Preaching Thoughts on a Non-Preaching (sort of) Sunday

Today is Youth Sunday at Falls Church Presbyterian, which means the design and leadership of  worship belongs to our Middle and High Schoolers, (with a lot of help from Helen Wilkins, our Youth Director). But they are leading only our 10:45 service, and not the smaller, informal service at 8:30. This gives me the opportunity to do a more "informal," off the cuff sermon in that service, which means I have no sermon text to share here. So here are some thoughts still bouncing around in my head after the early service.

The gospel reading for today is Luke's "Parable of the Prodigal." Some would add "Son" to that title, which may say something about how we tend to approach scripture, certainly parables. But first there is that term, "prodigal." It's not exactly a word I hear spoken in general conversation, and I suspect a lot of us need to look it up. I did just that, and its meanings include, "extravagant, lavish, wasteful."

Such prodigal behaviors are usually associated with the younger son in the parable. He certainly blows through his inheritance with extravagant, wasteful ways. He was apparently spoiled and full of himself as well. Normal people don't demand their inheritance ahead of time the way he does. Yet his father seems to have given it to him without much complaint.

This younger son epitomizes some of the stereotypes associated with younger children, just as the elder brother lives into some of the stereotypes for an older child. The younger son is a poster-boy for irresponsibility. But there is a point in the story where he "came to himself," where something seemed to click. He begins to long for the very place he had so wanted to escape. He had thought life was to be found in sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, but now he suspects that the hired hands at this father's place know more about the good life than he does. And so he heads for home.

His father, who has already been remarkably generous with him, is apparently not finished giving. He now orders fine clothes and jewelry and throws a grand feast to celebrate the younger son's return. And everyone could have lived happily ever after, except that the elder son is none too happy with this turn of events.

Elder son is clearly the dutiful, responsible type. He's not much taken with prodigal behavior, either that of his brother or father. In a parable about prodigal extravagance, he has had no roll, invisible until all the extravagance becomes too much for him. He loses it, chastising his father with words many elder siblings have probably thought, if not actually said. And when the parable concludes, we are left to wonder if the elder brother ever reconciled to father or sibling, if he ever joins the party.

It is here that I think the tendency to refer to this passage as "The Parable of the Prodigal Son," helps point out a problem we get ourselves into as we seek to understand and appropriate this teaching. To say that the parable is about one of the sons seems to indicate that we should understand the parable from that perspective. And indeed that is what typically happens. The parable is seen as good news for those who have strayed, who have done things to fracture relationship with God. God stand ready to embrace us, no matter what.

That is true, and it is good news, but I'm not sure we are supposed to understand the parable from the perspective of the younger son. After all, most church congregations are heavily populated with elder sibling types, with responsible sorts who have never done anything like the younger son in the parable. If we are more like someone in parable, surely it is the elder son. I've certainly heard the occasional sermon preached from the elder brother's perspective, but if we are the elder sibling in the parable, where does that leave us in the end?

Another way to approach this is to realize that the parable, like much of Scripture, is less about us and more about God. There are people in the world and in the Church who look more like one brother or the other, but the parable is mostly interested in speaking to us about the nature of God. In that sense, the parable would probably be better named "The Parable of the Prodigal Father."

Indeed there is a note of prodigal extravagance in the father's conversation with his elder son. As he begs his child to join the party, he says this. "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours." All that is mine is yours. The father's prodigal, extravagant generosity is not reserved for the younger. It is always there, but the elder son has somehow missed it. Perhaps his tendency to duty and responsibility has led him to think that his relationship with Dad is conditional, rooted in some sort of "if-then" formula. But that is not the God we meet in this parable.

A great deal of behavior in churches seems to be motivated by things such as duty, faithfulness, loyalty, etc. Nothing wrong with being dutiful, faithful, and loyal. These are all admirably qualities. Yet Christian faith is about being the body of Christ, about embodying Jesus for the world, and if Jesus reveals to us a God of prodigal, extravagant generosity, then isn't our calling as the church to share something of this prodigal generosity with the world?

I'm not sure that terms like prodigal and extravagant jump to mind with people think about the Church. But how can we mirror the prodigal, extravagant generosity and grace of God without knowing something of God's prodigal extravagance toward us? And if we genuinely encounter the prodigal extravagance of God in Christ, how could that not overflow from us in lives of prodigal, extravagant gratitude?

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Sermon video: Responding Differently

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: Responding Differently

Luke 13:1-9

Responding Differently

James Sledge                                                                                       February 28, 2016

The other night the eleven o’clock news  had a report of another shooting in southeast DC. TV news tends to emphasize such events, but the following morning, it was hard to find anything about it in The Washington Post, just a small paragraph buried deep inside the local section. Such shootings are routine enough that they’re easy to ignore. People might notice if the shooting were in northwest DC or Falls Church or Arlington.

They certainly noticed the terrorist attacks in Paris last November. A lot of people still have the colors of the French flag superimposed on their Facebook pictures, and I added the flag to mine briefly. But I never put a Kenyan flag over my picture, even though they had an attack that killed more than the one in Paris. No Nigerian flag either, and they had two deadlier attacks. In fact, there were six terror attacks in 2015 deadlier than Paris, but I could only remember one of them. I had never even heard of some. Just like I couldn’t tell you the details of any of those shootings in southeast DC.

There are lots of reasons for this. One surely has to do with race. The victims in Southeast DC and in Nigeria were largely black. In Southeast DC, they were often poor, and their deaths didn’t represent any real danger to me or my suburban existence.

We aren’t much surprised by shootings in certain parts of DC, or terror attacks in certain parts of the world. We’ve grown numb by repetition, and it’s not much of a step from numbness to the idea, perhaps a subconscious one, that these deaths matter less, which would mean that their lives mattered less.

There also seems to be a natural human tendency to blame the victim. It makes our lives feel a little more orderly if tragedies happen to other people because of their actions. They got involved with the wrong people. They didn’t work hard enough to live in a safer neighborhood. They got mixed up in drugs and alcohol.

We sometimes do the same thing when it comes to illness or natural disaster. The person smoked or drank too much, didn’t exercise or have a healthy diet. They lived in a flimsy trailer or near a stream that floods. It’s partly their own fault, right?

On Reading the Bible

This is a portion of Richard Rohr's daily meditation, which arrives as an email each day in my inbox. (You can sign up for them yourself at www.cac.org)

The Bible is an anthology of many books. It is a record of people's experience of God's self-revelation. It is an account of our very human experience of the divine intrusion into history. The book did not fall from heaven in a pretty package. It was written by people trying to listen for and to God. I believe that the Spirit was guiding the listening and writing process. We must also know that humans always see "through a glass darkly . . .  and all knowledge is imperfect" (1 Corinthians 13:12).

"It did not fall from heaven in a pretty package," says Rohr, but a lot of Christians seem to disagree. There are more and less absurd versions of the notion that God somehow dictated the Bible. I'll let you decide where this classic defense of the old King James version of the Bible falls on that continuum. "If it was good enough for Paul, it's good enough for me."

Speaking of Paul, he had no Bible as we know it. "Scripture" for him was something close to what most Christians refer to as the Old Testament. In fact, the movement that Jesus' followers began, after his resurrection and their animation by the Holy Spirit, spread and grew and thrived without our New Testament.  A congregation here or there might have had one of the gospels or a letter or two from Paul, but there were no sacred, Christian texts. It would take many generations, and a much more institutional Church, before what we think of as the Bible would come into being.

If Paul had realized that his letters to congregations would one day be turned into sacred texts, surely he would have lowered the snark and sarcasm levels when he was writing the words of today's lectionary epistle. "Already you have all you want! Already you have become rich! Quite apart from us you have become kings!" writes Paul as he attacks the Corinthians hubris and arrogance. No general religious principles here, just a frustrated pastor employing anything at his disposal in an attempt to straighten them out.

I've never been one to read the Bible literally, so I'm uncertain how it is some people think of Scripture as somehow delivered directly from God's hand. I'm especially confused as to how anyone who has actually read the Bible at length can hold onto notions of biblical literalism. It wouldn't really matter to me that there are biblical literalist had not done so much to damage the Bible and Christian faith in the eyes of many outside (and even some inside) the Church.

I recently saw Bill Maher being interviewed by Stephen Colbert. Presumably because Colbert is so open about being a devout Catholic, the atheist Maher felt the need to point out the absurdity of modern people finding their truths in the ancient writings of people who thought the sun orbited the earth and so on. How could such unsophisticated, backwards folk possibly have anything to teach us?

Though an atheist, Maher seems to have gotten his understanding of the Bible from fundamentalist, literalist Christians. Maher is unlikely to dismiss the brilliance of Homer's epic poems because Homer doesn't understand modern science. Nor is he likely to suggest that no pre-modern artist, musician, or philosopher has anything to teach us. But because many of Jesus' followers make such absurd claims for our sacred texts, Maher can make a quite convincing argument against the Bible and any faith rooted in it.

The modern, scientific era has tended to create literal thinkers. Scientific truth is about carefully observed and demonstrated actions or events. It is about certainty. (Post modern science may be leaving such notions behind, but that has not yet created a big shift in the worldview of many Christians.) But the writers of the Bible did not share our modern notions of truth.

As this quote from the late John Dominic Crossan so eloquently says, "My point, once again, is not that those ancient people told literal stories and we are now smart enough to take them symbolically, but that they told them symbolically and we are now dumb enough to take them literally."

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Sermon video: Questioning God

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: Questioning God

Genesis 15:1-18

Questioning God

James Sledge                                                                                       February 21, 2016

If you’re like me, it’s sometimes hard to relate to the faith heroes of the Bible. Take Abram, later Abraham, one of the original faith heroes. According to Genesis, God just shows up one day and says, “Go from your homeland and family and friends to a place I will show you. I’ll make you great and bless you and you’ll be the start of a great people. And you’ll be a blessing to all the people of the earth.” And Abram, along with wife Sarai, pick up and leave, headed for parts unknown, no questions asked, all because of God’s promise.

Imagine that you were Abe’s parents when he came in to explain his plans. “Mom, Dad, God wants us to leave here and go somewhere else. Not really sure where yet. We’re heading out tomorrow.” What would you say if your child said something like that to you? What would you do if you thought God was telling you to sell the house, pack up everything, and head out to some unknown destination? Like I said, it can be hard to relate to biblical heroes.

But a lot has happened since God first said “Go” to Abram. He’s done a lot of going because of God’s promise. He’s gained wealth and had some exciting adventures, but there’s one colossal problem. It’s hard to be the parents of a great line of people when he and Sarai have no children. And they’re both getting on in years.

So when God shows up again, making more promises, Abram’s a little less ready to trust. “Don’t talks to me about rewards,” Abram says. “Sarai and I are getting old and have no kids, no one to pass it on to.”

This Abram I can relate to. When I think back on my own call and what followed: seminary, strains on our marriage, pain for Shawn that too often accompanies being the pastor’s wife. “God, this isn’t what I thought was going to happen when I said, ‘Yes.’”

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When Abram starts whining about how following God’s promise hasn’t turned out as planned, the story says, But the word of the Lord came to him. Maybe this was some sort of vision, I’m not sure, but somehow God takes him out to look at the stars and promises that his descendants will be as vast as all those twinkling lights in the sky.

And Abram trusted God one more time. I suppose that if it were a good enough vision, that would do it for me, too.

Then God starts with a new promise. This one is about land, but Abram’s not so quick to jump at God’s promises as he once was. He wants proof. “How am I to know this will really happen?”

It is a crucial and basic faith question. Are God’s promises trustworthy? Does it make any sense to do as God says, or should we go our own way, doing whatever seems best to us?

Who's a Christian?

Those who are unspiritual do not receive the gifts of God's Spirit, for they are foolishness to them, and they are unable to understand them because they are spiritually discerned. Those who are spiritual discern all things, and they are themselves subject to no one else's scrutiny. "For who has known the mind of the Lord so as to instruct him?" But we have the mind of Christ. And so, brothers and sisters, I could not speak to you as spiritual people, but rather as people of the flesh, as infants in Christ.  

1 Corinthians 2:14-3:1

A couple of items caught my eye in the last 24 hours. The more recent was Pope Francis' comments regarding Donald Trump. The pope said, "A person who thinks only about building walls — wherever they may be — and not building bridges, is not Christian." Trump countered that for the pope to question his faith was "disgraceful," but spiritual leaders have felt the need to correct people's faith from the beginning. The Apostle Paul is quite harsh with his congregation at Corinth, as witnessed in today's lectionary reading

The other item that caught my eye was a quote from Mark Twain that showed up on Facebook yesterday. (I've done a bit of checking to confirm that it is a genuine Twain quote.) "If we would learn what the human race really is at bottom, we need only observe it in election times." I fear that Twain is on to something.

Much of the sort of behavior Twain described is perpetuated by people who insist they are Christian, Mr. Trump being one of many. But I suspect that Twain speaks more of those casting ballots, motivated by their most base instincts and fears. There is a good reason that candidates continue to use "negative ads" despite much lamenting their prevalence in political campaigns. The fact is they get used because they work. Scare people, make them fearful, and watch what happens.

So at what point does the sort of behavior Mark Twain lampoons invalidate a person's claim to be Christian?

Jesus spoke enough about forgiveness that few would argue that anything close to perfection is required. Yet Jesus also said, "Not everyone who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father in heaven." (Matthew 7:21) Clearly being Christian has to be more than a claim of belief in Jesus. Some attempt to embody the Gospel is required.

If the label "Christian" can be selected merely by checking a box, without any intention to change, to move away from human behavior "at bottom" to something shaped more by the way of Jesus, then the term has become nearly meaningless. If it cannot be described or defined in any significant way beyond a person's checking that box, then what exactly is it that we in the church are hawking?  Which may speak to some of the church's struggles in our time.

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Sermon video: Remembering Our Lines

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: Remembering Our Lines

Luke 9:28-36

Remembering Our Lines

James Sledge                                                                                       February 7, 2016

In a recent speech at a small, Christian college in Iowa, Donald Trump lamented Christianity’s loss of prestige in America but promised that would end if he is elected. Said Trump, "Because if I'm there, you're going to have plenty of power. You don't need anybody else. You're going to have somebody representing you very, very well. Remember that."[1]

I appreciate Mr. Trump’s concern for the state of the church, but I’m not sure he understands the nature of Christian power. It is God’s power, “power made perfect in weakness,” power most evident in the cross. I don’t think Trump gets that at all, but based on my own actions, as well as those of congregations, denominations, and all manner of “Christian” entities, I’m not sure very many of us get it either.

Lately I’ve been struggling with this issue of so many Christians, myself included, doing a rather bad job of following Jesus. I think that’s why I recently heard well-known quote from 19^th century philosopher Soren Kierkegaard in a way I hadn’t before. He said, “People have an idea that the preacher is an actor on a stage and they are the critics, blaming or praising him. What they don't know is that they are the actors on the stage; (the preacher) is merely the prompter standing in the wings, reminding them of their lost lines.”

I’ve used this quote many times, always to talk about worship. But when it popped up online the other day, I was struck by those final words about “lost lines.” If you’ve ever acted, even in an elementary school play, you likely know what it feels like to forget your lines. You can’t do your job as an actor if you don’t know your lines. There’s not really much reason to go on the stage if you have no idea what you are supposed to say or do. But what of these lost lines Kierkegaard mentions?

Have we forgotten our lines, forgotten what we are supposed to say or do as actors in God’s drama? Did we never learn them in the first place? Did we study the wrong parts of the script, not the parts we need to know? Are we unsure if we want to be actors at all. Or do we not like to take direction, preferring to ad lib?

Angry at Someone, or Perhaps at God

It was Diane's Sunday to preach in our worship today. (She's my pastoral colleague here.) She talked about times growing up where God disappointed her, not living up to expectations she had. Surely that is a universal experience for people of faith. We think God should act certain ways; we think faith should lead to certain outcomes, yet often things turn out differently from our expectations.

Diane was preaching about the gospel reading for today, the second half of Luke's story of Jesus at his home town of Nazareth. Luke's version is quite different from the parallel stories in Matthew and Mark. In Luke the locals are wowed by Jesus. "All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth." But Jesus is the one who shatters this moment of awe and wonder. He reminds them that "no prophet is accepted in the prophet's hometown." He tells of episodes from Israel's past where the famous prophets Elijah and Elisha helped foreigners rather than the many in Israel could have used such help.

In the end, the hometown folks try to kill Jesus. Presumably they were expecting that their connection to Jesus meant that they would be the very first to enjoy the fruits of the Messiah's arrival, but when Jesus goes on and on about God helping foreigners and outsiders, it's more than they can stomach.

God has certainly disappointed me many times. On occasion I've gotten quite angry. This pastoring thing is often not at all what I envisioned when I first heard a call to ordained ministry. But I can't imagine ever getting so angry that I'd want to kill Jesus. What made the folks at Nazareth mad enough to kill?

Perhaps some of the difference can be attributed to a more violent time in history when human life was cheaper, but still... Could I ever become so angry at God that I contemplated violence? Could God's failure to do as I expect or anticipate make me mad enough to join an angry mob?

I'm not the sort to kill anyone, but I can get pretty worked up at times. Generally, my greatest anger is not directed at God but at people who cause me trouble or who I think cause trouble in the world. Very often my anger at them feels "righteous," but I wonder if it might be displaced anger at God. (God's rarely available to be thrown off a cliff in the first place.)

When people in the church make my life miserable, I feel justified anger over how they injure me or  hurt the ministry and fellowship of a congregation. Yet I suspect some of my anger might really be at the God who allows such people to become prominent fixtures in so many congregations. How is it that God lets troublemakers occupy important positions in churches?

I have talked to colleagues as well as to church members who've spoken of the damage such people have done to them or their church's ministry. This only heightens my upset, my righteous anger, knowing that the behavior is typical. And that seems to confirm that my real anger is at God. How is it God allows churches to be such messed up places that get so off track, that have so many less than ideal folks running things, serving as pastors, and at times being downright hateful and mean?

I think the next time I get really angry over something going on at church, I'm going to pause and wonder about how I might really be angry at God. And I going to wonder if that means I'm expecting something of God I shouldn't be. I wonder if that means I need to do a bit more work on who God is, who Jesus is, and what it really means for me to be his follower.

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Snowbound sermon text: Saving Addicts

Luke 4:14-21

Saving Addicts

James Sledge                                                                                       January 24, 2016

Had it not snowed, we would have welcomed members of the Institute of Islamic and Turkish Studies, or IITS, and the imam of its mosque to our church this Sunday. During the Sunday School hour, they were going to teach about the central tenets of Islam. That got me to wondering what we would say if we visited IITS and taught them about the central tenets of our faith.

What would you say constitutes the core of Christian faith? That’s a crucial question, yet there are many competing answers, quite a few of them incompatible. One benign and inoffensive answer makes faith a simple matter of believing in Jesus and being good little boys and girls. A less benign version adds that if you don’t believe you are going to hell.

In individualistic America, many answers speak of personal fulfillment. Sometimes this is understood as a ticket to heaven, other times as a sense of spiritual fulfillment or well-being, and others as success or financial gain.

Some answers suggest that being Christian is mostly about being kind and loving. At the very same time, some prominent Christian voices engage in hate-filled speech rooted in their understanding of faith. All these answers cannot be true. So what are we to do?

Unfortunately, the typical answer is to imagine a Christian faith and life that is perfectly compatible with my particular political, social, economic, and cultural norms. Seems like a more helpful approach might be to ask Jesus, and fortunately for us, Luke’s gospel provides an answer of sorts.

Snowbound sermon video: Saving Addicts

The quality of this video is not up to normal standards because it was done in my basement as the blizzard of 2016 shut down the DC area. Church services had to be cancelled as a result, and this video is meant to allow those unable to attend worship a way to do so at home.

Audios and videos of other worship services can be found on the FCPC website.

Helping God Remember

The Old Testament readings this week have been finishing up what is sometimes labeled the "prehistory" of Genesis. It's called this because when we meet Abram and Sarai in tomorrow's reading, we can tie them to places and peoples that can be located in known history, unlike the tower of Babel, the Garden of Eden, or Noah's ark. Of course that does not mean that the story Abram and Sarai, later named Abraham and Sarah, are primarily about relating historical events.

It seems to be a peculiarly modern notion that the Bible is primarily a vehicle for relating "what happened." Modern people think "myth" is synonymous with "false" or "untrue," but nothing could be further from the truth. Myth is a vehicle for exploring big, even ultimate questions about who we are, why we're here, who God is, and what our relationship is to this God. Myth answers such questions with pre-scientific stories and folk tales. The people who originally told them may or may not have believed that they actually happened, but the people who put them in the Bible most certainly valued them for how they helped answer those big questions.

The Noah story is a wonderful case in point. It's yet another biblical story that is vaguely known by many but often badly misunderstood. It bears remarkable similarities to other Middle Eastern flood myths, but it contains striking differences, many of them focused on the Bible writers' very different answers to those big questions.

If you read the entire Noah cycle, you'll notice a couple of different versions of the story woven together. (They don't quite agree on the numbers of animals onboard.) Also, the flood doesn't "fix" anything. After Noah left the ark, God says that "the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth," the same problem that prompted the flood. The only thing that seems to have changed as a result of the flood is God's mind. "Never again," says God. No matter how bad these human creatures have turned out, God declares a commitment to them.

And so God said, "I have set my bow in the clouds." The reference is to retiring and hanging up God's weapon of war, and also to the rainbow. It is a sign to help remember God's covenant to humanity. But the sign is not to help us remember. It is to help God.

My understanding of God would not seem to include the possibility of forgetting things without the help of mnemonic devices. But there it is, right there in the Bible. The rainbow reminds God to turn the spigot off. Unless of course, the story is wrestling with the worry that God may indeed forget us.

There are certainly times when I have such worries. How could I not when I look around. The wicked do well while the good perish. Innocents are killed in terror attacks. Children starve in Syria as warring factions use them as pawns. The political voices in our land speak little of the good news for the poor that Jesus proclaimed.

I suspect that the rise in agnosticism and atheism is a modern (postmodern?) way of grappling with the ancient worry of God forgetting us. In some ways it is more logical and rational to imagine God not existing than to imagine God being feeble minded or forgetful. But the basic question remains unchanged. Is God for us or not? Will God act on our behalf, or has God abandoned us?

The ancient Hebrews had plenty of reasons to think God might have abandoned them. The destruction of Jerusalem and it gorgeous Temple. Capture and exile by the Babylonians. And before any of that happened, the prophets railed against the wealthy who grew rich at the expense of the poor, the suffering of the innocent, and the frequency of injustice.

No doubt some in ancient Israel thought the Babylonian gods superior to their own. Others thought that their failures had been so great that God had turned away from them. But the keepers of Israel's faith told stories about a God whose commitment to humanity was absolute and was remembered every time a rainbow appeared. Perhaps God didn't need actually need help remembering, but the Israelites certainly did.

Sometimes I would like to find a way to help God remember, to prod God to act. With the psalmist I cry out, "How long, or Lord?" But what I really need most of all is the ability to remember God and God's goodness, what some would call faith. Which is why the biblical writers told their stories.

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Sermon video: I Come Bearing Gifts, says the Spirit

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: I Come Bearing Gifts, says the Spirit

1 Corinthians 12:1-11

I Come Bringing Gifts, says the Spirit

James Sledge                                                                                       January 17, 2016

When I was in high school, I briefly went out with a girl whose religious background was a bit more fundamentalist and Pentecostal than mine. At first I found the differences novel and even exciting. Raised a staid Presbyterian, a bit of religious enthusiasm was a refreshing change of pace. But eventually the novelty wore off for me, in part because of episodes like this one I’m going to share.

We once attended a late night worship service. I can’t recall exactly what the occasion was, but the service featured the Lord’s Supper with a twist I’d never encountered. We came forward to receive communion, but not by rows. The pastor told us to wait until we felt the presence of God, until the Spirit urged us to come forward.

I waited. I hoped for some tug on my heart, some stirring in my soul that would draw me to the table. But as time passed, and as I heard people moving around me, I began to check on other folks’ progress. I was in no rush, but as more and more people went forward and no spiritual fire, or even warmth, came over me, I began to worry. 

I waited some more. I was a novice at this and wasn’t overly clear on just how it was supposed to work. I increased my concentration and tried to heighten my inner attentiveness. But another glance made it clear I was in danger of being the very last person to go forward, and so I got up and went to the table.

Afterwards, I wondered about all those who went to the table ahead of me. Were they tuned to a divine frequency that I did not know how to access, or was it something else? I wondered how many people went forward for the same reason I did, because they didn’t want to be left out?

I was suspicious that there had to be a great deal of the latter, and I think the episode left me with a fair amount of skepticism, even cynicism regarding spiritual experience. Better to stick with a faith that could be worked out via reason and scholarship. Turned out I was a lot more comfortable being a staid, keep-it-all-in-the-head, Presbyterian.

It was many years before I had anything like the spiritual experience I had hoped for at that late-night communion service. God does tug at the heart. The Spirit has stirred my soul and warmed, even enflamed my heart at times. But it does not happen on command, and the Spirit is as likely to surprise me as to follow the formula I expect.

That's Gonna Leave a Mark

As a child I was mostly a "good little boy" who generally got A's in school and went to church on Sundays. I was well behaved during worship. I sang the hymns and tried to listen to the sermons. I went to Sunday School and, as a small child, my father read Bible stories to me and my siblings each night.

It was all pretty typical stuff for a kid in South and then North Carolina as the 1960s gave way to the 70s. I assume it was also pretty typical that despite all this exposure to Church, Sunday School, and Bible stories, I didn't really know the Bible in any sort of depth. I knew that Moses went up the mountain, David smacked Goliath upside the head with a rock, and Jesus walked on water, but I'm not sure and had much sense of what any of itmeant.

And so I picked up a lot of my Christianity from "drinking the water" as it were. I accumulated the popular understandings of the faith that sometimes did and sometimes didn't cohere with what was in the Bible that I knew only in a Cliffs Notes sort of way. That meant that I had heard about "the mark of Cain" which shows up in today's Old Testament reading, but I didn't know it from the Bible.

I knew, in a vague way, that 'the mark of Cain" was something bad, something that let others know there was something wrong with you. Curiously - considering a childhood in SC and NC - I did not about the racist interpretations in American Christianity that labeled dark skin "the mark of Cain." I read about that as an adult. But that discovery was not nearly so surprising as the one that came from actually reading the story in Genesis.

What a stunner to find out that Cain's mark was there to protect him. Yes, Cain was in all sorts of trouble for killing his brother. Yes, the story depicts God punishing him, "cursing" him in much the same manner as had happened to his parents a bit earlier in Genesis. But in a pattern that never gets old in the Bible, earning God's wrath is never the end of the story. God makes clothes for Adam and Eve; God puts a "Do not damage" label on Cain; God forgives David for raping Bathsheba and then murdering her husband; and Jesus says, "Father forgive them," while on the cross. Not at all the sort of "mark" one might expect.

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A quick confession: I spend too much time on social media. There I see a lot of posts which suggest that many other people must have gotten their notions of Christian faith in a manner similar to that of my childhood. Whether it's posts inviting me to type "Amen" to insure a financial windfall, manipulative posts demanding I share a really bad picture of Jesus to prove I love him, or posts from self-avowed Christians who tell outright lies to justify hate-filled slandering of politicianss they dislike, there are scores of "Christians" whose faith seems to have little connection to the teachings of Jesus found in the Bible. 

Despite my having spent a good deal of my own life with a faith only vaguely connected to the Bible, these sort of posts on social media really set me off. I suppose I feel a little superior because my own barely biblical faith was mostly non-strident and benign. Regardless, I often can't resist the urge to help straighten these folks out. I attempt - in the most kind and friendly fashion, of course - to show them the error of their ways. I won't say never, but I'm almost never successful.

I not so secretly long for the worst offenders to get their comeuppance. They need to be exposed for what they really are. Their distortions of the faith need to be clearly pointed out for all to see. They need "False Christian" branded on their foreheads so that everyone will know to avoid and ignore them.  

But God, it seems, is not so quick to write folks off as I am. When God marks Cain, it's not what most people assume. God's response to the way we've screwed up the world is to join us in the mess we've made, to suffer and die in it. God still cares for Cain. God keeps loving sinners. Or, as Nadia Bolz-Weber puts it, "There is nothing we can do to make God love us any more or any less."

I'm really glad God loves me that way. I'm still struggling a bit with how God extends the same love to certain others.

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Sermon video: You're My Dear Child

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.

Sermon: You're My Dear Child

Luke 3:15-22

You’re My Dear Child

James Sledge                                       January 10, 2016 – Baptism of the Lord

Have you ever known someone who was going through a tough time and disappeared from church? Illness or the death of a loved one sometimes causes a faith crisis that pulls people away, but I’m thinking more of folks who disappear after something that might cause people to judge them.

It doesn’t happen as much with divorce as it once did, but some folks still feel embarrassed enough to stop attending. Graduate to things such as getting arrested or some other form of public humiliation, and it becomes much more likely that people won’t show their face around the church. Church is, after all, a place for good, respectable people.

I thought about respectable people as I read Luke’s take on Jesus’ baptism. All the gospel writers have their own take on it. Apparently the event was well enough known that they need to address this potentially embarrassing episode. Why would Jesus need a baptism of repentance and forgiveness after all?

Matthew’s gospel has John the Baptist raise the question of “Why?” directly, but Luke does something different. There is no conversation with John. Jesus does not speak at all. Instead Luke merely throws Jesus in with all the other folks going to John. Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized…

With no apparent fanfare, Jesus got in line with everyone else, with the “brood of vipers” who came out to the wilderness to be baptized. Jesus joined with those who felt they needed to turn their lives around, who needed God to forgive them. And this was hardly the last time. No wonder the religious folk would say Jesus wasn’t respectable enough, calling him “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!” (Luke 7:34)

As Jesus prayed following his baptism, the Holy Spirit descended on him and a voice said, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” I love the way the Cotton Patch Gospel renders this, “You are my dear Son; I’m proud of you.” Sounds like something a good, southern Momma would say.

On Not Being, or at Least Acting, Afraid

God is our refuge and strength,
     a very present help in trouble. 
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
     though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; 
though its waters roar and foam,
     though the mountains tremble with its tumult.      

Psalm 46:1-3 

I often use these verses as a Call to Worship for a funeral service. When I read them today I found myself struck by an odd contrast. I've done funerals where the family wants nothing of this sort of reading. They want the service to be "a celebration" with no mourning or sadness. Very often it is family members with little connection to church who are most insistent that there be nothing in the service that speaks of sadness. They want to celebrate rather than grieve, and not because their faith assures them in the hope of a resurrection.

On the other hand, people who do claim a deep faith, who presumably would resonate with the verses of the psalm, are some of the more fearful voices in this country right now. I'm continually amazed at the number of Christians who tie their faith to support for Donald Trump or Ted Cruz, rattling off a long list of the things that terrify them. People who claim to have a deep trust in the power of God seem motivated primarily by crippling fears.

It is indeed a strange contrast. Those facing the loss of a love one yet seemingly unwilling to acknowledge any need for comfort, support, and hope, alongside those who profess security, comfort, and protection in the power of God yet imagine every refugees a terrorist and a Christian president the agent of the devil.

I suppose I should be more understanding of non-churched family members who don't look for support from something they scarcely acknowledge, who seek solace through other means. But what to make of people of faith who can happily say, "We will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea," and yet act like terrified children.

But as I point fingers at this obvious lack of faith from the faithful, I need to confess that it is hardly a problem relegated to evangelicals or conservative Christians. It takes different forms among  progressive or liberal Christians, but it is no less real. I know plenty of liberal Christians for whom faith is mostly a philosophy, its power limited to convincing enough other people to live by that philosophy. It is all too easy to have faith that the world would be a better place if only everyone would be kinder and more loving while never acknowledging the requirement for God to overcome the problem of sin and evil.

My own laments over the church and its failure to be anything approximating the body of Christ are often prompted by my struggle to trust that God could work anything of significance using the likes of "us." My own version of saying "We will not fear," but them trembling.

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I think it is important to remember that this faith thing is not easy, or at least it is not easy to live it out in any meaningful way. That is why you should be very suspicious of anyone who tells you that faith is simply a matter of "accepting Jesus as your Savior," or of "believing in him." Faith is about following a Savior who goes to the cross, as terrifying as that is to him, because he trusts the power of God more than he is controlled by his fears.

That sort of faith is not something you can do on your own. You can't do it without help, the help of God, and the help of a community. I think that may be why the Apostle Paul writes in his first letter to the Corinthians that "No one can say 'Jesus is Lord' except by the Holy Spirit." And I assume that Paul is speaking of more than simply mouthing the words, speaking of living as though they were true.

Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change,
     though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; 
though its waters roar and foam,
     though the mountains tremble with its tumult.      

"We will not fear," says the psalmist. I have my doubts that he meant that literally. Even Jesus seemed genuinely fearful of going to the cross. But with  help, with prayer and the support of the Holy Spirit and the encouragement of the community of faith, we can - here and there - live like those who are not afraid.

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Sermon video: A Little Christmas... But Not Too Much

Audios of sermons and worship available on the FCPC website.