Us vs Them

Despite all the statistics regarding church decline, the vast majority of Americans still profess some sort of Christian faith. So why do we seem to hate each other so? Why do we act as though anyone who disagrees with us is our enemy. And even if that were true, didn't Jesus tell us to love our enemies, too?

Today's reading from Ephesians says this. "And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with which you were marked with a seal for the day of redemption. Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, together with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you." So how was it we decided this didn't apply to some neighbors? (Both conservatives and liberals seem equally good at demonizing their neighbors on the other side.)

I read a column recently that suggested American politics has become dysfunctional in part because the Cold War ended. Without a common enemy, we turned our animosities toward one another. The September 11 terrorist attacks briefly united us around a common threat, but Al Qaeda turned out not to be terrifying enough to keep us united.

Now I don't know if I want to lay all the blame for our toxic partisanship on the Cold War's demise, but it does make a certain sense. We humans seem to have an innate fear of "the other," of those who are different from us. And once we label that other an enemy, demonizing them and seeing them as sub-human, un-American, or dangerous makes it much easier to hate them. No need to discuss or consider the viewpoints of such folks.

Yet Christian faith is about becoming one with the other through Christ. Elsewhere in Ephesians it says, "For (Christ) is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us." This is referring to a Jew versus Gentile divide and hostility, but that was simply the primary dividing line the early church faced. We have our own.

The scariest part about hostility between groups is that we start to think things would be better without "them," whoever we mean by "them." We decide that we don't want them in our denomination, our neighborhood, our government, etc. Our world would be so much better if they simply ceased to be. At that point, no matter how "right" our views may be, we've ceased to be a true church, a true community,  a true society. You might even say we've ceased to be truly human because we've defined human as "like us" rather than as the beloved children God sees when looking at every single one of us, and every single one of them.

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Reminded of Our Calling

Earlier today I was flipping through the new Presbyterian hymnal, looking at the hymns it recommended for weddings. (My wife had asked if I had any thoughts on good hymns for our daughter's upcoming wedding.) One of the suggestions was a baptism hymn entitled, "I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry." As hymns go, it's a newbie, written in the 1980s, but I've heard it sung a few times and like the tune. I began to read the verses, but tears made it difficult.

I'm not certain what caused the tears. I suppose it was some intersection of thinking about a child now grown along with the notion of God always there alongside. If it gets used at the wedding, I doubt I'll be able to sing it.

That hymn and its impact on me were still fresh when I read today's lectionary passage from Ephesians, where the Christians at Ephesus are urged to "to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called..."  And I thought about my life and my family and my faith and how easy it is sometimes to live life without much sense of God there alongside or with much appreciation of loved ones. How easy it is to neglect those relationships, to take them for granted and fail to nurture and tend them. That goes equally for family relationships and the divine one.

I life worthy of the one to which I am called surely requires a certain attentiveness that I do not always practice. The busyness of work and life can push off to the sides the very things that life is all about. Jesus says the core of our lives is about love, love of God and of neighbor. (I'm pretty sure family gets counted in the neighbor part.) Yet I often find myself preoccupied with things that are not about loving God or neighbor, not even those closest to me. I get focused on tasks and addressing all the things that make me anxious, many of which are totally out of my control.

A life worthy of the calling to which you have been called... I wonder if the words of the hymn struck me so because they reminded of my truest calling, everyone's truest and deepest calling, which at its core is about love.

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Sermon video: Holy Waiting

Audios of sermons and worship are available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: Holy Waiting

Acts 1:6-14

Holy Waiting

James Sledge                                                                                       June 1, 2014

Back in my days as a corporate pilot, I would tell people who asked about what I did for a living that I flew planes for free, but I got paid for waiting. Corporate pilots tend to take the executives somewhere early in the morning, then sit around all day. You get good at waiting.

A lot of airports had movies you could watch. Some had sleeping rooms where you could crash after an early morning flight. Me, I read a lot; I carried my running gear. Some pilots carried golf clubs. We found ways to make the time pass quickly until the return trip home.

However, passengers could make the time pass more slowly. With a 5:00 pm departure time, I would start getting ready around 4:00; file flight plans, get ice, coffee, and any catering we might have. And then I would hope the people would get there somewhere near 5:00. When they didn’t show until 7:00, those two hours often felt longer than the entire day.

After one early morning flight, the CEO said, "I’ve a quick meeting then  need to get right back. I’ll be here no later than 9:30 am." And so I didn't get out my running shoes or book. I got the plane fueled, refilled the coffee and ice, filed a flight plan, and began to wait. I waited and waited and waited. At lunchtime, I thought about running out to grab a bite but didn't dare. If I left, I knew he would show up, ready to leave that instant.

Around 6:30 that evening he walked in. "We ran a little late," he said. "Oh really," I thought . But of course I didn't say it. I just smiled and said something about that being the whole point of having your own airplane.

How many of you enjoy waiting? How many of you relish the thought of a trip to get your driver's license renewed, or a little quality time in the doctor's waiting room? At least with smartphones, you can catch up on emails, read the paper, or do something productive. Because what is worse than simply waiting and not knowing how long the wait will be?

That's where our scripture story leaves the disciples this morning. Easter is 40 days past. The disciples have seen the risen Jesus repeatedly, and he’s continued to teach them about the kingdom, about the coming of God's new day. And he has also told them to sit tight, to remain in Jerusalem and wait for the promised gift of the Holy Spirit.

Yet after all the time they've spent with Jesus, both during his ministry and in the 40 days since Easter, the disciples still seem confused. "Lord is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?" All that post resurrection continuing education, and they still think Jesus will toss out the Romans and bring back the glory days of King David?

“Don't worry about such things,” Jesus says to them and to us. You're obviously not quite ready, but you are going to be my witnesses in all the world. You will be empowered by the Spirit, and then you will be able to act and live and speak in ways that let people see me in you.

Then Jesus is gone, and the disciples really don't know what to do. They stand there staring up at where they last glimpsed him. I wonder how long they would have just stood there staring if angels hadn’t showed up. Then they go back to Jerusalem. And there they wait. But they don't just wait. They wait, together, the whole community. They devote themselves to prayer, together.

Doubting Disciples

If you're the churchy sort, you probably know that today's gospel reading contains the final verses from Matthew. You may also know that it's often called "The Great Commission" because here Jesus commissions the disciples, and through them the Church, for their work.

As you might imagine, the passage comes in for a fair amount of attention. I've read it countless times, and a couple of things almost always come to mind when I encounter it. The first is the disciples' doubt. They have gone to the mountain in Galilee as they were instructed in order to meet the risen Jesus, and now they do. And Matthew tells us, "When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted."

I had to translate this passage from the Greek as part of a seminary assignment, and I still remember discovering that there is no "some" in the Greek. Perhaps it can be implied, but my translation said, "When they saw  him, they worshiped; but they doubted." And the professor didn't correct me. But whether some or all doubted, their doubt still pretty amazing. It's one thing for me to doubt. I never watched Jesus be executed and then saw him walking around. But these guys did. And they doubt? Interesting.

The other thing I most always think about when reading this passage is what Jesus actually does and doesn't tell them to do. He tells them to make disciples, and he goes on to explain that this gets done by baptizing folks and by "teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you." But nowhere in this does he make any mention of belief.

I think the reason I so often notice doubt and disciple making in this passage is because they seem somewhat at odds with my experience of church. True, I encountered a fair amount of Jesus' teachings growing up in the church, and there was some expectation that one should follow these teachings. Still, I got the distinct impression that the real core of Christian faith was about "believing in Jesus." Faith, believing in Jesus (sometimes understood as not doubting) was what got you the divine seal of approval. And so the church's work was to create believers.

Now I won't suggest that being a disciple doesn't require a certain amount of belief, some level of trust or faith that Jesus' ways are the right ones. But the ending of Matthew's gospel depicts a Jesus less concerned about doubt and more concerned about what we do. Jesus seems to prefer doubting doers over adamant believers.

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May 18 sermon video: The Kingdom Comes

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

May 11 sermon video: A Glimpse of What's Possible

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

God of the Land

I recall reading a statement some years ago about how many a plan to read the Bible from beginning to end had faltered amidst the pages of Leviticus. Today's verses could certainly cause such a problem, not because they contain a numbing list of rules and cultic regulations, but because they feature a disturbing picture of God. God speaks of turning against a disobedient Israel and utterly destroying them. There are gruesome images of adults eating their children, which may contain hints of actual events when Israel starved while under siege by Assyrians or Babylonians.

I don't know how literally to take God's threats here. Perhaps they are a bit like those of an exasperated parent driving the car and shouting, "Don't make me stop this car and come back there!" After all, the passage ends on something of a hopeful note. If they humble their hearts and make amends, God will remember the covenants of old.

But what truly struck me in the passage was neither God's threats nor the hope that these threats might change Israel's behavior. Rather it was God's statement that "the land shall rest, and enjoy its sabbath years." It helps if you know that God not only commanded Israel to keep a weekly sabbath where Israelites as well as their animals received a day of rest (a remarkable concept in the ancient world), but God also commanded a 365 day-long sabbath for the land every seventh year. God, it seems, is concerned not just with people, but with animals and with the land itself.

It's striking how much this is emphasized in today's reading. "Then the land shall enjoy its sabbath years as long as it lies desolate, while you are in the land of your enemies; then the land shall rest, and enjoy its sabbath years. As long as it lies desolate, it shall have the rest it did not have on your sabbaths when you were living on it." Apparently one of Israel's failings has been not caring for the land God had entrusted to it.

Very often religious folks argue about insiders and outsiders, about whom God favors. A lot such religious arguments are only slightly more sophisticated versions of little children arguing "Mom likes me best." Interesting how, in today's verses, God doesn't pick one human child over another. God's most tender words are directed at "the land."

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Sermon: The Kingdom Comes

1 Peter 2:1-10

The Kingdom Comes

James Sledge                                                                                       May 18, 2014

What is wrong with the world? Have you ever asked yourself that question? How could you not. Think of the terrible things that have happened, just in the last month or so. Hundreds of Korean students were killed when a ferry capsized while the crew did little to save them, and it seems there was negligence and malfeasance on the ferry company’s part.

Hundreds of school girls have been kidnapped in Nigeria by terrorists opposed to Western styled education. They’ve threatened to sell the girls as wives or slaves, and the Nigerian government did almost nothing, refusing help from the US and others, until a social media campaign created international outrage.

In Syria, shortly before an exhibit of children’s artwork was to go on display, bombs were dropped on the school. Teachers and children were killed, adding to a death toll now surpassing 150,000 people. And there is no end in sight.

What is wrong with the world?

In our own country, the economy seems to be in permanent doldrums, and the vulnerable suffer the most. Hunger and homelessness are increasing, yet our political process seems paralyzed. And the very people who yell, “This is a Christian nation,” argue for cuts in food stamps and Head Start, despite God’s repeated command to care for the poor and vulnerable.

What is wrong with the world?

Not that this question is new. It is likely as old as humanity itself. The second of the two creation stories in Genesis, the Garden of Eden story, is not really an account of events or an attempt to record history. Rather it is theological reflection, in story form, on a fundamental theological and anthropological question: What is wrong with the world?

Israel’s answer to this question is one that Jesus embraced, that shaped his life and ministry, and shaped how his followers understood his death and resurrection. Unfortunately, this answer has often been forgotten Church. Jesus became about personal salvation and getting a ticket to heaven, disconnected from his central message that was addressed to the question, What is wrong with the world?

Israel’s answer did not really try to explain how it was the world got so out of kilter, but it did address why. The problem is that the world simply refuses to accept the sovereignty of its creator, the lordship or rule of God. Israel, and the first Christians, did not understand heaven to be a place where people could go when they died. Rather it was the place where God did reign supreme, where God’s sovereignty was unchallenged. And Israel awaited and longed for the day they were sure would come, the day when God would reign supreme on earth as well. This was sometimes known as the kingdom of God, or kingdom of heaven.

When Jesus begins his ministry, he declares that God’s kingdom had come near. And this coming day is central to the prayer he teaches his followers. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven.” In other words, reign supreme on earth as you currently do in heaven. Fix what is wrong with the world.

On Being Different

Salt and light. Jesus speaks of his followers being both. Both may have had a bit more oomph as metaphors in Jesus' day. Light is still light, but we don't know much of real darkness. We live in such a brightly lit world. We also know about salt as a seasoning, but not so much as a preservative. Oh, we've encountered cured ham and such, but salt is not nearly so essential to life thanks to refrigeration, canning, freezing, and such.

What strikes me about these metaphors is their distinctiveness from what they season, preserve, or illumine. Salt is able to do its work because it is something very different from food. So too light is distinct from the world in which it shines. Both do their work because they are different from the earth and the world Jesus says they are to salt and illumine.

I grew up in a time when being a Christian was simply part and parcel being a citizen. There was little about it that spoke of a distinctiveness, that transformed and gave life to what it touched. Instead Christian faith became about maintaining the status quo. Not that churches did not do a great deal of good, good that sometimes had powerful, life giving impact and so was salty. But being Christian was often simply about fitting in, about being like everyone else.

But Jesus says we are to be different in ways that give life to the world. We are called to be distinct, to be an alternative to the world around us. Not in some holier than thou way, and not in a way that says, "You'd better become like us or you're gonna get it." We are called to be different and distinct in the manner of Jesus, who enjoyed, perhaps even preferred, the company of the poor and the outcast.  We are called to be like Jesus, who gave himself for the sake of others, with little thought as to whether or not they deserved it.

Come to think of it, following just these two examples would probably be enough for a Christian community to look very different from the world around it, and so to be salt and light.

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Poor, Poor Pitiful Me

There's an old Warren Zevon song entitled, "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me." Like a lot of Zevon songs, its lyrics are a bit odd. The song begins by telling of a failed suicide attempt, and this chorus follows.

Poor, poor pitiful me
Poor, poor pitiful me
These young girls won't let me be
Lord have mercy on me
Woe is me

I suspect that most all of us feel poor and pitiful from time to time, but it's hardly a feeling many of us relish. It is surely a sign that something is terribly amiss. If we are feeling  poor and pitiful in the spiritual area, then obviously something is wrong there. We've become disconnected from God; our prayer life is on the fritz; we need to revive some neglected spiritual disciplines.

I once heard someone suggest that the beginning of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount might well be translated, "Blessed are the pitiful in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven." My Greek dictionaries don't suggest "pitiful" as a possible translation, but they do have "worthless"and "miserable." That sounds just as bad, maybe worse.

When we thank God for our blessings, feeling poor and pitiful, or miserable and worthless, isn't usually on the list. Nor are a number of other things that show up on the Jesus beatitudes. When such things happen to me, I'm more likely to sing along with the late Zevon, "Woe is me."

There is more than one way to understand what Jesus says. He could be saying that God especially favors those the world finds worthless. That would fit with Jesus so often being found among outcasts and sinners. It could also be about God blessing those who are vulnerable and dependent, who cannot bless themselves. And I wonder if this one isn't a real problem for many American Christians, especially those who, like me, come from relatively well-off, Mainline church backgrounds.

Speaking personally, I'm one of those people who hates to ask for help. I like to think I'm capable of doing it myself. If I don't know how, surely I can figure it out. Such an attitude has its advantages at times, but it can be counterproductive when it comes to a relationship with God. It turns out that wanting to achieve a deep spirituality can get in the way of that desire. Deep spirituality is as much about losing ourselves as it is achieving something... self-denial, that sort of thing.

This can be even more problematic for congregations. Because they are institutions and filled with people with lots of skills and abilities, it can be even harder for them to lose their selves and give themselves over to Christ, to the Spirit.

But as difficult as it can be for me to embrace this notion that feeling poor and pitiful somehow puts me near God's blessing, my own experiences have  nonetheless proved it true. The very moments when I am at wits end, when I have no idea what I'm doing and feel completely lost, are the very moments when I have encountered God most fully.  ...So why do I keep trying to do it myself?

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Sermon: A Glimpse of What's Possible

Acts 2:42-47

A Glimpse of What’s Possible

James Sledge                                                                                       May 11, 2014

I think this is one of those scripture passages that makes a lot of American Christians a little bit nervous. All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need. That sounds a bit like, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need,” a communist mantra popularized by Karl Marx. But that’s somewhat counter to a number of basic tenants of American society.

The utopian, commune like feel of the Jerusalem church in Acts is also way outside most of our experience of faith. It is as removed from our experience as Mother Teresa’s life of faith feels distant from our own. And the preacher tempted to urge a congregation, “Be more like the Acts church,” is likely to find such efforts as ineffective as urging them to be more like Mother Teresa. Not that pastors don’t still try on occasion.

One of the problems, or perhaps better, the limits of preaching is that unless a congregation invests divine authority in a pastor – something that was probably always rare but almost never happens in our cynical age – preaching itself has very little power to change how people act or live. People may like or dislike a sermon. They may agree or disagree with it. They may even be convinced to change their mind about something from time to time, but in that sermons are little different from editorials in the newspaper, if more focused on religious rather than political discourse.

And so the typical sermon on today’s passage seeks to convince people how becoming a bit more like the folks in an admittedly idealized Jerusalem church might be a good and doable thing. Or it seeks to explain some updated practice that might be better suited to our modern world. Or it talks about how our lives as consumers are contrary to the life of those who are in Christ. Or it may even explain why this utopian vision of the early church has nothing to do with us. I’ve certainly charted a couple of these paths in sermons I’ve preached.

But the problem with such efforts is that, very often, they urge certain sorts of activity or behavior without much attention to what caused such behavior in the Jerusalem church. The people in Jerusalem didn’t share everything with one another, or devote themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to prayer, because a preacher, even Peter himself, urged them to do so. They did so because of a dramatic encounter with the power and presence of God that changed and transformed them.