You Will Be Called a Peacemaker

 Saturday morning, I was up around 5 am and I happened to be looking out the front window when I noticed that the moon was particularly large and bright in the western sky.  And right underneath the moon was this other light, this bright pinprick of light. 

It wasn’t twinkling, so it wasn’t a star. 

It wasn’t moving, so it wasn’t a plane. 

And I remembered that I had read recently that Jupiter was supposed be prominent that night. 

When I was in Florida, I tried to use my superzoom camera to get pictures of Saturn and Jupiter.  I had a tripod but even with a tripod I only managed to get a picture of Jupiter and its moons, once, with Jupiter as a larger light and its moons slightly smaller lights, cast out like a light beam from their mother planet. 

Once, for a second, I saw Saturn’s rings, but I didn’t get a picture worth sharing.  Real astrophotographers have methods that include stacking of picture frames to get clear shots.  I don’t know the first thing about how to do that, but for a moment, for a second, for a blink of the eye, I saw Saturn’s rings. 

But this past Saturday, after I verified online that the light in the sky under the moon was, in fact, Jupiter, I sat in my recliner wondering if I should try and get a picture.  I had two problems, though.  I no longer had a tripod and it was 1 degree outside.  There was no way I was risking frostbite for Jupiter, but I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

So, I thought to myself, I wonder if I can get a clear view through the window. 

I grabbed my camera, turned off the lights in the house and pulled back the curtains.  I rested the lens on the window frame and I began to zoom in.

I couldn’t quite get a good angle.  There were tree branches in the way, but I zoomed in farther and farther, holding my breath, trying not flinch. 

Like with Saturn, years ago, there was a moment, half a second, when the bright blurry light of Jupiter, coalesced into something instantly recognizable as Jupiter, a yellow-brownish color with deep brown belts, bands that girdled the top and the bottom of the planet.  

For that briefest of seconds, it was like seeing the face of God, in that it is something we are all told exists, but rarely have a moment to see and experience for ourselves. 

For a second, seeing Jupiter from my kitchen window, was perfect … realized … faith. 

Today’s reading is part four in our series of “Horrible Stories from Genesis.”  And once again we are treated to a story about how woefully imperfect our heroes in Genesis are. 

The story of Abraham and his almost sacrifice of his son, Isaac, is objectively a horrible story.  To recap.  God decides to test Abraham, his loyalty, his obedience and tells Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, (not his only son, hello Ishmael) as a burnt offering.  God doesn’t explain why and Abraham doesn’t ask any clarifying questions like the most obvious which is … “You God, gave me Isaac.  He is a miracle.  From him, whole nations will rise.  Did I hear you wrong when you made that promise?” 

Perhaps you are thinking that God’s will should not be questioned, that we should blindly follow what we are told to do. 

But I would then remind you that even Mary, in the gospels, asks a clarifying question when she is told she is to become pregnant.  Remember?  She asks how that is possible given that she is a virgin. 

Abraham, though, asks no questions.  He takes Isaac off into the middle of nowhere, far away from anyone who might witness what he’s about to do.  He builds an altar.  He sets the wood beneath the altar.  He is ready to make his sacrifice.  

At this point, you get the sense that even Isaac is starting to notice that something is off.  And he asks Abraham what they will be sacrificing.  Abraham answers only that God will provide.

Abraham is going to kill Isaac.  I always read this passage as Abraham holding the knife high, maybe in the very act of swinging down on his son when God intervenes and commands Abraham to stop. 

Abraham passed the test.  He was willing to sacrifice his son, his precious son in obedience to God. 

Again, this is such an awful story—that God would ask Abraham to kill Isaac, that Abraham would be willing to do it, without question.  I’m trying to imagine what the walk home was like for Isaac and Abraham.  Did Abraham warn Isaac not to say anything to Sarah?  Did Isaac spend the rest of his life wondering if his dad was going to murder him? 

A couple of months ago, I read a book which I highly recommend called Canticle.  It is a fictionalized telling of the religious orders of women that popped up during the Middle Ages.  The main character, a woman, is a mystic and in one scene, she is teaching another woman this story of Abraham and Isaac.  

She tells the woman that Abraham passed the test.  He proved his loyalty to God.  He showed he cared more for God than his son. 

But the woman disagrees.  She says that Abraham failed the test.  He failed the test because God would never ask a parent to kill their child.  The test was not one of obedience but one of discernment. 

And I can tell you that if the story of Abraham and Isaac is a test of discernment rather than blind obedience to God, it is a test the human race has been failing since the dawn of time. 

How many awful horrible things have human beings committed in the name of God from the Crusades to the Inquisition?  

Even today, there is such a divide among Christians in this country that no matter what side you are on, you may wonder if you are all worshipping the same God. 

How do we discern what God is telling us in our own lives? 

One of the interesting things about these readings from Genesis that we have looked at over the last month is that even though these are post Eden stories, God still plays a very important and active role in the lives of His human creation.  He may not walk with Noah or Hagar the same way He walked with Adam and Eve in the Garden, but He does speak to people.  He speaks to Cain, “Where is your brother?”  He speaks to Hagar, “Turn around and go back.”  He speaks to Abraham.  And still the human race at the time struggles to understand God, even when He is talking to them directly.  

What hope do we have in this day and age, when God can sometimes feel very distant? 

What hope do we have to do the right thing, the Godly thing? 

Where do we even begin? 

We must look for God everywhere, not just in the planets in the night sky, but in each other. We must see that compassion and empathy, that justice, mercy and humility are not weaknesses but signs of strength, the strength given to each of us through the Holy Spirit. 

When we see the face of God in each other, then we can fully live out the blessings in Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount. 

When we see the face of God in each other, we dare not turn away from the poor, from the grieving, from the meek. 

Instead we will be filled by a hunger for righteousness that can only be sated by the bread of live. 

We will thirst for a righteousness that can only be quenched by the living water of Jesus Christ. 

We will be called peacemakers for we are all children of God. 

We will love our neighbor, unconditionally, without exception. 

Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The God Who Sees Us

Last week I went to Target to pick up supplies for the winter storm. 

I shop for winter storms the same way I used to shop for hurricanes when I lived in Florida.  Bottled water, snacks and other non-perishables.  

While I was at the store, though, I passed a woman who was also shopping for the winter storm.  She had exactly one thing in her cart. 

A sled. 

And I laughed to myself because it was clear we had different priorities. 

But I can’t say she was wrong.  In fact, I envy her a little.  To see a storm and not worry about physical survival, but only how you can make the storm—fun.  I wish I was the kind of person who could stop a stranger in the middle of Target and ask for their story, because I definitely want to know hers. 

Today’s reading from Genesis 16:1-14 is a story of survival, but it’s one of those awkward stories like the one we read last week when Noah curses his son Ham for seeing him passed out drunk and naked that troubles me upon first reading.  It’s a story I have to wrestle with. 

To summarize, God has promised Abram a child, but Abram’s wife Sarai believes the child can’t possibly come through her because she thinks she is barren.  So Sarai, in an attempt to make God’s promise a reality, usurps God’s authority and gives Abram her slave-girl, Hagar.  Hagar becomes pregnant with Abram’s child, but now Sarai is having second thoughts about her plan (not God’s plan) to give Abram a child through Hagar.  She becomes abusive to Hagar, and when Hagar has had enough of the abuse, she flees into the wilderness. 

I think it goes without saying that a pregnant runaway slave fleeing into the wilderness with no supplies, no food, no shelter, no protection—the stigma of who she is at this point in the story means that her chances and her unborn child’s chances of surviving are slim to none.

 And that is when she finds (miraculously) a spring so that she can at least get hydrated.  I say miraculously because anything that pops up just when you need it through no effort on your own is usually a God-thing.

There she meets the angel of the Lord, and she is told that she must turn around and go back to Sarai and submit. 

This is the part of the story that always causes me a bit of pain when I read it, because it seems like God is behaving in an uncharacteristic way.  He is sending Hagar back to her abuser.  He is sending her back to slavery.  It seems horrible to do this to Hagar.  It does not seem particularly compassionate or empathetic.  

I don’t pretend to know the mind of God here.  Every time I think I need to explain God’s actions, I remember what God said to Job when Job questioned God about his suffering.  God basically told Job, “Where were you when I created the universe?” 

But what does seem apparent in regards to Hagar is that if she doesn’t go back, she will die.  Her unborn child will die.  God doesn’t excuse Sarai’s behavior.  He doesn’t promise Hagar that Sarai will leave her alone.  He doesn’t apologize for telling her to go back.  He doesn’t offer Hagar any explanation.  

What He does offer is a promise, which honestly, is evocative of and reflects His promise to Abram that one day Abram’s descendants will number the stars.  God has a plan for Hagar and her child. 

Hagar, for her part, doesn’t beg God to save her.  She doesn’t try and make a deal with God.  She doesn’t say she’ll do anything if only God doesn’t send her back to Sarai.  

She recognizes, with humility, the enormity of what has happened.  God has spoken to her, a slave, and not just spoken to her—God has seen her.  With God it is possible to be both humble and acknowledge that God has chosen her, that she is important to God. 

And so she names Him.  He is the “God Who Sees.” 

And so she goes back to Sarai, God’s word having given her strength.  Her story, of course, is not yet over.  We will see her again in Genesis 21, when once again she meets God in the wilderness. 

The “God Who Sees.” 

We all have that desire to be seen to be understood. 

I would argue that today’s social media influencers have an almost pathological need to be seen. 

But all of us—we want to be seen, we want to be acknowledged, we want to be understood.  We want to be noticed.  Again sometimes that can turn into a pathological narcissism.  

But especially when we are suffering, we can feel lost and invisible.  A lot of the time, we want others to acknowledge our pain. 

I was telling a friend last week that I think we are called, as Christians, to bear witness.  In other words, we are called to “see” each other.  Bearing witness is more than just being a bystander.  A bystander is passive, uninvolved.  An hour passes by and the bystander has already forgotten what they saw earlier. 

But someone who bears witness, who sits with others in their pain—makes what might have been otherwise invisible, suddenly visible.  They live on because we remember them.  When I was a chaplain in the hospital, that was my job … to bear witness, to let others know that not only did I see them, but God saw them, that God was there with them. 

Let me give you another example this time from last week’s reading.  What Ham did when he saw his father, Noah, passed out drunk and naked on the ground … that was not bearing witness.  What his siblings did, even though they took special care not to literally see Noah in his nakedness, what they did by covering him with a cloak—that was bearing witness, that was acknowledging that their father was in a bad place in that moment and that what Noah needed was compassion and grace.  By clothing him, they were literally shielding him, protecting him. 

We are called to bear witness and there is a lot to bear witness to in the world these days.  And sometimes bearing witness means stepping up, stepping out, stepping forward, moving from being simple passive observers to people’s pain and suffering to actively trying to address it. 

That may seem like a lot to ask.  And it is. 

So this week, I have a homework assignment for you.  Let’s start with something simple. 

I want you to pay attention to people, the dozens of strangers we brush past every day. 

Remember the Covid years?  We paid a lot of attention to strangers in those days.  The ones who crowded us on those one-way grocery store aisles.  The ones who were masked.  The ones who weren’t masked.  Every cough or sneeze got a side-eye.  

I want you to pay attention to people again … but without judgement. 

The other day, I was at physical therapy trying to use the computer to pay my copay and their payment function wasn’t working.

 When I told the receptionist that it wasn’t working, the elderly gentlemen standing at the desk next to me said, “You didn’t say abracadabra.” 

It was a “dad joke,” but I found myself laughing, not a fake, polite laugh, but a genuine laugh that surprised even me.  He caught me off guard.  And I laughed.  And it felt good.  

In that moment, we “saw” each other. 

Over the past few days, I have done nothing but shovel, blow snow, salt the driveway and repeat.  Every time I think I’m done, the plow comes down the alley and shoves more snow into my driveway.  And I feel a bit like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up the hill. 

But yesterday, I was outside shoveling when the plow, once again, came down the alley. 

He saw me standing there at the base of my driveway.  I had taken a few steps back to make sure I didn’t get pelted with the salt he was spraying.

I waved to him.  Just a friendly wave of acknowledgement.  I saw him.  I appreciated him, even when he left piles of snow in my driveway.  After all, everyone has had to dig themselves out of the snow this week.  There was nothing special about my situation. 

So, I waved. 

He made a couple of passes, collecting more and more snow.  And, much to my relief, he left the base of my driveway cleared, clean and free of snow. 

So much of the world’s problems these days are due to our inability to see each other, to empathize with each other, to be compassionate and forgiving.  

So pay attention this week.  See people. 

And remember what I have been saying these last few weeks. 

Love God. 

Love your neighbor, unconditionally and without exception. 

It’s that easy. 

Amen. 

A Joy that Cannot be Contained

Yesterday before the service began, those of us in the pews watched as a little girl, probably no older than four years old, wandered away from her mother and began exploring the church.

Her eyes were wide.

Her mouth open.

She looked all around her and I couldn’t help but narrate in my head everything she saw.

Yes, there’s the altar rail.

And this is the pew.

And that smell is old wood varnish.

And these are candles individually lit.

And here is the sun, pouring through an upper window.

And yes, here we all are, sitting here with you, smiling and laughing at your joy.

Because, sweet child, that look on your face—I know it well.

It’s the moment when you first realize that you are hungry for something, for the mystery, for the ethereal, for the unexplainable, for whatever or whoever it is that is resting just beyond the veil. 

It’s the first time you know that there is something out there, something huge and magnificent and frightening and joyful and beautiful, something that is in (like the movie title) all things everywhere all at once. 

Keep exploring child of God.

Never stop searching.

Never stop running toward the Love that watches over us.

Never stop believing.

Never lose that joy.

Baptisms and Water Balloon Fights

“We talked about baptism and then had a water balloon fight.”

This was how Reverend Jane explained to us this morning how the youth lock-in went last night.

A few minutes later, she was asking us about our own baptisms, but I was still chuckling, I told them, still imagining Reverend Jane talking about baptism with the kids and then chasing them down with water balloons as if to say, “Come back here, I’m just trying to save you!”

I hope Reverend Jane wasn't embarrassed.  I hope she understood just how on point her water balloon/baptism imagery was.

I mean when you think about it isn’t the water balloon fight a perfect image of baptism?

One of the points Reverend Jane was trying to make this morning in our “Walking the Way of Love” class between services is that baptism is not a one and done type of thing.  Yes, we may only be baptized in the church once, but we need to be renewing and revisiting our baptismal covenant frequently, perhaps even daily.

Which brings me back to the water balloon fight.

Every day, we run from God.

Every. Single. Day.

We run. 

We say things like “I can do this myself.”

We are judgmental.

We are unforgiving to others.

We are unforgiving to ourselves.

We are miserable.

And every day, God chases after us with the promise of salvation, with saving us from our misery, with the promises of hope and joy—and we run from Him.

Our baptismal covenant reminds us to stop running—to just stop and take a breath and turn to God.

Turn to the Way of Love.

And here’s the thing about water balloon fights—I haven’t been involved in too many in my life, but I always remember them involving lots of laughter and silliness and love among friends. 

Stop running from God and don’t be afraid to get a little wet.

 

 

Hummingbird

I have a bird bucket list.

A list (mostly in my head, not actually written out) of birds I want to see before I die, hopefully randomly in nature, though I suppose in a pinch I would accept a zoo visit.

At the top of that list sits—or flutters—the hummingbird.

It has been shocking to me that I have never seen one.  Hummingbird feeders are ubiquitous.  My step-mother keeps one near the back deck of their house and claims to see hummingbirds quite frequently.

As for me—nothing.

At least not until this past Saturday.  I was at my dad and step-mother’s house doing laundry and dog-sitting for a couple of hours, sitting in the living room, watching reruns of Bargain Block, when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the flapping of wings outside a far window.

I hopped up, investigated, saw nothing and sat back down on the couch.

Over many years of birdwatching, I have learned to notice the small things, the flutter of wings, the flash of color among green leaves, the sound of a burbling brook which turns out to be—somewhat bizarrely—the call of a cowbird.

I notice the little things, because those things might be nothing, but sometimes turn out to be quite something to behold.

So, on Saturday, as I sat back to watch TV, I found myself glancing out the window every few seconds, hoping to catch a glimpse of a bird, any bird, really—when, once again, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something gray dart by the window.

I leapt up again and this time, I saw it.  A small grayish bird, with a pale splash of red, and long, hooked beak, hovering about a foot away from the hummingbird feeder.

It was there for only a breath.

Seriously, for as long as it took me to take a breath and hold it—and then it was gone.

I did not see it again.

I obviously didn’t get a picture.

But it was, without a doubt, my first hummingbird.

And I might have missed it had I not conditioned myself for years to be on the lookout for birds.

Trust me, if your daily goal is to find birds and, if possible, get a picture, you will be attuned to the world differently than if your goal once you step outside your door is to simply go grocery shopping.

It is the same way with God.

One of my goals, when I do workshops with people, is to get them to see that God is everywhere in their lives.  You don’t have to invite God to enter your life.  He is already there.  You just have to learn to recognize His presence.

And recognizing God’s presence in our lives, looking for God in our lives, needs to be a daily habit—not one, like flossing, that we know is good for us and promise our dentist that we will do, but ultimately don’t—but a habit that becomes as natural to us as breathing—and ultimately as essential to us as breathing.

At the end of each day, if we ask ourselves, “Where did I see God today?” eventually, we will see Him everywhere, without even thinking about it.

But we have to make it a central purpose of our lives or we will miss out.

For all we know, the Holy Spirit has been hovering like that hummingbird right next to us, not for seconds—not for minutes—not for days—but for years, and we have been blind to Him, focusing instead on other things.

Yesterday, I went out to take some Fall pictures.  Fall is nowhere close to being at its peak, but as it is my first Fall in more than twenty-five years, I don’t want to miss a second of it.

I also don’t want to miss a second of God’s presence in my life.

So where did I see Him yesterday?

I saw Him in a fallen leaf I found that had been caught by a flower before it hit the ground.  White flower, brown leaf—and all I could see was God holding us up when we have fallen.

Where will you see God today?

 

Speaking in Verse

 

Yesterday I heard a strange noise outside my front door and just like all those people who die first in horror movies, I decided (without even looking through the peephole) to swing open the door to see what was what.

There was a man standing there.

A large man.

Holding a Swiffer sweeper.

“I’m cleaning spiderwebs,” he said.

“Oh thank goodness,” I said, a wave of relief falling over me.

The spiders here in Ohio are insane.  They’re large and they don’t build the pretty, pearlescent with dew drops, spiderwebs you see hanging off cattails and other vegetation in Florida.

These spiders build fortresses.

There is one particular spider who is currently prepping my door for Halloween.  His spiderwebs are so thick, they look like the cotton you pull apart to create webs for Halloween decorations.  And this spider feels it necessary to build his web right across my door, so every morning, I open the door and a gust of wind blows the web into my face.

I have learned to step back and duck.

And so, I had never been so happy to see a man standing at my door with a duster.

And I am sure he had never seen someone so happy to see him because of said duster.

But I needed him.

And there he was.

A couple of weeks ago, I met with the rector of the church I’m feeling called to join.  We spoke for about an hour and she mentioned to me that every day she prays Luke 10:2 “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few.”  Meaning she was always looking for people who were willing to bring their talent and skills to the church.

Later that afternoon, after I had gotten home, I texted her saying, “You say Luke 10:2.  I say Isaiah 6:8.”

Isaiah 6:8.  I actually had a shirt made a month or so ago with just that on the front.

Isaiah 6:8.  God asked, “Whom shall I send?  And I said, ‘Here I am, send me.’”  That’s the Kendra Lacy translation. 

But the three most important words are these, “Here I am.”

Here I am.

Isaiah 6:8 is about answering the call.  And for me it’s about answering the call when maybe we don’t even know what it is we are being called to do.  All we know is that God has called us and we make ourselves available to Him for whatever it is He needs.

I’m sure the man sweeping away spiderwebs has another job title.  Probably Maintenance Man.  And I’m doubtful that on his list of duties, sweeping spiderwebs is listed. 

But every morning he shows up and he’s told what needs to be done that day.

And he does it.

Whatever it is, even if it’s sweeping spiderwebs.

“The spiderwebs come back almost as soon as I take them down,” he told me yesterday, “but it gives me something to do.”

Purpose.

We all search for purpose.

Reasons to get out of bed in the morning.

Most often that purpose is going to be work.  We all need money to live after all.  

What is God’s purpose for us, though?

If you want to know, start with a simple prayer.

And say to God simply, “Here I am.”

 

 

 

 

Philippians 3:20

But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.

 

The beauty of the Holy Spirit

is that inside us all,

we carry a little piece of heaven.

 

And it is the quickening

of our heart,

and the catch

in our breath

 

that tells us

the Kingdom of God

lives here now

within us,

 

calling to us,

demanding of us,

 

that we be something better,

that we are something better,

that we are of heaven,

and heaven is of God,

 

and we are so much more

than we can possibly imagine.

 

We are beloved.

We are sons and daughters

of the Creator, the Redeemer,

the One who is Love.

 

Amen.