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To live by grace

6/18/2017

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​Kent M. Organ, Interim Pastor
Text: Romans 5:6-11


To Live By Grace 

    “While we still were sinners  Christ died for us.”  This sentence  is the heart of the gospel.  John Newton  understood that sentence  fully.  Two hundred-some years ago,  he was pastor  for the people of Olney  in Buckinghamshire, England.  He was also a hymn writer,  his best known hymn being  “Amazing Grace.”  But long before that,  John Newton  served as a sailor  and then captain  of a slave ship.  He transported  African men, women and children  to distant ports  where they would be sold.  He first went to sea  at age eleven.  And over time, he coarsened, and gained a reputation  for vulgarity and depravity.  Newton looked back  on his sea-faring years  as  one continuous round  of rebellion and excess.

    But in 1748,  his ship was caught in a storm at sea, and he experienced  a dramatic conversion.  He renounced  slave trading – gave it up – and later,  accepted a call to the Christian ministry.  He became  one of the great evangelical preachers of the eighteenth century.  The hymn “Amazing Grace”  is  John Newton’s summary  of God’s transformation  of his life.  In the Olney churchyard, there is a marker  with the epitaph he himself wrote.  It says:
JOHN NEWTON
CLERK
ONCE AN INFIDEL AND LIBERTINE
A SERVANT OF SLAVERS IN AFRICA
WAS
BY THE RICH MERCY OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOUR
JESUS CHRIST
PRESERVED, RESTORED, PARDONED,
AND APPOINTED TO PREACH THE FAITH
HE HAD LONG SOUGHT TO DESTROY

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

    Newton experienced what the Apostle Paul learned  in his own experience,  the astonishing gift  of God’s redemptive acceptance,  in no way deserved.  Paul, who had been  a deadly persecutor  of the followers of Christ,  was startled to discover that  despite his ruthlessness,  even “while I was still a sinner,” he wrote in Romans, “Christ  died for me.”  

* * * *

    Victor Hugo’s novel, Les Miserables  is another story  of God’s amazing grace.  As Les Miz begins – you’ve probably seen the stage play – its central character, Jean Valjean,  has just been released from nineteen years in prison  for stealing a loaf of bread.  Bitter, ferocious, seething with the injustice of it all,  with no place else to go,  he turns  to the church,  where a bishop  befriends him, takes him in,  feeds him, and gives him a place to sleep.  But during the night,  Jean Valjean  slips into the bishop’s quarters,  steals some silverware,  and flees.
    
He is quickly apprehended by the police  and hauled back to the rectory.  He is caught  red-handed – undeniably guilty – but to everyone’s astonishment, the bishop says,  mercifully,  “Oh,  Jean Valjean,  when I gave you the silver,  I meant for you to have the candlesticks as well.  Here.  Take them.  And don’t forget, you promised  to use the silver  to become an honest man.”
    
The police are left with no choice  but to release Valjean without charge.  He is not innocent.  Everybody knows it.  But innocence  has been bestowed on him.  This is a parable  about the grace of God.

    God’s love  initiates,  doesn’t wait for our prior worthiness.  (It would be a long wait.)  God  makes the first move,  and does so  again and again.  Continuous new beginnings  are what the Old and New Testaments  are all about  and, above all,  it is what  the cross of Christ  signifies.  God doesn’t wait for worthiness.  God  creates  worthiness.

* * * *

    Let’s do  some theological work,  starting with  an old-fashioned word  that is straight out of our  Reformation heritage.  The word  is  “righteousness.”  And what is  righteousness,  but the opposite of what we  are  by ourselves,  given  things we have done,  and  things we have left  undone.  “While we still were sinners,  Christ  died for us.”

    Martin Luther,  commenting on this verse from Romans,  called our righteousness  an “alien righteousness,” because it is a righteousness, like Jean Valjean’s,  that is not of our own making;  it is bestowed on us  by someone else.  We are accepted, not because of our worthiness – what we  have done, or not done,  or hope  or promise to do – but because  of God’s redemptive and persistent love  for us.  “Alien righteousness” is God’s  gift of grace  to us.

    But then, Martin Luther suggested  another kind of righteousness, which he called “proper righteousness.”  By proper righteousness, he meant  the good  that we ourselves may do.  Proper righteousness is our living into  God’s acceptance of us – in gratitude,  taking on the tasks  of mercy and forgiveness  and responsibility  for which the gift  of loving us in spite of ourselves  was given in the first place.

    Now, we  mainline Protestants  characteristically  have  some difficulty  understanding  “alien righteousness.”  We are generally not  people whose  personal biographies resonate with

I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

We tend to be  decent, law-abiding people of moderation,  not  given to excess,  making our own way  responsibly  in the world.  We  are not  used to thinking of ourselves  as the “once was lost, now am found” kind of Christian.  But – if we look back, and are honest – there have been times, haven’t there?  when we also  failed to live up  to the standards  of our parents,  our communities,  our own selves.  There were periods  in our own histories  about which – when we remember  what we did, what we said, what  hardly anybody knew – we can’t help  but  shudder  and thank God  that  somehow  we got past it, got over it.  We were forgiven.  It is  forgotten.  Amazing  grace.

    And if  we dare to remember  our own  painful experiences  with the forgiving grace of God,  it will surely help  us  to forgive and embrace others  in their  life struggles,  and to live our lives  with gratitude  and generosity.

* * * *

    In Les Miserables,  you may remember what happened  to Jean Valjean after the incident with the bishop’s stolen silverware.  The story relates  the step-by-step transformation  of a defiant and cynical outcast  into  a socially responsible, generous, loving, even noble  human being.

  Jean Valjean’s metamorphosis  isn’t a sudden turn-around.  It is full of setbacks and heartbreaks.  Which is the way life is,  isn’t it?

    Victor Hugo called Les Miserables  “a drama in which the hero  is the Infinite, the second character  [humanity].”  Jean Valjean’s story  is a fictionalized telling  of God’s way in the world,  and  with each one of us:  each day  with challenges  for our renewal and transformation,  each day  learning from the past, internalizing God’s gift,  responding  in love,  making mistakes,  reevaluating,  realigning,  growing.

    In the closing pages of the novel,  there is a glimpse of the essence of the story.  It would be very easy to miss  because Victor Hugo is an artist;  he is careful  not to shout, not to preach.  He speaks his deepest convictions  in a whisper,  so the reader may  fail  to recognize them.  But, at the very end,  when Jean Valjean is very old and ill,  he lies alone in his bed.  He feels for his own pulse, but can’t find it.  Driven  to try to tie things together before he dies,  Valjean, with great difficulty and effort,  gets out of bed,  dresses,  and goes to his desk  to write a letter to those whom he loves.  There are some things about the past that he wants to explain.  And what you might miss  is  that, as the old man shuffles across the room toward his writing desk,  he reaches for the silver candlesticks – the same candlesticks the bishop gave him years before.

    Valjean moves the candlesticks to the desk  and lights the candles  as he sits to write the epilogue to his long pilgrimage  toward  a moral and responsible life.  Victor Hugo doesn’t say it.  But the words of the bishop echo off the page  for those who remember  how the story began:  “Don’t forget, Valjean.  Don’t forget: you promised to use the silver  to become an honest man.”

            Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
                  -- with thanks to Buddy Ennis, Linda Jo McKim and Kenneth Osbeck

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The view from a hawley lake cabin

6/11/2017

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Text: Psalm 24:1-6, Matthew 6:25-33

​
Today’s sermon is in response  to the President’s decision last week  to pull America out  of the Paris Climate Accord,  which was signed by all but two  nations, Syria and Nicaragua, with  Nicaragua’s objecting that the agreement didn’t go far enough. In a statement, United Church of Christ leaders have called this “a tragic mistake,”  going on to applaud  the Parliament of World’s Religions’ calling the decision  “scientifically, economically, medically, politically and morally wrong.”

I am sorely tempted to indulge myself in  a righteous political rant.  But I know  it is wiser, and worthier,  for my response today  to be  more thoughtful,  theological,  and Biblical. So,  we begin  with the Psalmist’s reminder  that  “The earth  is  the Lord’s,  and all  that is in it.”

* * * *

Vicky and I used to live in southern Arizona,  which is  desert.  In Tucson, temperatures  of 112,  113,  114  degrees Fahrenheit were  commonplace.  So anytime in the summer  we could get up  into Arizona’s “high country,”  we would.

I remember the August week  we spent in the White Mountains,  at the lakeside cabin of friends.  Hawley Lake  is 8,000 feet above sea level.  So we left behind  the bake-oven terrain  of cactus and lizard  to enter the green environment  of deer and bear,  of Ponderosa pines and Indian paint brush,  where it rained  almost every day.  It was a restorative week for us.

Especially, that summer, it was 1988.  In our home states of Ohio and Illinois, farmers were desperate,  their crops withering from drought.  And that summer  a NASA scientist  testified before Congress  about  what he called  “the first unmistakable indication  of  the ‘greenhouse effect.’”

The NASA scientist, James Hansen, said the warming trend had almost certainly been caused  by the burning of fossil fuels,  by other gases emitted from human activities,  and by wide-scale deforestation.  Because gases,  discharged into the atmosphere,  act like the glass in a greenhouse,  making the earth  warmer and warmer.  “We have altered the global climate,” Dr. Hansen said, “in a manner that will affect  life on earth  for centuries to come.”  That was 1988.

In the twenty-nine years since,  it has gotten worse.  Plant and animal species are dying off.  Glaciers and ice are melting.  Some scientists say  there will be  no  polar ice cap  by 2060.  A United Nations panel  on climate change predicts  permanent drought and famine in Africa,  massive flooding in low-lying Asian deltas, and severe hardship  for billions  of people.  Hurricanes, tornados and tsunamis  may be ahead  repeatedly, not only for Asian islands,  but also… cities like  Miami, Charleston, Washington, New York and Boston  are threatened  by massive flooding. The co-chair of the UN panel pointed out  that these conclusions, from the research of thousands of scientists,  are based on changes  already being observed.  “This is not speculation,” said Martin Parry. “This  is  empirical. We can measure it.”  

Which all  brings back  the sadness – grief, really – that I first felt  during that  baking summer of 1988,  when I read the headline: “Scientist says, Greenhouse effect  is here.”

* * * *

A book  I took along  that August – to Hawley Lake, in the White Mountains of Arizona – was Robert Heilbroner’s  Inquiry  into the Human Prospect,  because  he had warned  in 1974  about  “global thermal pollution.”  So up there,  in God’s wonderfully  ever-green Creation,  I read,  in a chapter titled,  “What Has Posterity Ever Done for Me?”  these words:

“Will [hu]mankind survive?  Who knows?”  “But,” Heilbroner went on,  “the question I want to put  is more searching:  Who cares?  It is clear  that too many of us  do not care – or  do not care enough.  How many of us  would be willing to give up  some minor convenience –say, the use of aerosols – in hope  that this might extend the life of [humanity] on earth  by a hundred years?  Suppose we all knew...that humankind could not survive  a thousand years  unless we gave up  our wasteful diet[s]..., abandoned all pleasure driving, [and] cut back on every use of energy that was not essential...  Would we care enough for posterity  to pay the price  of its  survival?

“I doubt it,” Robert Heilbroner wrote.  “A thousand years is unimaginably distant.  Even a century  far exceeds our powers of empathetic imagination.  By [then],  I shall probably have been dead  for three quarters of a century.  My children will also likely be dead,  and my grandchildren... will be in their dotage.  What does it matter to me, then,  what life will be like?  Why should I lift a finger  to affect events  that will have  no more meaning for me  seventy-five years  after my death  than those that happened  seventy-five years  before I was born?

“There is no rational answer,” Robert Heilbroner wrote.  “There is no rational answer  to that  terrible question.”

* * * *

And so,  despite decades of warnings  that this  finite  biosphere  is fragile,  we keep doing  what we have been doing.  In the terrible trade-off between  economics and the environment – the near-term emphasis on jobs  over against the long term question  of  planetary survival – once again  the immediate has been chosen  over against  the supposedly  further-off.  But, friends,  the limits  to  our  short-sightedness – and our excesses – are coming  ever closer.

I once heard our situation described  as our  “out-running our headlights.”  It’s like  a driver, at night,  going  so fast  that when the brick wall  in the road ahead  appears in the headlights,  there isn’t enough time  to stop the car  before hitting it.

At last,  we see it:  the brick wall ahead,  called  “global warming,” or “climate change” – not to mention  the hole  in the ozone layer,  deforestation,  pollution of the air and waters,  over-population.  Even  if we hit the brakes now,  there are  collisions ahead.

Do we care?  Well, we do.  But how much do we care?  And how much  does the rest of the American citizenry care?  And our public leaders?  Enough  to make significant changes? 

But then,  why should we?  “There is no  rational  answer,” said Robert Heilbroner.  But there is  a Scriptural answer:  “The earth  is the Lord’s,  and all  that is in it...”  

* * * *

When it was time to leave  Hawley Lake and the mountains,  we bustled about the cabin, cleaning up,  in gratitude to the people who let us use it.  With broom and dustpan, soap and sponge,  we got the cabin ready  for those  who would come after us. Why?

You know.  Because – we didn’t own it.  It wasn’t ours.  We were guests.  That’s it.  That’s the point.  “The earth is the Lord’s.”  We don’t own it.  It isn’t ours.  We are guests.

There was a brochure  I found in the cabin,  which advertised the nearby Sunrise ski resort; it’s owned by the Apache tribe of northeast Arizona.  There was a message in the brochure from the tribal chief  that caught my eye.  “Come...” he said.  “Come, share with us  this gift  from the Creator  that we  carefully protect.”

* * * *

When our European ancestors  came  to this great land,  they brought with them  an understanding of our relationship to nature  that was quite different from that  of  Native Americans. Our pioneering forbearers  read in their Bibles, 

    “Be fruitful and multiply;  fill the earth and subdue it...
    
“The fear of you and the dread of you  shall be put upon every beast...
    
“Look at the birds... Are you  not  of more value  than they?”

And  “subdue the earth”  our ancestors did,  leading to  the greatest national, industrial energy,  and power and prosperity  in the history of the world.  But – at a price.

“Subdue the earth,” it says,  in Genesis 1,  the first chapter of the Book.  But there is another strand  in our Biblical heritage.  And it is now past time  for us as a people  to heed it.

It is true  that the Noah story  ends  with the fateful deliverance of Creation  into human hands.  But there is also  Genesis 2,  in which  Adam is invited  to be  God’s care taker,  giving the animals names,  tending the Creator’s  garden.

In one strand,  all creation is implicated in the Fall,  but in another,  only  human beings are fallen – because we have misused our  free will – while nature  and the rest of God’s creatures  remain  unimpaired.

In one strand,  the names  for God  stress  power and authority – names like  “Lord” and “King” – emphasizing hierarchy,  suggesting  that earth  is  to be dominated.  But in  another stand,  God’s  presence in nature is emphasized – through images  like  “living water,”  “shelter,”  even  “womb” – which help us to recognize  the world  as cherished  and embraced  by God.

In one strand,  nature is  the wilderness,  the abyss,  chaos,  an enemy  to be overcome;  but in another strand,  nature is the realm  of  renewal,  refuge,  retreat,  revelation.

We can no longer act as if  we are  above nature,  or  against nature.  Human destiny  is intertwined  with nature.  We are  in nature,  according to the plan of God – to whom  we and the earth  belong.
Some of our  industrial, technological,  “modern” concepts  of progress and growth  need to be redefined.  And the time to do this  is surely now.  There are built-in walls ahead  in this,  God’s  precious  world.

With thanks to Elizabeth Dotson-Gray, Patricia Fort, Jeffrey Kluger and George Williams
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what are you trying to say?

6/4/2017

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Pentecost Sunday
Trinity United Church of Christ, Deerfield
Kent M. Organ, Interim Pastor
Texts: Genesis 11:1-9; Acts 2:1-21


What Are You Trying to Say?

    At Pentecost  a group of people  were able to speak  in such a way  that they were understood  by everybody.  It was a considered a miracle, a gift  of the Holy Spirit:  to be understood by everybody.  It makes you wonder,  what language they used.
    The word “Pentecost”  comes  from the day when it happened.  Pentecost is a Jewish festival  that arrives  fifty days after Passover – the word Pentecost meaning  “fifty.”  So, on this particular Pentecost,  it was also  fifty days  after  Jesus’ Resurrection.

    The disciples assembled in Jerusalem.  They were expecting something.  Jesus had told them  not to leave the city  until they had received power  there.  So they gathered, and continued to gather,  praying, singing songs, reading the Scriptures, sharing a meal “in remembrance of [him].” And suddenly, on that  morning,  there was a rush of wind,  and there appeared to them  tongues of fire.

    In the Hebrew Bible  fire and wind  are  familiar disguises  of God.  God approached Moses  in the burning bush.  God appeared in the desert after the Exodus  as  “a pillar of fire  by night.”  And the Hebrew word for Spirit  is the same word  as for wind.  
    So  when fire and wind  both appear,  this is major, something  world class.  God is here  in an extraordinary way, giving the followers of Jesus  an unexpected gift, the gift to speak  in such a way  that everyone will understand you.

* * * *
    Pentecost is a wonderful story in itself.  But it is really  the sequel  to another story,  about the Tower of Babel – Babel  probably being the root word  for  Babylon,  where there used to be  a huge tower  that  dominated the city.  

    Archaeologists say  Babylon  was a magnificent city, a remarkable achievement of human civilization.  But…  given the threat  that the empire to the north was  for ancient Israel,  in the view of the Bible  Babylon  was  an evil city, built on the deadly sin  called  pride.

    The Tower of Babel story begins, in the Revised Standard Version,  with this  intriguing sentence:  “Now the whole earth had one language  and few  words.”  What  “few words” do you suppose they were  if  the world  was the way  God intended.  
In the beginning,  there was  “one language  and few words.”  But then,  according to the ancient myth,  human beings built a tower  climbing to the heavens.  They are trying to usurp heaven, trying  to take the place  of God.  In the stories of ancient cultures, we see this kind of  over-reaching pride  most often  in Greek mythology.  The Greeks called it  hubris.  Hubris is the arrogance  that goes before a fall.  Which is the point of the Babel narrative.  With the result being:  many  languages,  many words – and no  communication.

    The Tower of Babel story  is a description of the human condition.  Writ large in the news  these days.  Just listen to the bravado,  the  boasting and bluster,  that emanates from the highest precincts in Washington these days.  Illustrating  humanity’s besetting sin,  pride.  And pride’s consequences  are  alienation  and separation.  Its cure  is  modesty,  humility,  which is a language  spoken  so that  all can be included, all can comprehend.  It makes you wonder,  What could that  original language have been  that all  people  could understand?

* * *
    There is something else about these texts  that we shouldn’t miss.  They both  concern cities:  Babylon  and Jerusalem.  Both  were real cities in the ancient world.  But in the Bible  they take on  a mythical dimension.  In the Bible, Babylon symbolizes  what is wrong with the world.  And Jerusalem  symbolizes  God’s plan  for the world.

    Babylon is the image  many people have of the city.  That suspicion  is deeply imbedded in  middle-American consciousness.  It is as if cities  are  intrinsically evil,  and small towns are inherently  good  and virtuous.  Generally,  Americans feel little loyalty to cities – except maybe  to their sports teams.  
    I remember my first exposure to Chicago.  My dad was doing post-graduate study at the University of Chicago.  I was in the eighth grade.  I came home from my first day at Ray School  very excited.  In my class  there were  Filipinos, Japanese, Germans, a Swedish girl, a Finnish boy, Mexicans, “Negroes,” and… – to me, this was the climax – and…  a boy from Atlanta, Georgia!  Chicago is amazingly  multinational,  multi-ethnic,  multi-religious.  How much more so now,  60-some years later.   A babel of tongues  are spoken in Chicago.  Is the city – like Babylon?  Or Jerusalem?

    “Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven   living in Jerusalem.”  Acts then proceeds to name them all:  Parthians, Medes, Elamites, Mesapotamians, the whole lot of them,  all  named,  so you would know  every nation and culture  was represented in that city.
    If Babylon  means babel, confusion,  Jerusalem  means peace,  harmony,  symbolically.  The name Jerusalem  is derived  from shalom, the Hebrew word  for peace:  Jeru – shalom,  the foundation  of  shalom.  It was the vision of the prophets  that some day  all the peoples of the earth  would come to Jerusalem, the city of peace,  and live together as one family.  It’s the vision of the Book of Revelation, the last book of the Bible,  that the perfect city  is  Jerusalem,  now existing in heaven, waiting  until history is complete,  when God’s will  is done  “on earth  as it is in heaven.”  Then  Jerusalem, the perfect city,  will descend to earth  and God  will dwell with us.
    What a beautiful image:  the city  as the model of what God has in mind  for the world, a place where all people  of all nations, all of God’s creation,  will dwell together in peace.  And at Pentecost  it was  that way  for a few days, or  maybe  just a few hours.  The point is, the day of Pentecost is remembered  as one extraordinary instance  when it happened:  God’s Spirit came down.  And Jerusalem, the city of shalom / salaam, became for a moment  what it is called to be,  a place where all  peoples  are reconciled  and remade  as one.

    Here’s the point:  it happened  because  these followers of Jesus  were empowered by the Holy Spirit  to transform  the city  that was filled with a babel of tongues  into one  community,  with a language that all  people  could comprehend.  If we wonder  what that language was,  it was surely  the language  of reconciliation  and understanding. 
* * * *
    We, in our time,  face a similar challenge.  America is now filled  with people and traditions  from every nation under heaven.  Every one of the world’s religions  can now be encountered in this country.  The question is:  What do we have here?  Babylon?  Or Jerusalem?  Is this  a curse?  or a blessing?  Clearly, a lot of middle America has decided that this  is Babel.  And wants to keep  racial and religious minorities  out. 

    But I would suggest  in light of Pentecost  that we, followers of Jesus,  have  no choice  but to see this  as a blessing.  God has invited us – and others – to be ambassadors of hospitality and reconciliation,  to speak in such a way  that all people can understand,  to challenge  whatever continues to alienate peoples,  and to create communities  in which  all the diversity of God’s creation  may meet.  
    Jesus said to the disciples, “Stay in Jerusalem.”  And they did,  until they received power  to discern a new city.  That power  enabled them to speak  so as to be understood.  The language they spoke  was a language of reconciliation.
    There is no question what the content of the message was.  It’s recorded in the second chapter of Acts.  It’s Peter’s sermon.  In it  he proclaimed  what God did in Jesus Christ,  and everybody understood that  in their own language.  That’s the crux of it.  It has to be spoken  in such a way  that it will be heard.
    I don’t expect it will be heard  if we proclaim it the way Peter did,  standing on the street corner  and shouting it.  Today,  that delivers a different message.  People just shake their heads and walk on by.  Briskly.  So,  what  language  would recreate the miracle of Pentecost  today,  the miracle of  universal  understanding?
    We search  for such a language  in ecumenical and interfaith efforts.  Your Council sought such a language  by signing the “Out of Many, One” anti-bigotry statement.  The Rainbow Flag out front is an attempt also.  Underneath such endeavors  there is one  original miracle.  That basic  Pentecost miracle  is simple,  transforming, persuasive – and  it can’t be faked.
It is  love.  Love  is the language  that all people understand.  Love is surely  the original language  with  few words.​

  • with thanks to Raymond J. Bakke, Mark Trotter and D. J. Wiseman
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    Pastor Dale

    For me, the intersection of faith and life is full of insight and surprise. Browse here for sermons and other meditations and musings.

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