me, this was a revelation and a gift. It helps me remember that I get to have my feelings and my griefs about the way things are, that I am in a relationship with God and that God can take responsibility for God’s own stuff, and that, if I’m willing to forgive God, I might receive liberation from my anger and my despair—both of which keep me stuck in the question “why” instead of being free to move forward and experience the fullness of life. Kushner says that having forgiven God, we can “reach out to the people around us, and to go on living despite it all…no longer asking why something happened, but asking how we will respond, what we intend to do now that it has happened.” 

What I discovered is that acknowledging how sad and angry I felt—about my dad, the bunny, the world—all eventually brought me around to realize that it’s only because there is so much beauty and possibility in life that its vulnerability is so upsetting. That is to say, it may be a broken world, but it’s a beautiful world and this beautiful world and the life we have is all pure grace. And though we may never fully come to terms with the mystery of suffering and death, we can come to terms with how we will respond to it. We can have all the feelings, we can be angry at God, and we can forgive God. We can acknowledge the obstacles that get in the way of stepping out of stuckness and into a life that is more free. If we don’t, we can live our whole lives bound and in the dark, allowing blame, resentment, and the specter of death to keep us fearful and defensive. In the midst of this moment of suffering and death, how will you respond? 

Whatever feelings and thoughts you’re having today, the Gospel teaches us that God can take it… and that, even though Jesus wasn’t there when and how others wanted, even though Lazarus died, God was there and ready to bring about a miracle of life restored. God was there. God is here. Jesus shows us that God will let nothing stand in the way of drawing near, to love us into life, to liberate us into love for others, to hold us gently even when all we can do is cry. 

Responding the Word: 

Earlier in our worship service you were invited to find an object which represented an obstacle in your life which kept you from stepping into the fullness of God’s love through Jesus Christ, much like the stone placed in front of Lazarus’ tomb kept him bound in death. Today, we’ve heard again of the power and promise of Christ’s love, which meets us in the midst of grief, fear, anxiety and heartbreak, offers us compassion and care, and through grace liberates us from their power over us so that we may step into new life. 

I invite you now to take the object that you’ve found. Hold it in your hand for a moment. Think about the power that obstacle, whatever it is has over you. How does it define your relationships with other people? How does it constrain the way you share God’s love and grace with the world?

Now, I invite you to place that object within the worshipful space you’ve created in your homes. And, as you do, release it to God who is even now at work so that you might step past it and into new life. 

Let us pray…

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When Healing Causes Vertigo

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 22, 2020, fourth Sunday of Lent. “How Can You Believe This?” series.

Text: John 9:1-41

Did God make this happen?  Is God doing this to us to teach us a lesson? Or to punish us? These kinds of questions often emerge in moments of disaster, tragedy or plague. Sometimes the plague is proclaimed as God’s judgment against a particular group by someone with nothing but their hateful prejudice backing them up. Other times, the questions are whispered in the corners of human hearts, uncertain and perhaps embarrassed to even acknowledge that the question has arisen: Is God punishing me? I’ve heard variations on these themes floating around over the past couple of weeks. It’s not a new idea. This theology shows up in various strains within the books of the Old Testament. And variations of the theme occur across cultures and religions through the ages. That theme includes ideas like these: If something bad happens it is punishment for some sin. Sinners get punished by a vengeful God. Sin is connected to anyone who is outside of whatever norm has been socially constructed. It is punishment to be created differently from “the norm.” God made things this way and God works this way… This kind of thinking is one of those places many people get stuck, one of the places folk may wonder how in the world we could believe this, wondering why in the world we would say God is a God of love if God punishes people by sending some disaster or if God values some bodies over other bodies or if God makes bad things happen to good people in order to make a point. I wish I could say that all biblical examples that might support such ideas are attributed to God only before Jesus comes on the scene. 

But we have this text from John today that not only uses a person born with a body outside the norm as an object lesson to be “fixed” without ever being given any agency in the matter (beyond washing mud and spit off his face), but also a text that seems to reinforce what I believe is bad theology. The disciples ask the question that would be typical in their time, place, and culture: was it the man or his parents who sinned and made the man blind? Jesus comes through like a champ saying that it’s neither! Sounds promising… But then we hear: “he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.” Ugh. Really? 

Here’s where a shallow reading of the text can get us into serious trouble. The Gospel of John was the last of the four Gospel accounts to be written, composed for a very particular late 1st  century Christian community in the midst of painful separation and persecution from leaders of the Jewish community they’d been part of before. The Gospel is rooted in that historical context, but is widely understood to be more theological than historical literature. That is to say, the images and stories in John are deeply symbolic, always holding subtle layers of meaning. In the opening lines of the book we are given the overarching symbolic frame for John’s version of the Jesus story: Jesus is the word of God and the light of the world. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it. Jesus came to the world—to his “own”—and they didn’t recognize him. (Jn 1:1-5, 10-11) In addition to this context in the book of John, it’s helpful for interpretation of today’s story to understand that, in the cultural idiom of biblical texts, the “eye” is the “lamp of the body” (Mt 6:22) and the “eyes of the heart or mind” can be enlightened or opened (Eph 1:18).

We can still have feelings and critique the story as it comes to us—and it’s important to do so in order to counter years of harmful biblical interpretation. But understood within its literary, theological, and cultural context, it is clear that the writer wants to convey not that God punishes, devalues, dehumanizes, manipulates, or uses people. The writer is saying something about the power of God to bring light out of darkness, to open minds and hearts, to help people perceive in a new way—and Jesus, the light of the world—is the one who facilitates and embodies this power. The conflict throughout the story is found in the struggle to perceive what God is doing, to perceive in a new way, to allow God’s light to illuminate our understanding and perspective in ways that help us move forward, free of things that have gotten in the way of deeper faith, hope, and love.

Some of you may have seen the 2004 film, Finding Neverland.  The movie is about author James Barrie and the widow and her four young sons who inspired the story of “Peter Pan.”  Early in the film, Mr. Barrie, playfully and imaginatively describes to the boys how he is going to perform a daring and frightening thing:  he, the circus ringmaster, will dance with a magnificent bear who has large, scary teeth.  The stand-in for the bear is Barrie’s dog. Well, one of the sons—Peter—is having none of it, saying,  “That’s silly.  That’s just a dog.”  To this, Mr. Barrie comes close to the young, skeptical boy and says:  “With eyes like that, you’ll never see.”  

In our scriptures today, we hear basically the same thing.  With eyes like that, you’ll never see… When the man who had formerly been blind is brought to the leaders of the religious establishment, the response is stunning:  there is no rejoicing or awe at this wonder that’s taken place. Instead, the leadership puts their focus on a church rule that’s gotten broken: the healing had been done on the Sabbath. Another response is to discount the man’s own experience and to accuse him of lying—he must not have once been blind. Finally, it becomes clear that the focus of the proceedings is to figure out who is a sinner—and the ultimate verdict is that both the man who now sees AND Jesus are sinners. The result? The man whose life has been changed, whose darkness has been turned to light, who stands as a testimony to the power of God to bring light into darkness is driven out of the community. It seems ludicrous really, when we stop and look at what happens in this story. And it’s tempting to think that we would never react as the Pharisees do. But if we’re honest, perhaps we will admit how difficult it is to even acknowledge—much less address—things that dwell in the shadows of our soul that might easily lead us to line up with the likes of the Pharisees. We all have proverbial “blind spots”—places of ignorance, prejudice, confusion, judgmental attitudes, rigidity, fear—that keep us from fully perceiving, much less appreciating, the new things that God may be doing right in front of us. 

This story in John offers the promising news that when we encounter Jesus, the Light of the World can cut through our darkness—whatever that darkness might be—and give us “eyes to see”…not just what we want to see, but to see things as they are, to see the truth. As with the Pharisees, we may not want this—at least not at first. We know, don’t we, that the truth will set you free but first it will likely make you miserable. Perceiving the way things are can make us depressed and overwhelmed. Waking up to realities that had once been buried in denial can be disorienting. As priest and theologian Rowan Williams says, when Jesus’ light cuts through our darkness it “is not a comfortable clearing up of problems and smoothing out of our difficulties and upsets. On the contrary, it brings on a kind of vertigo; it may make me a stranger to myself, to everything I have ever taken for granted…In short, when God’s light breaks on my darkness, the first thing I know is that I don’t know, and never did.”  

The Pharisees struggled to let go of what they knew, of what they took for granted—the church rules, the cultural norms, their cozy power and prejudice, “the way things have always been.”  And, in that struggle, remained in darkness, unable to see the beautiful truth of what had happened right in front of them—and what was offered to them if only they would receive it. This happens in our own lives—our own preconceived notions and expectations and desires can keep us from seeing what is being offered, what is happening, what is possible. Because someone doesn’t do things the way we think they should be done, we grumble about the means and may miss the beautiful ends!  Because we don’t like the person involved, we may miss seeing the good they are accomplishing. Because our comfort is disrupted and our irritation flares, we may miss seeing the opportunity to learn something new. Because we are so habituated to seeing things one way, we may miss amazing new visions that God presents to us in any given moment.

Last week, our spiritual path led us in the wilderness to a well. And today, in the midst of this moment when “vertigo” may be an apt description of our experience, when we are all ever more aware that everything about our day to day lives is upended, when we feel off balance and like the world is spinning off its axis, when we don’t know the timetable or how the pandemic will play out, when we begin to have an inkling that things will never ever be the same, when we are living on the razor edge in so many ways, when the days outside are generally lighter, but so much of the world seems veiled in darkness…on this day our spiritual path leads us to an encounter with Light that shines in the darkness. 

The paradox is that the light of Christ will shatter all the prideful and fearful darkness in order to bring us to a deeper darkness, a place of vertigo, being off balance—that place of humble acknowledgement that we are not God, that our way of seeing is not God’s way of seeing, that we don’t know everything and can’t control everything, that God is at work for good in the world even when all seems lost. This is to see the truth, to see things and ourselves more realistically; it may be painful sometimes, but with God at the center of things, light will always be shining…always the darkness will not overcome it—all we need is for Christ to give us the eyes to see.  With these new, humbled eyes, we are able to look at our lives, at the lives of others, at the state of the world differently.  So that in the face of fear we can look with the eyes of trust; in the face of prejudice or judgment, we can look with the eyes of mercy and compassion; in the face of change, we can look with the eyes of hope; in the face of confusion, we can look with the eyes of wonder; in the face of suffering, we look with the eyes of solidarity and tenderness; in the face of a seemingly impossible mess, we can look with the eyes of creativity; and in the face of even this present moment, we can look with the eyes of life-giving beauty and love.

With eyes like that, just imagine what you will see! 

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Water Wow

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 15, 2020, third Sunday of Lent. “How Can You Believe This?” series.

Text: John 4:5-42

Today we are drawn to a well in the rough, dry, mountainous lands between Judea and Galilee. It is an ancient well, Jacob’s well, and—like all fresh water sources in that region—the well is a source of life. At this strange moment in our common life with the whole world grappling with how to test for, treat, and contain the Novel Covid-19 Corona virus, we are not only in a religious wilderness place—the season of Lent—but also in a wilderness place of increasing isolation and concern for the wellbeing of ourselves and our neighbors, especially the most vulnerable. We are journeying into uncharted territory that is riddled with questions and complications. We may be cut off from some resources that, in other difficult or uncertain situations, would be our “go-to” things or people—church gatherings, sporting events, our local restaurant or pub. Many will be increasingly struggling to make ends meet as gigs and conferences are canceled, hours cut, patrons diminished, shows closed, contracts canceled, and on it goes. Those who already suffer from anxiety and those who daily fight for sobriety may be drawn toward the edge. The avalanche of human struggle and strife that is possible—and some of it already realized—surrounds us as we journey into this new wilderness place. 

And let’s take just a moment to acknowledge what has led us place: a microscopic particle—that’s what a virus is. Consider for a moment the fact that a microscopic particle has the capacity to take down all the things we assign so much power to, all the things upon which we with any privilege are tempted to rely:  the markets, our own control, the ability to go where we want, when we want, our capacity to buy what we need when we need or want it. This microscopic particle has underscored human hubris in a variety of ways, and is reminding all the world of the truth many live daily: life is fragile and our health and wholeness is never to be taken for granted. The microscopic particle, this virus, doesn’t have any prejudice against the rich and powerful or disenfranchised and impoverished—and so is a great equalizer. The thing that is not equal in our nation and world is access to information and care. That, too, is a truth upon which this outbreak shines a light. It is humbling and disorienting to realize just how much damage can be done by so small a thing. It reminds us of our own smallness and vulnerability.

And today, our spiritual path leads us through the wilderness to this ancient well, a source of sustenance and life.

We’re not the first to travel this way or to need the life that the well provides. In our story today, Jesus—on his journey north from Judea to Galilee—is the first to acknowledge that he needs a drink of water from the well. And in asking for what he needs, Jesus does an astonishing thing: he engages in conversation with a Samaritan woman. These two—a Jewish Rabbi and a Samaritan woman—were part of groups who had been practicing a kind of “social distancing” for a long time. Their distancing was not to guard against harm of neighbor, however, as is our practice today. Their distancing was out of prejudice and even deep hatred. Jews thought that Samaritans were unfaithful because they had—in the time of the Assyrian incursion—worshipped the false gods of the five foreign tribes. You can read the background on this in 2 Kings 17:13-34. It’s pretty clear in the theological histories of Kings and Chronicles that all of God’s people were pretty much equal opportunity idolaters; and the Samaritans had long been guided by Torah and worshiped YHWH. But this religious and racial prejudice was solidified early on and, for ages, Jews and Samaritans avoided each other like the plague.

The need for water, for sustenance, drew these two together. And Jesus, thirsty from his journey, begins by asking the woman for a drink. The woman has what he needs—a bucket—to quench his thirst. In her response to Jesus, the woman focuses on things that normally would divide them, the gender rules, the cultural and purity rules, differing religious practices, and such. She is clearly educated and aware of all the reasons why Jesus should ignore or despise her. But he doesn’t do that. Jesus engages in meaningful conversation with her and truly sees and knows her. In fact this is one of the longest, most lively theological conversations Jesus has with anyone in the Bible.

This unnamed Samaritan woman has often been characterized as (surprise!) a terrible sinner—most likely a prostitute—though nothing in the story necessarily suggests that interpretation. In John’s symbolic storytelling style, the woman is likely a metaphor for the Samaritans as a whole and her five husbands represent the five foreign, false gods named in 2 Kings. A cultural reading of the narrative highlights the fact that “Jesus at no point invites repentance or, for that matter, speaks of sin at all. She very easily could have been widowed or have been abandoned or divorced (which in the ancient world was pretty much the same thing for a women). Five times would be heartbreaking, but not impossible. Further, she could now be living with someone that she was dependent on, or be in what’s called a Levirate marriage (where a childless woman is married to her deceased husband’s brother in order to produce an heir yet is not always technically considered the brother’s wife.) There are any number of ways, in fact, that one might imagine this woman’s story as tragic rather than scandalous.” We don’t know what circumstances led to her situation, but we do know that she has been through a lot and is vulnerable. She’s a woman in a time where women weren’t valued as equal citizens, a member of a despised race, potentially housing insecure, and possibly shunned by other women since she comes to the well alone in the heat of the day instead of with other women in the morning or evening. She comes to the well thirsty, too, but I imagine for something other than the water that was her job to fetch. Perhaps she was thirsty for a different kind of life, a life less complicated and difficult and vulnerable and isolated.

I wonder if her exclamation “Come and see a man who has told me everything I have ever done!” was partly astonishment that someone had finally acknowledged her and seen her as a human being with a brain and heart, a person of sacred worth and dignity. This encounter inspires the woman to be the first person in John’s Gospel to invite others to “come and see” the gift of life and love and care—the living water—that Jesus offers. 

There’s a lot going on in this story for sure. But today I just keep coming back to this well, this lifeline that brings unlikely folks together, that provides opportunities for new connection and insight, that reminds us of the needs and vulnerabilities we all share, that continues to gush up with fresh water even today. I was at this well in January and brought some water home… And I was thinking about the landscape in those parts and how vulnerable I would feel were I to journey on foot for any length of time there.  In the wilderness and unknown places we become hyper aware of our needs and vulnerabilities. Where will we find what we need to survive, to be safe, to make it to the other side?

In this present wilderness, things get pretty basic—people are stocking up on what? Toilet tissue and water! Pretty elemental stuff. And truly, what is more elemental than water? Months ago as I was first contemplating this text for this series, I discovered a children’s coloring book called “Water Wow.” This coloring book comes with a “pen” that you fill with water. The water magically brings out the colors on the page. What a beautiful metaphor: water brings things to life, brings vitality and color. // I imagine we all know that water is THE thing that keeps our bodies alive. We can fast from food a long time but water is essential. And Jesus says in our Gospel that there’s “living water” that, once received, becomes a spring within us that “gushes up” to eternal life. What is this living water? It might be described as the grace, steadfast presence, and liberating love of God. In the wilderness, we need sustenance for both body and soul. We need water to hydrate, fuel, and cleanse our bodies and “living water”—God’s indwelling presence—to nourish and sustain our spirits. 

In the face of all this, I must say it has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my 25 years of ministry to NOT be physically ingathering our community in worship on this day. Not only did we have to postpone our special music and reception of 17 new family members here at Foundry—including two adult Baptisms—but it also goes against every pastoral bone in my body. Because in moments of anxiety and uncertainty, it is a grounding thing to be in the same space with other people in worship and prayer and song and community, to be reminded—concretely—that we aren’t alone. In a society that is already so often plagued with disconnection and isolation, this forced practice of distancing seems deeply counterintuitive. But we are reminded that there is not one place or one way to connect with one another and with God. Jesus and the Samaritan woman had that debate thousands of years ago—we don’t have to worship on that mountain or that city or in this building. It’s about the more profound connection that flows within and among us through the power of Spirit. I say often that we are connected in God’s love  even when we are far apart—that those who livestream our worship are connected to us in this space. This is an opportunity for us to all remember and celebrate that beautiful gift. We also know that this way of connecting is the way right now to live our mission to love each other, to love our neighbor, because it cares for the health of one anothers’ bodies.

Today we gather at the well. A well that is far away in another land, a well whose waters are present in my hand, a well that represents in our story the ever-flowing grace and mercy of God. Jesus meets us at this well. I don’t know all the circumstances of your life or how you are holding this present moment or how you came to be where you are today. But the Gospel suggests that Jesus does. Jesus sees you, knows what you are going through, what you are feeling today, what you’re thirsting for. Jesus also knows how God’s liberating, reconciling love will set you free to live with greater courage, peace, hope and joy. Jesus knows God’s indwelling presence will sustain you through the wilderness. Jesus sees your dignity and your worth and the difference you can make in the lives of others. This living water is available for you… 

Having received it, the invitation is to follow the lead of the Samaritan woman and to offer others water that nourishes both body and soul, to offer physical sustenance to those who need it and to invite others to drink from the well of God’s steadfast mercy and love. Draw from the wellspring of your kindness and generosity and get groceries for folks who can’t get out, reach out to folks who may be feeling anxious or overwhelmed as they try to telework and care for kids who aren’t in school. Organize an online small group or prayer group. Be intentional about calling those in your pew neighborhood who may not have online technology to be connected in this way. Stay close to your sponsor or sponsee. If you happen to go to a restaurant, tip big. If you have the means, give alms to the service agencies who will be even more stretched than usual. Say thank you. Be mindful of the many ways that this wilderness moment is making vulnerable people even more vulnerable.  

Today, Spirit has led us in the wilderness to a well and we are blessed to gather at the water, the wellspring of love and grace that nourishes and reconciles and connects and sustains vitality and the beautiful colors of life together. Wow. Thanks be to God.

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Live the Questions?

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 8, 2020, second Sunday of Lent. “How Can You Believe This?” series.

Text: John 3:1-17

Now there was a social worker named Martha who came to Jesus and asked, “What kind of God would create a world in which viruses and tornadoes and all other manner of thing are allowed to kill innocent people?

Now there was a lawyer named John who came to Jesus and asked, “Why was I sexually and emotionally abused?”

Now there was a musician named Claire who came to Jesus and asked, “What difference does my life make?”

Now there were janitors and students and judges and teachers and scientists and parents and nurses and people from all walks of life who came to Jesus and asked:

• Why do I have to feel so lonely?

Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus who came to Jesus with questions. And Jesus’s responses raise even more...

Questions are part of human life and they are part of faith. Sadly, many have heard or been taught that questions don’t belong in church. Some have been hanging out in church their whole lives without admitting they don’t understand or agree with some of what they’ve been taught—and so miss the opportunity to go deeper. Some don’t think they can bring the real questions of their lives into church for fear of judgment. This can happen in any context—but certainly in those churches where strict adherence to a particular understanding of the Bible or theological concepts is required, where the goal is to “sign on” to a set of statements that are presented as “the Gospel truth,” and the expectation to support those statements with your actions—even if you see harm being done to yourself or to others as a result. It’s no wonder so many outside the faith stay outside asking, “How can you believe this? And without question?? How can you live that way?” 

So many avoid Christian community at all costs because they value honesty and authentic conversation and creative and critical thinking and science and what they’ve imbibed in the collective soup is that to be part of the church means blindly going along with what someone says is true about Jesus, about the Bible, about the world, about people, about everything. And so often what is proclaimed as “Gospel truth” is thin soup, less than satisfying, missing so much of the richness, depth, and nourishment of the Christian spiritual tradition.

Questions are a doorway into a very different way of engagement. Poet Rainer Maria Rilke is instructive in his book Letters to a Young Poet. He writes, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

When we think about some of the questions we struggle with, the concept of “loving” those questions may seem absurd. But what might it mean to love our questions, to live our questions? Well, it certainly doesn’t mean avoiding or denying our questions. It doesn’t mean that we just find the easiest, tidiest answer available and then hold on to that for dear life, even when the answer is unsatisfying. Have you ever had someone give you the “pat” answer to a question of life and death, or suffering or God?  Sometimes platitudes might manage to provide comfort—like a well-worn blanket. Sometimes the answer given will make us wonder if our own questions are ok. Other times, eye rolls and deep yogic breathing may ensue… Truth is, it can create anxiety to acknowledge that there are things we may never fully understand—things like suffering and death. It is painful to be in moments of life when we feel that we are wandering in a wilderness not knowing how to get out of that desolate place. It can be difficult to face a big life decision without a sense of clarity for the answer. But to love the questions, to live the questions, means that we give ourselves permission to be honest about where we are and how we feel about where we are, to admit what we don’t know, to ask our questions, to push back on easy answers; and this encourages us to search our own hearts, to lean upon friends, to pray and listen deeply and study the scriptures, to keep learning. It means allowing ourselves to sit in the discomfort of challenge and uncertainty, to “ride the wave” of experience—to “live everything”—trusting that, in time, insight will be revealed…

It has been suggested that the question mark is a profound religious symbol. Because the question mark is the sign of an explorer, a seeker, a wonderer. Just think of our children at that wonder-full age when everything we say is met with “Why?” or “How?”  This is the posture of one who is growing and learning and being formed in the questions—by the questions—of life.  To sit in the questions provides an opportunity for all sorts of new insights.  To love our questions is to recognize that the questions bring opportunities for growth, maturity, deepening faith, a more profound experience of life itself.

We see Nicodemus being offered this opportunity to learn and grow as he encounters Jesus in his own questions. The question at the heart of our Gospel passage today is:  how can we believe something that doesn’t make sense? When Nicodemus is faced with the teaching of Jesus about being “born from above (anōthen in the Greek which can mean “from above” or “again”)…” Nicodemus asks the question we all ask at one point or another: “How can these things be?” 

Jesus speaks of “earthly things” and “heavenly things” drawing Nicodemus to expand his thinking from solely concrete, physical realities—being born as a flesh and blood child—toward the reality of life infused with Spirit who, like the wind, can’t be seen or controlled, but only experienced. Then Jesus speaks of “believing” and in a way that gets connected to eternal life. “For God so loved the world…” Such beautiful words…and yet these words attributed to Jesus in John 3:16 have been poured out as thin soup and even as poison for a long time. People have taught that you just have to believe a certain thing about Jesus to get your eternal life entry ticket and that people of other faith traditions are condemned (that is especially easy to suggest if you read 3:18). For a few minutes, I want to focus on the word “believes” because this is a word that can be such an obstacle.

In our rational, prescriptive way of thinking, to “believe” something has to do with words—it’s a head trip. We struggle to think of “believing” as something other than working down a checklist of statements and checking the box “yes” or “no.” But Jesus does not say whoever believes in what will be said about me will have eternal life, Jesus says, “everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.” Think about the difference between believing a statement and believing in a person. What does it mean to say to another person, “I believe in you”?  This is about a relationship… The Greek word translated “believe” is pisteuo, a word that has several meanings, one which is to “think to be true,” and all the others relational—about trust and commitment. The invitation is to trust in the person of Jesus who proves his trustworthiness throughout his whole life; the invitation is to trust that Jesus’ words and actions contain truth in the largest sense. Theologian Jon Sobrino speaks of believing not in Jesus, but believing in God’s goodness and love through Jesus. That is, Jesus—in the way he “lives everything” and reveals God’s goodness, mercy, and justice—shows us that we can believe that God is alive, that God is working in the world to save the world from itself, that God is love.   

Words can’t fully capture what it means to say, “I believe in you.” Every person—including the person of Jesus—is not completely definable or understandable, but always also mystery. This invitation to believe in Jesus is an invitation into the mystery, into the questions…because it’s not all defined or understood. God loved the world so much that Jesus came to the world so that whoever trusts God in the way that Jesus reveals is possible, whoever questions things without undue anxiety (encouraged by Jesus who lived everything), whoever is willing to entrust their heart in relationship as Jesus modeled, whoever is able to hold on in the wilderness place, taking one step at a time because they trust that God will see them through, whoever keeps trying to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly, empowered by the love of God made known to us in Jesus…these will step into a new life, a life held in the largest frame, the eternal frame, a life connected to God’s life which is eternal.

Richard Rohr writes, “Scriptures do not offer rational certitude. They offer us something much better, an entirely different way of knowing: an intimate relationship, a dark journey, a path where we must discover for ourselves that grace, love, mercy, and forgiveness are absolutely necessary for survival in an uncertain world. You only need enough clarity to know how to live without certitude! Yes, we really are saved by faith.”

The invitation is to enter into relationship with Jesus and to take the risk of hope, of love, the leap of faith that the God and the Kin-dom that Jesus speaks of and embodies is not only real, but our true home.  And, by the way, I know persons of other faith traditions who learn from Jesus in ways that deepen their spiritual practice even as they don’t confess the fullness of Christian spiritual tradition…Just as we learn and grow through engagement with the teachings of other spiritual traditions. There is no condemnation in God’s love. There is invitation in Jesus’ way. The invitation is to live the questions of our lives, open to the Spirit who in ways unknown brings new life, new learning, growth, and an experience of God that is transforming.

And if you struggle with anything you’ve heard or read here today, then you’re invited to simply sit with that, to live that question with an open mind and heart. Our Gospel shows us that when Nicodemus comes to Jesus with his questions, Jesus doesn’t blow him off or discount him or judge him. Jesus engages him, enters into relationship with him, speaks not of God’s condemnation, but of God’s love.

I hope we will honor Nicodemus who came to Jesus asking the question we all ask at one point or another: “How can these things be?” Evidently, Nicodemus’ encounter with Jesus made a difference in his life because Nicodemus’ journey with Jesus didn’t end on this night with these questions. He continued to live the questions, open to the Spirit’s transforming power. We know this because he was there with Joseph of Arimathea at Jesus’ burial (John 19:39), gently and generously caring for the body of the crucified Jesus, the person through whom Nicodemus believed in a God who doesn’t always make sense.

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The Devil Made Me Do It

A homily preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC March 1, 2020, first Sunday of Lent. “How Can You Believe This?” series.

                                                     Text: Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7

Humans are storytelling creatures. We love stories. It is widely affirmed that from the time that language came into existence, humans have spoken, sung, danced, and acted out stories—stories that help people know their history, explain why things are the way they are, imagine their place in the universe, laugh at the foibles and earthy realities of life together, celebrate desire and love, and express all the other human experiences of beauty and brokenness in life. Most of the stories in our Bible began as spoken or sung tales, repeated over and over until language found its way into written characters. The stories originated in particular cultures and times and communities and were spoken in languages whose words and idioms are difficult to faithfully translate into our own. So, even though biblical stories are pretty engaging on the surface, interpretation is required. Because these are not just good stories, but narratives that interpret the world, interpret us, what it means to be human, what it means to be in relationship with God and with one another.

A problem is that there are interpretations of core stories in the Bible that have been proffered as the only correct and true interpretation and these are what tend to be most prevalent in the collective imagination.  And these hardened and often deeply erroneous interpretations lead those outside the tradition—and, often, us too!—to ask “how can you believe this?” How in the world is that helpful, life-giving, or meaningful?? What kind of God do you follow?

Today we get an excerpt from a doozy of an example. The story in Genesis 2-3 is the second biblical description of how God created life. Distinguished feminist scholar of Old Testament, Phyllis Trible says, “According to traditional interpretations, [this story] is about ‘Adam and Eve.’ It proclaims male superiority and female inferiority as the will of God. It portrays woman as ‘temptress’ and troublemaker who is dependent upon and dominated by her husband.”[i]

We know other derivatives of this—that the snake is the symbol of the devil, that the devil came to the woman because she was weaker—more susceptible to temptation and manipulation, that the woman’s wiles—connected negatively with sexuality—can be blamed for Adam’s transgression, that this story confirms that “God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” These interpretations are not benign, but rather support and inspire violence, suppression, blame, denial, and countless other human transgressions. And yet they have continued to be given credence.

Trible, based on her close reading of the story in its original language and literary context, contends that none of the citations from the story used to support this stuff are accurate and most are not actually present in the story itself. There is not sufficient time to share the fullness of Trible’s insight, but I want to look closely at several key pieces of this story in order to disrupt at least some of the assumptions about this rich story.

First, let’s talk about the word translated “man.” The Hebrew word is ha-adam, a play on the word for earth (dust/ground): ha-adamah. Out of the ha-adamah God created the ha-adam. For all of Genesis 2 the appropriate translation for ha-adam is not “man” but “earth creature.” At this point, there is no sexual identification. The earth creature’s pronouns might appropriately be “they/them/theirs”—for this creature holds in its earthy body, the stuff that will become is/issah, male/female, later in story. The earth creature is formed of earth and patted into shape by Yahweh God who then breathes into them the breath of life. 

God plants a garden and sets the earth creature in the garden to tend and guard it. God gives the ha-adam this guidance: “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.” (Gen 2:16-17) Notice here three important details.

First, God has provided all the earth creature needs to live—every tree is available to feed the creature, including the precious tree of life.

Second, there is only one tree that’s off-limits—the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. The consequence for eating of that tree is death. The name of the tree signals the choice before the earth creature—adherence to the life-giving limits set by Yahweh God (good) or disobedience with its death-dealing consequence (evil). God sets a limit in order to keep the earth creature safe, in harmony…alive.

Finally, notice that the same act—in this case, eating—can result in very different consequences depending upon whether the wise, healthy boundaries are honored. If you receive sustenance from this tree all is well, but if you seek sustenance from the tree that’s out of bounds, things get broken, harmony is lost. Can you imagine any activity that, if not kept within healthy boundaries can break bodies, relationships, trust?  //

Trible writes, “According to Yahweh God, what the earth creature needs is a companion who is neither subordinate nor superior; one who alleviates isolation through identity.”[ii] From one flesh, diverse bodies are created, bodies drawn to and desirous of the other to again be “one flesh.” In Genesis 2:25 we read, “Now they both were naked, the man and …woman and they were not ashamed.” The nakedness is a symbol and sign of what Trible calls “holy insecurity.” There are threats to the creatures, but in their most primal created nature they know themselves secure in Yahweh God. They know and trust the provision and parameters of God. This allows them to live without shame or fear.

I am referring to pieces of the story we did not hear today in order to set proper context for the encounter of the woman and the serpent that we did hear. These two have gotten a very bad rap over the centuries.

The “naked”—trusting, vulnerable—woman and man encounter the serpent who was more crafty than “all the wild animals that the Lord God had made.” This last bit is key; the serpent is not an evil power apart from God’s creation—not the “devil”—but is rather a creature who uses the gifts of its created nature (its cunning) and becomes a tempter. There are all sorts of associations we can make about this—not least of which the power of “reptilian brain” to incite fear when it is likely unnecessary. In the literary context of Genesis 2-3, the reptile becomes a plot device to bring to the fore the real issue: the life and death choice between obedience and disobedience, between trusting the provision and protection of God or allowing fear to incite a grasping for power and control.

The serpent engages the woman in theological conversation. Trible notes that neither uses the formal name for God—translated “Lord God” (Yahweh God)—but instead speak of generic, impersonal “God.” Think about how much easier it is to ignore, bully, or betray someone when you depersonalize and make them an object or stereotype… And the serpent asks a leading question: “Did God say you shall not eat of any tree in the garden?” Tricky. God had said all but one. So the serpent highlights not the generosity and abundance, but the limit set by God. The woman answers with strength and clarity. And then the serpent—who is this creature??!—has the audacity to claim knowledge of God and proceeds to interpret what God really meant when setting the boundary around the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.  “You won’t die. You’ll be like God.” You won’t be diminished or lost anything or break any healthy relationship or do damage to your body or soul if you cross this line, you will be more powerful, more alive, more fulfilled! You will know “good and evil.”

I guess if you are the original earth creatures you don’t know what you don’t know. Who would want to know evil?? 

And then comes the moment of truth, the turning point in the story—in this story and in our own. “So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate; and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate.” (Gen 3:6)

Trible highlights the agency of the woman. “Three actions immediately follow three insights…Taking, eating, giving: these actions by the woman do not tell the whole tale of disobedience. The story is careful to specify that the man is with her…Yet throughout this scene the man has remained silent; he does not speak for obedience. His presence is passive…The contrast that he offers to the woman is not strength or resolve…The story does not say that she tempted him…It does not present him as reluctant or hesitating.”[iii] The point is that the woman and the man illustrate the range of human responses to temptation and transgression. “Both activity and passivity, initiative and acquiescence, are equal modes of lawlessness.”[iv] The woman and man were mutually responsible for their actions. The woman is not the villain, nor the innocent victim of “the devil who made her do it.” The man is not the innocent victim of the temptress woman—the “devil” who made him do it.

The woman and man both eat what Yahweh God warned would do harm; and paradise is lost, the life of perfect love and freedom, of harmony, mutuality, openness, vulnerability without fear, trust, interdependence is gone. The sexually differentiated earth creatures who once were naked and unashamed now feel the need to hide. They hide their bodies with “loincloths.” And if you read the rest of the story you see that they hide from God, too. The creatures go from a state of not needing defenses, to becoming defensive when Yahweh God seeks them out. Hiding, defensiveness, denials, rationalizations, blame, and discord between people once united. That’s the prize for eating the forbidden fruit.

I find it fascinating that this story—this story!—has been used to try to make LGBTQ persons hide, to make human sexual desire feel shameful, to blame women for everything, and to rationalize all sorts of violence. Why, do you imagine, is this so…?

[i] Phyllis Trible, God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality, Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978, p. 72-73.

[ii] Ibid., p. 90.

[iii] Ibid., p. 113.

[iv] Ibid., p. 114.

Whom Do You Serve?

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC February 16, 2020, the sixth Sunday after the Epiphany. “Life Together” series.

Text: 1 Corinthians 3:1-9

Who among us is familiar with the Jello mold?  I grew up in Oklahoma with various versions of Jello as a primary food group. My mom didn’t so much do the “molds” but, oh my goodness, some of the folks at 1st UMC, Sapulpa had this thing down to an art form. The first parish I served in Rockville also had some strong contenders in the Jello mold category. Evidently, my mother in law was known in days past as the Jello mold queen. Now, why—you may ask—am I rattling on about Jello molds this morning?

I’m thinking about the process of being formed into a particular shape or image and, as you may know, to make a Jello mold you mix the flavored gelatin powder with hot water to dissolve it and then pour the liquid into the mold. You refrigerate it until it gels and then “turn it out” from the mold with the gelatin having taken the shape of the mold. Pretty basic concept—and the one that popped into my head as I pondered my point for today…

Over the past several weeks we have been exploring the apostle Paul’s first letter to the 1st century church in Corinth and what it teaches us about our life together.  The cross is at the center of Paul’s message and is lifted up again and again as the lens through which to understand how to be in community. Practically, Jesus shows us on the cross the way of sacrificial love and solidarity and models how we are to live with and for others. Our focus is to be on loving service, not social climbing or political posturing or forming up teams of “us” versus “them.” We have learned that we don’t have to have fancy degrees, or know all the “right words” or do things in a certain way to receive the gifts of grace, forgiveness, and new life that flow from Christ’s sacrifice of love. We have considered the difference between the wisdom of the world and the wisdom of God and learned that our call is to be willing to proclaim in word and deed the unpopular wisdom of Jesus Christ and him crucified. All of this helps provide a frame for how to live as people of Christian faith.

One of my theological mentors, Rev. Dr. Serene Jones, taught me that the shape of any given church forms disciples according to that shape. The worship, language, theology, practices, systems for ministry, and stance with and toward others form certain kinds of Christians. Paul teaches that a faithful church will be cross-shaped. This means in part that the things we see at the cross—surrender, sacrifice, salvation, humility, righteousness, faithfulness, grace, forgiveness, love—are what a faithful congregation will strive to deepen and grow in the lives of its people and as a community. Some of you will know that many church buildings are built in the shape of a cross so that when the congregation gathers they are literally cross-shaped as a community. The cross is the “mold” in both literal and figurative ways—the form within which we take shape as Jesus-followers and disciples.

Today’s installment from Paul’s letter gives us a very concrete measure by which we can see how much we’ve “gelled” as a cross-shaped community. Paul asks, “As long as there is jealousy and quarreling among you, are you not of the flesh, and behaving according to human inclinations?” This is a particularly poignant question in our current context as a denomination, nation, and world. And honestly, we don’t have to go far to see that the question may aggravate a tender place in our own personal lives.

It was personal for Paul, too. Apollos was evidently seen as an opposing team captain—a popular leader in the early church and well-known in Corinth. But Paul makes it clear that he and Apollos are both servants of God, both sent to serve in distinct ways, and both equally valued. In teaching and modeling this, Paul shows how we are called to serve together and to honor the gifts and contributions of one another—even when others do things differently than we’d prefer or when they aggravate or challenge us. It’s a lesson in valuing our own as well as others’ gifts—so that we don’t get caught in jealous competition or soul-sucking comparison games. Paul also makes a very clear point against setting any human leader up as the one to whom we “belong”—we don’t belong to a pastor or teacher. I, as a pastor among you, am responsible for ordering and supporting our life together in community—and sometimes I do talk about how much I love “my Foundry peeps”—but you don’t belong to me.  Paul makes it plain a little later in his letter when he says to the church: “you belong to Christ, and Christ belongs to God.”

So in these first several chapters of 1 Corinthians we are given a vision and framework for how to live together. We know that cross-shaped lives entail challenge and forgiveness and patience and sacrifice. Cross-shaped disciples are called to see beyond any present pain or injustice to the healing, love, peace, and justice that is the fulfillment of God’s Kin-dom vision….  Wow, that seems like a lot of work. It might seem like too much to do with everything else on your plate.

I’m aware of the weariness and weight that many of us are carrying in our bodies and souls in these days. The past number of years is taking a toll. Our daily lives and responsibilities—caring for children, parents, friends, work, our own health, etc… may feel increasingly exhausting. And the enormity of the brokenness in our world, the daily, constant stream of deeply concerning news can tempt us to despair or to completely “check out.” I want to gently remind us that the powers of worldly wisdom, the powers of empire, want us to do just that, to check out and give up. The wisdom of empire delights when we become distracted and dissolve into factions, quarrel, tear each other down. Imperial powers rejoice when we become overwhelmed and decide there’s nothing we can do. Worldly powers want us to despair, want us to abandon those with and for whom we are called to stand, want us to lose perspective and to forget who is holding us and all things.

As those formed by the cross of Christ, we know that we can call on the power of God to resist the idolatries of the world, the death-dealing ways of empire, the hope- and joy-sucking droning on of bad news and seemingly insurmountable brokenness. In a cross-shaped community, we will be reminded when we gather in worship that we serve a God who has shown us through cross and resurrection that even when we feel weak and appear defeated according to the ways of the world, we are strong because of God’s steadfast love and presence with us. In this Black History Month I’m reminded of countless examples of black siblings who, strengthened by their faith, stood up, spoke up, sat down, marched, and did not—and do not!—give up even the face of deep hatred and systemic oppression—from Rosa Parks to Shirley Chisholm to Dorothy Height to RuPaul, from MLK to Jesse Jackson to John Lewis to William Barber. Cross-shaped community forms and strengthens us to keep stepping, reminds us we are not powerless, that we are not alone. Cross-shaped community allows us to try to practice humility, mutuality, grace, courage, reconciliation—in short, to lessen the jealousy and quarreling that fracture our relationships and lives. When we are living our call in this way we work together, honor the gifts of each, and bring our collective power to bear on the challenges facing us. When we are living our call we hold on to each other and support one another when any one of us is struggling to keep going on the journey. When we are striving to live as cross-shaped community, we remind one another that there is new life on the other side of wilderness wandering and crucifixion, that the cross of Jesus has shown us that the worst the world could do is no match for God’s life-giving and liberating love.

Cross-shaped community forms disciples who are servants—not of empire and worldly wisdom and all the shiny idols that so easily lure and distract us—but rather servants of God’s way of mercy and love and justice. We don’t have to fix all the jealousy and quarreling in the world, the deep divisions both petty and profound, the brokenness all over. Christ is the savior of the world, not you or me. We are simply called to do what we can do, to choose clearly and intentionally whom and how we will serve, and to serve alongside others to change the world as part of God’s larger work of mending. We do our part, we may design or plant or water or prune but it is God who brings the growth and new life.

I will close with these words from Sacred Resistance:

“As followers of Jesus and as communities of the cross, our call and identity is love, mercy, solidarity, and justice. We can turn away from this call out of fear or selfishness, we can live smaller lives than we’re made for, we can reject the love that forms and fuels a life that is truly human. That is our prerogative.

But thanks be that it’s God’s prerogative to have mercy on us. Thanks be that in Jesus we meet our God who is radically free and will not be compromised or silenced or coopted to serve selfish, oppressive, violent human desires. Thanks be that our God hangs in there with us even when we want to trade God in for another model. Thanks be that our God is love and compassion. Thanks be that, even with so much evidence to the contrary, humankind is created in the image of that God. Thanks be that Jesus took the form of a humble, human servant so that we might take the form of a loving, merciful God.”[i]

[i] Sacred Resistance: A Practical Guide to Christian Witness and Dissent, p. 36.

Unpopular Wisdom

A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC February 9, 2020, the fifth Sunday after the Epiphany. “Life Together” series.

                                          Text: 1 Corinthians 2:1-12                                                     

“I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” (1 Cor 2:2) Why is Paul so focused on “Christ crucified?” Why not proclaim Christ resurrected?  It seems to me the resurrection angle would have a better chance of going viral. If you’re trying to start a new church, why in the world make your logo the instrument of torture that killed the one you’re trying to convince people to follow? Why include a trigger word (um…crucified) in your tag line??  Some market testing might have been useful.

And Paul, for all his faults and hangups, was a smart, highly educated dude. He knew lots of things. He knew the religious law backwards and forwards because he was a Pharisee. All to say, Paul could have come into the highly educated city of Corinth showing off his capacity to speak eloquently, to reason and debate, and to impress the powerful with his own power. But instead he proclaims, “I decided to know nothing among you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.”

This proclamation has always been a hard sell. Paul writes the cross is “a stumbling block” and “foolishness” to worldly ways of thinking. This hasn’t changed over the centuries. Think for a moment about the difference between many Christian sanctuaries on Good Friday and Easter. (Let me help: we don’t have to plan overflow space for Good Friday to manage the crowds). Many folks are happy to make the leap from the Palm Sunday parade to the Easter fanfare. I get it. Who doesn’t love victory? Why would we choose to linger in those dark days and experiences in-between triumph and triumph?

Paul was smart enough to know this and still—“decided to know nothing except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.” Why is Paul so insistent on this as the center of the proclamation for our life together as followers of Jesus?

What do we see when we stop at the cross? One writer who shows up each month in my morning devotions describes it saying, “When I stop at the cross…I see surrender, sacrifice, salvation, humility, righteousness, faithfulness, grace, forgiveness, love!”

What would it look like for those things to be held at the center of communal life? 

Think about those things for just a moment. Surrender…not the kind of surrender that is giving in to powers of oppression, but rather releasing control—letting go and letting God guide and strengthen us. Sacrifice…not to become a martyr in a self-promoting way, but to truly share yourself, your power, and your resources with and for others—even when it costs you a great deal. Salvation…not the kind that we might imagine can be achieved for ourselves, but the kind that only happens through the power of God. Humility…not the kind that dismisses our worth and strength, but that recognizes the worth and dignity of others and is willing to become small so that others might be magnified. Righteousness…not self-righteousness, but being in right relationship with God, others, and creation. Faithfulness…not blind loyalty, but instead deep trust of God’s guidance and care. Grace…not cheap grace that requires nothing, but free grace that inspires our devotion and response. Forgiveness…the gift that is liberation from bitterness, resentment, guilt and shame—and that asks for not only words, but changed actions.  And love.  Free, unmerited, unearned love. When we stop at the cross, these are some of what we find—modeled by Jesus, offered to us by Jesus. Imagine if these were truly at the center of human community…

And every single one of these things are directly counter to what Paul calls the “spirit of the world” and the “wisdom of the world”—what I have called in my book Sacred Resistance, “the idols of current cultural religion.” What are some of the core teachings of cultural religion? 

1. Happiness is found in having things.

This is popular religion, popular wisdom and we have to be very careful to not be taken in by its promises. In an old Pearls Before Swine cartoon, “Rat explains that he’s trying to come up with a motto to live by. Pig makes some suggestions, the first being ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ When Pig asks Rat what he’s come up with, Rat’s answer is: ‘Crush the little people.’ Then in the last frame says, ‘I’m trying to be realistic.’ 

In our world—and, it seems, it has been this way forever—being ‘realistic’ leads people to put their trust in whatever they think will get them safety, power, comfort, attention, or wealth.  Being ‘realistic’ leads us to believe that violence and exploitation are unavoidable. … ‘This is the way the game is played,’ folks will say.  And the ‘little people’—the poor, the children, the marginalized, are always the ones who suffer as a result.”

This past week, we have seen some pretty clear clashes between the wisdom of the world and the wisdom of God. We’ve seen a prominent Senator break ranks—led by his faith and conscience—knowing full well what he would endure as a result. We’ve also heard the leader of this nation—with scores of so-called Christians supporting him—suggest that his wisdom regarding enemies is greater than the teaching of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount. There is much I could say about this blasphemy. But what I will say is simply that Jesus taught us to love our enemies. (Mt 5:43-45)

That’s unpopular wisdom.  But there it is.  And Jesus didn’t ask us to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself. He showed us how to love enemies. He challenged those who opposed the ways of the Kin-dom. But he didn’t do them harm. He got angry at those who did harm to others, but he didn’t stir up violence against them. He invited those who hurt and accused him personally into right relationship with him, with God, and with others, and grieved when that gift was rejected. He took the slanders and body blows of his enemies without retaliating or losing his agency or dignity. And from the cross he speaks words of compassion and forgiveness upon those who had cruelly abused and killed him.

Is this difficult and the highest of our callings? Absolutely. But we proclaim Christ crucified, not popular, worldly wisdom. Christ crucified has always been characterized by many as foolish, weak, unrealistic, fake news. But for those of us lucky enough to have even an inkling of the wisdom of God, we are given grace to embrace the unpopular wisdom of Jesus.

Perhaps Paul insisted on keeping Christ crucified at the center of the proclamation because he understood the perpetual human temptation to follow worldly wisdom—the idea that we are in control, that we can earn our salvation, that weakness is unacceptable, that might makes right, the one with the most toys wins, cruelty can be rationalized as “truth-telling,” slander and prideful retaliation framed as strength.  Perhaps Paul understood that if we focus primarily on resurrection and victory, it becomes possible to ignore the crucified people of every age.  Think about it for a moment… If our focus as Christians is primarily on resurrection victory—the reward we get for our good lives—then it’s not much of a leap to self-centered prosperity gospel.  If our focus is on resurrection as entry to heaven when we die it’s not much of a leap to the space where all the energy is on saving souls for eternity but not giving a flip about what happens to bodies and spirits in this life. But if, as Paul insists, we focus on the cross, we cannot help but see what “worldly wisdom” and “cultural religion” does to innocent victims. We can’t help but see the result of human injustice, fear, and oppression. When we stop at the cross we see that Jesus isn’t alone there… and we are asked to care and to respond. As one theologian writes, “the cross of Jesus is for us not an empty symbol but a point of entry into the pain of the world…”[i]

How’s that for an invitation to a new church start?  But Paul must have been on to something in his proclamation, must have been led by some measure of God’s wisdom…because people responded, people joined up, people received the story of Jesus with hope and their lives were changed as a result. True, it didn’t take long for those first churches to dissolve into old patterns of competition and division. But the message kept calling them back to the promise and the new way of life extended to them in Christ.

This is the message calling to us today. It challenges us to see our own temptation to give in to the ways of “worldly wisdom.” It calls us to follow Jesus in solidarity with the innocent victims of the world’s cruelty, injustice, and greed. It reminds us that Jesus is with us in all our weakness, suffering, and struggle. And the message also reminds us that the story doesn’t end at the cross. There is new life, victory, resurrection on the other side, all of which may be experienced in this world in ways large and small. New life happens when someone is given a place to live or a way to feed and support their family. Resurrection happens when, through persistent, loving care, balance and health is restored to fragile eco-systems or fragile spirits or fragile communities. Victory is sweet when sobriety is supported and sustained, when obstacles are overcome through support and courage and determination, when folks beat the odds, when we die well because we have lived well. The kind of victory implied by the unpopular wisdom of God is achieved not by “crushing the little people” or avoiding, denying, or trying to jump over pain and struggle and death. It is victory that happens by the grace of God who journeys with us through the pains of this world into a life that is more loving, wise, and whole.

When I stop at the cross

But I can’t see competition.

I can’t see unforgiveness.

I see surrender, sacrifice, salvation,

When I stop! … at the cross

That is what holds our life together…now and always.

[i] Douglas John Hall, The Confessing Church, Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996, p. 133.

[ii]Godfrey Birtill, from Celtic Daily Prayer