Sermon:Expect the Unexpected

I preached at Emmanuel URC today. I think it went rather well.
Peace,
Chris

Sermon-Expect the Unexpected

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be pleasing in your sight, O LORD.

Expect the unexpected—By way of introducing this theme, and of introducing myself, I would like to tell you how a young Lutheran from America has found himself in this pulpit today here at Emmanuel United Reformed Church in Cambridge England.
About this time two years ago I found myself within spitting distance of graduating from the University of Oregon, and unsure of what to do next. I knew I felt called to the ministry, in fact I had been accepted at Luther Theological Seminary Philadelphia; yet at the age of 21 was it time?—With the full intention of going straight to Seminary I, on a whim, applied to be a missionary in either Kenya or India. As the school year rolled on that initial whim of mine solidified into an idea, and as the school year ended the idea of Kenya or India cemented into an expectation.
I would go to India, home of Thomaside Christianity, away from the sterile Cultural Christianity of the West. I would go to Africa, where the Church is blossoming at an undreamed of pace and thriving in unexpected ways. Africa! India! Just saying their names gave them a certain power and significance.—They sent me to Essex.—
And so for a year I worked at St. Mark’s College, an Anglican youth retreat centre 15 miles south of here. I taught archery and trampoline, I cleaned rooms and looes, prepared meals, and served an inordinate amount of sherry to Bishops.
On occasion I could venture up to Cambridge, and sometimes I would visit the nearest fellow Volunteer, Emmanuel’s very own Melody. And soon enough Cambridge, this academic city on the hill that is talked about with hushed and reverent voices the world over became a concrete reality to me. I applied, was accepted, and am now doing an Old Testament M.Phil.
Two years ago I expected that I would be ½ way through my second year at Seminary now, instead I find myself before you here today, reminding you to expect the unexpected. –
When we read today’s lessons we can not help but be struck by the unexpected. In Jeremiah’s call we find an unexpected prophet, in Jesus’ dangerous words to his home congregation he enfolds an unexpected people into the open arms of God, and in Paul’s letter to the Corinthians we hear of an unexpected type of love.

“Ah, Lord God, Behold, I do not know how to speak for I am but a youth.” Ah. It sounds like Jeremiah has been startled. It sounds like someone has snuck up on his in the night and said boo. – In the Hebrew he says Ahah, the same word Gideon says when he realizes the man he’s been cheeky to is none other than the Angel of the LORD. It is the same word Ezekiel says when God tells him to cook his meals over human dung. It is the same word Jeremiah uses later in shock when the other prophets prophecy in contradiction to him.
That God would call a lad of untried tongue to prophecy to Judah at a time when “Terror is on every side” is astonishing. That He would call this young man to tell the king to his face that he is not administrating justice soundly is surprising. That God calls Jeremiah to proclaim that all is not well in the land, at a time when Babylon hovers over Jerusalem like a vulture in the desert, is amazing.—Yet, God’s main medium of activity in the world is through unexpected prophets. The pagan Abraham, the tongue tied Moses, the quazi-comic Jonah, the young woman Mary, the Hot headed sons of Zebedee, Stubborn Peter, and that persecutor of the church Paul.—Yes, the Bible is filled with unexpected prophets—

One of them, this Jesus of Nazareth, called the lowly son of a carpenter, called, in astonishment, “Joseph’s son” has been tempted in the wilderness, made a name for himself as a teacher in the surrounding area, and has arrived home. He reads from Isaiah 61 and 58 about the reconstitution of God’s people from the exile. The poor will hear good news, the captive will find release, the blind shall see, the oppressed will be free. Then as we reach today’s reading, things get funny, the unexpected happens. Jesus voices a question that may already have been in the air, something that may have been implied in the praise of the crowd, perhaps in the phrase “Joseph’s son.”
I would imagine that, for these people Jesus has become the hometown hero, Nazareth’s new favorite son. This local celebrity that Jesus has received has drowned out the radical message of God’s reign. A prophet isn’t accepted in his hometown because the hometown is too proud of their prophet. Too proud of his origins to stop and listen to the prophecy itself.
But Jesus refuses to be pegged down to Nazareth. He refuses to limit the length and breadth of God’s Kingdom. So he tells his friends and neighbors about an unexpected people. He points to the Syrians to the east and the people of Sidon to the west. These allusions to the book of Kings Jesus makes are a kind of practice run, an early draft, of the parable of the Good Samaritan. Jesus transforms old enemies into an unexpected and ambitious example of inclusion in the kingdom.

When I talk of these great and unexpected actions of long ago it would seem that I am only speaking of a what, not a why. I’ve spoken so far of symptoms, not causes.—We find today’s “Why” squashed between two chapters about spiritual gifts. This Why is of course Love, or Charity as rendered by those who translated the King James Bible. Now, when I think about the word charity it does not shine in the same way I suppose it did nearly 400 years ago. It has been tarnished by cynicism and rusted with overuse. It makes one think of a cruel governess tossing a coin to a beggar or a Lemony Snickett style uncle being far from charitable to his nieces and nephew. But I think this translation has a specificity lacking in the generalized term love. Further, love, as our 21st century ears hear it, plugged up by Hallmark and Hollywood, has been sentimentalized, sanitized, and secularized to the point where its meaning as intended by Paul is diminished, if not lost.
Charity, “A disposition to think favorably of others” “The giving of help, money, food, etc. to those in need.” Yes. This comes close to Paul’s meaning. Paul writes to Corinth about a certain type of love, Agape, unexpected, unwarranted, unmerited love.—A type of love linked to grace. It is a love that expects nothing in return, and is thus a sacrificial type of love. It is a love given by God and shared between people. It is a kind of love we can have for our enemies. It is an imitation of Christ and a following of his command to love God, and love our neighbor as ourselves.
And what does Paul say about this Agape love? He says it supercedes all works of the Spirit, without it they are nothing.—He also suggests something very striking, love is eternal. In saying this, he is lifting a curtain to give us a peek at the end of time, saying all this clangor will pass away and all that will remain is love.
Finally, Paul points out a why for this charitable, humble, love. We love in an Agape way because we see through the glass darkly. We are imperfect, fallible beings, comprehending only a chunk of creation. Knowing that, admitting that in our creeds and in our confessions. how can we react to our neighbors other than in patience and kindness, bearing all things, believing all things, hoping all things, and enduring all things. Being without jealousy or boastfulness, arrogance or rudeness, irritation or resentfulness, not insisting on our own way or rejoicing in wrong, but instead rejoicing in right.
With this love Jesus Christ recognized the equal merits of Galilean and Syrian, the people of Sidon and Nazareth. It is by this love that Jeremiah was compelled to preach hard truths.

Today’s readings confront us with three strands of the unexpected. We have before us the unexpected Prophet Jeremiah, the unexpected people let into the Kingdom despite the protests of those already in, and the unexpected love proclaimed to the Corinthians. Taken each separately they are beautiful concepts, edifying stories, and the proclamation of the Gospel.
Yet, if we braid them together and ground them in our present reality the kingdom crystallizes and God reigns in love.—If we expect the unexpected, recognizing that we see through a glass darkly, we can see with eyes of love, and reach out prophetically to all of God’s Children.

The sheer power of a people living out God’s love was made apparent to me in, you guessed it, an unexpected way, four years ago. I was volunteering at a homeless shelter, transporting laundry and donations by van. Sometimes a shelter resident would ride with and help me load or unload things.
There was one resident in particular who would ride with me often. He happened to have a swastika prominently tattooed on his forehead. We worked together for several weeks and during that time I did my best not to stare at that beastly thing, or ask any questions about it.
Then one day we were driving along and he said to me, “Chris, I know you look at it.”
“Look at what?” I asked.
“The swastika,” he replied.
I was –this- close to responding “What swastika,” but, by that time, I was staring at his forehead instead of the road, so I replied guiltily, “yeah. I do.”
“I got it while I was in prison down in Denver,” he said. –Just the kind of thing you want to hear while alone with a guy twice your size.
“Oh.”
He then told me how he had hated blacks and Latinos, though he used much stronger language than that.
“Oh,” I replied again, limply.
He continued, “Then I got out. No landlord wanted an ex-con as a renter. The only place that would let me in was an African American co-op. It took a while, but I just couldn’t hate them any more.”
Expect the unexpected.-A+A

Deep Thought Thursday: Appearances can be deceiving

You are off on your lunch break; you need to do some banking. You rush into the bank only to end up in a que. Ahead of you is a young foreigner in a leather biker jacket. He’s rather unshaven and wears his hair long and disheveled. He’s looking around, kind of confused, like he doesn’t entirely know what’s going on. He’s trying to look nonchalant about things, trying not to stick out. But he does. All the other patrons are little old ladies. He steps up to the teller, unzips his jacket, and pulls out a brick of cash, all in small unmarked bills and asks to deposit it.
Yeah. That was me this week. I had some awkwardness with paying for my tuition and ended up paying for it all (yes, an entire terms worth of tuition) in cash I got out of an automatic teller machine. Next-time electronic transfer, next time.
So, as the old saying goes don’t judge a book by its cover. What may have appeared to be a money-laundering scheme was in this case simply a Divinity Student trying to navigate International Banking.
Peace,
Chris

Fox news wrong, Obama is not a terrorist

Just stating the obvious.
Peace,
Chris

Richardson

I have to say because of his efforts in Darfur I think he's got my vote.
Peace,
Chris

Sunday's Story: A few visitors

It started off in a rush. Evin fainted in the boy’s locker room before gym class. He could almost remember coach Greyson trying to revive him. The other boys, in various states of dress, hovered over the beefy coach’s shoulders.
Then he was on a bed in a hospital room. Then his parents were following him as he rolled along on a bed to the operating room. His mother was holding his head, saying, “It’s going to be all right honey, its going to be all right.” His father followed along, holding her hand. They were a train of confusion, a medical engine pulling a paternal caboose.
Then the engineer in the form of a nurse disconnected the rear portion of the train, and he went into surgery.
“This won’t hurt a bit, just remember to breath,” said the Anesthetiziologist. He then cupped a plastic mask around Evin’s lips, “Breath deep.”
He did.
“One,” said the doctor.
The gas tasted like tangerines, tangerines and iodine, tangerines in his lungs.
“Two.”
Tangerines deep in his nostrils.
“Three.”
Tangerines clogging up his brain, wedging there like an unnoticed dress in a car door, catching mud and muck from the road that would never quite come out.
“Four! Keep breathing deep.”
His eyes closed. He was on a porch, that proverbial porch that old granddads are supposed to dispense wise advice to young children from.
“Five. That’s great.”
His brother, Curtis, sat there next to him. Curtis was young, not off in college, but still clean shaven.
“Six.”
He opened his eyes; the blue capped doctor was looking down at him. The clear plastic mask obscured some of Evin’s vision.
“Seven.”
He closed his eyes. His brother looked at him, and said, “Remember when you used to say you could fly.”
“Eight.”
“Yeah.”
“I told you you couldn’t. Or I’d ignore you. I was wrong. You can.”
“Nine.”
“I always told you I could.” Evin said. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t.
“Ten.”
And he flew, for a time. And then he opened his eyes, malformed blue doctors and red nurses floated around him. He couldn’t move.
He felt the pressure on his groin. It was a strange, outward, inward, upward, sensation, and then he felt the heat rumbling around in his chest, the heat right there in the pumping lifeblood, a mellow heat, increasing as the object stayed there, radiating, unnaturally, there. He could feel the IV too, butterfly needle tapped there against his knuckles.
It felt too much, all of it, and the world fled from him.
(to be continued)

It feels like Wyoming out here!

It is Windy today, I mean REALLY windy. Got wacked in the head with a branch (I'm fine) when coming home from Hebrew. I biked at one point, thought I was going to be carried away as I biked into the wind.
Peace,
Chris

Deep Thought Thursdays: All you need is love

All these things we do that come from God are mere manifestations of love. Now we see them as specific things, things that so easily become self-important idols. When the great trumpet sounds and the stained glass is finally shattered, when the mirror image is made manifest and enfleshed, when the sheet music becomes a symphony, when our own dreams are washed away in the great flood of daybreak, then we will see it as it truly is, love.

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Sunday's Story:Highlands Ranch

Here is the second of Luthermatrix's newest weekly feature, Sunday's Story.

Highlands Ranch

“They looks like Yaks,” Beemer said. He had been quiet all that morning. Kevin Bram wasn’t sure if the old cowhand’s heart was in it.
“Yep,” Kevin replied, still embarrassed at the homeliness of the cattle his brother had asked him to watch, “Sure do. Or Wooly mammoths.”
“Umhum,” Beemer agreed, chasing a sleek black longhorn away from the red Highland Cattle that they had separated out from amongst Bill Bram’s herd.
They looked out of place there on the Wyoming plains. Their fuzzy, overgrown, almost comical, appearance seemed to mock the lands sparsity, the stubby clumps of buffalo grass, the treeless expanses meeting the breathless, cloudless, blue, sky.
Bill had brought two dozen of them there two summers ago from Peterhead. Six months ago he’d bought another dozen from an outfit in Minnesota. By all accounts it was a good venture. By that first summer he was in the black. When Governor Freudenthal gave his speech about Wyoming’s role in the 21st century he used Highlands Ranch as a backdrop.
“You sure you want to do this Kevin?”
Bill had always been the odd one. Kevin never forgot seeing him for the first time at the Hospital. He was tiny, a little pale alien, with a few strands of red hair atop its head. Andrew and Kevin Bram had dark brown, nearly black, hair and Molly’s was not much lighter. Apparently Bill was the spitting image of Miriam, an aunt Kevin never met.
When their father would take them out to mend fences or tool on the bailer, or birth a calf, Bill was always distant. At first, they thought it was just because he was younger. As he got older though, they realized he was just different, “Like Miriam” his mother would always say. He’d go on long walks around the property, or watch ants, or have his head in some book. In short, he was never productive. “Like Miriam.”
“Yep Beemer, I’m sure.”
It came as a surprise to no one when Bill left for Cheyenne and took courses at L-trip. What did surprise them was when he came home unannounced and offered to sell his portion of the ranch to Kevin for 3,000 dollars. Kevin talked it over with Rachel, they’d gotten engaged that Christmas. He’d have been a fool not to, Bill’s part of the inheritance was worth at least ten times that. So they got a loan and Kevin gave his brother the check.
Bill cashed his check and announced he was going to Europe. Andrew didn’t like it any, thought his son didn’t know what he was doing going there, said as much, and said it often. Molly told Bill to get her a picture of the Eiffel Tower.
Beemer went to the cab of his beat up, low riding, brown Dodge and took out a tool kit from the floorboard.
Mom got a letter from Bill once a month and a post-card of the Eiffel Tower that summer. Bill was a tour guide in Spain, a waiter in Italy. When Rachel and Kevin got married they received a bottle of Saint-Emilion and a fancy cutlery set from Belgium.
In 1990 they had their first child, Henry, and that same year they received a package postmarked from Berlin. It contained a piece of concrete from the Wall, and a picture of Bill kissing an East German woman.
Being all bunched together as they were, the red cattle were getting nervous. They stamped their feet and tried to go as they pleased. Kevin sauntered around their perimeter on Betsy, keeping them in line.
Then seven years ago Kevin got a letter from Bill about this Highland Cattle nonsense, along with pictures of the red beasts; big, snot mouthed, fur covering their eyes.
Bill just needed 3,000 Pound Sterling to get things off the ground. He’d met a man in Glasgow that wanted to unload his family’s holdings up North for next to nothing. Bill promised his brother a double return on his money. Kevin wrote back, saying that he didn’t have that much. It wasn’t true, but they did have a fourth mouth to feed, James, and it seemed prudent to save.
They didn’t hear much from Bill for a few years, though Molly got cards from Poland, Greece, Moscow, and then again from Scotland.
Beemer took out the wire cutters. He got to the fence, and stopped. He turned and looked at the cows, the shag nearly covered their eyes that looked at him for a clue as to what was happening.
“He’ll be in Denver ‘til late,” Kevin reassured him.
Then one day Andrew Bram asked his son to pick Bill up from DIA. He went, after all his father had told him to. He’d waited in Denver, looking at that damn flight schedule. The 1429 out of Heathrow arrived three hours late.
His brother returned with the clothes on his back (dark slacks, a green woolen sweater, and scuffed shoes) two large books (“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare” and “The Open Society and Its Enemies”) and a briefcase (containing various contracts, deeds, and governmental forms) and nothing else. Nothing else that is save a monstrously full red beard and long unkempt red hair that hung around his face.
Kevin found out later that his father had lent Bill the 3,000 Pounds and was now a shareholder of Ambler and Bram Agriculture, a multinational involved in farming throughout the European Union. He also found out that Bill would be raising his cattle not even 15 miles away from home.
So Beemer cut the wires, quite a few of them. The two men mounted their horses and rode to the rear of the herd. They started to move them toward the holes in the fence.
They bolted like sheep, red blurs scattering everywhere. The horses were startled, Betsy threw Kevin. Some of Bill’s cattle went through the fence, but most returned to be in among the typical black Wyoming cattle.

Writing Contest

This sounds cool, the "American Idol" of writing... I know I'm going to submit my book (the question is which one?)!
Peace,
Chris

A friend of mine is backpacking in Argentina!

Um... I guess we aren't following the ISG at all

Deep Thought Thursdays: Practice is important

I've thought some about what type of weekly features to have on Luthermatrix. I've come up with two, Deep Thought Thursdays and Sunday's Stories. Judah, or anyone else, if you have any good ideas for weekly features let me know, I'm still open to suggestions.
Peace,
Chris


Practice is Important
This past term I have been learning Hebrew. Yes REALLY learning Hebrew. Every day I go over verb conjugations, look at flash cards, and translate both from Hebrew to English and English to Hebrew. I’d done Hebrew before this year of course, but I hadn’t maintained a consistent routine of study. I had done class work, but that was it. Likewise when I learned German and Latin in High school, and the Clarinet in Junior High. I did the work, but no practice.
Work is what is required. Work is “the real thing.” Work is where brilliant insights are made and blinding flashes of inspiration flicker from some muse. Practice is the cornerstone of wrok. It is the furnace in which the tools of work are forged. Practice is what is necessary for the required. All the flashes of insight in the world are short-circuited without practice. A muse without practice would be emaciated, she would not speak, only grunt.
And I say all this not only about learning languages, but about living. What we do not consciously commit ourselves to maintaining will fall away.

Reader Input: bloging series

As those who read my blog know I've been rather lax in my blogging. I want to fix this, and the best way I can think of would be to start some sort of weekly feature on my blog. Problem being I'm short on ideas, so I'm asking you, the reader, to suggest a weekly feature for Luthermatrix.
Peace,
Chris

Are we at war again?

So, this reminds me of when one of our drones blew up a jeep in Yeman a couple of years ago. Basicly my question is are we at war in Somolia or do missle attacks not count as an act of war? Is this a 'police action'? How common is this kind of thing?
Not that I'm exactly Somolia intervention, I'm just wondering what this kind of attack is?
Peace,
Chris

1-20-09