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Sunday, January 12, 2025
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Matthew 3:13-17
 
Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” Then he consented. And when Jesus had been baptized, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens were opened to him and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
 
 
It was 1968.  I wore a pair of gold trousers, a white turtleneck, and some matching gold socks.  Very sharp.  I stood in the wings watching my father as he waded into a deep pool of water.  He turned and spoke to the congregation.  Then he looked at me and invited me to join him in the warm pool.  But I was afraid.  Even though I walked on my tiptoes, the water still came right up to the bottom of my nose.  My dad reached out his hand and drew me close, literally pulling me through the water.  Then he said some words about baptism and how I had decided (at the ripe old age of seven) to follow Jesus for myself.  Then my dad instructed me to cover my mouth and plug my nose with one hand, and then to grab my wrist with the other (like this).  With one of his hands, he also grabbed my wrist.  And with the other, he supported the back of my head.   Then he said something like this: “Upon your profession of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and in obedience to his divine command, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
 
The next thing I knew, I lost all sense of control as my feet went out from under me and I was plunged backwards into the deep water.  And then as quickly as he had immersed me, my dad lifted me back out of the water, as the congregation rejoiced.  
 
Mine was a baptism based on a personal decision.  And it was baptism by full immersion.  Theologians call this Believers Baptism, a reference to the fact that you need to be able to believe before you are baptized.  And there is a whole school of theology about why this is the “right” kind of baptism.  And, like all theology, it grows out of a particular reading of the Bible, mixed in with lots of church history and hallowed tradition and very firm opinions.
 
My baptism was very different from the kind of baptism we see around here.  More often than not, we baptize babies.  And instead of a pool, there is a font.  And instead of immersion, we place a small amount of water on one’s forehead.  And that too is based on a particular reading of the Bible, mixed in with lots of church history and hallowed traditions and very firm opinions.
 
After I was ordained, I remember a conversation with my dad in which he was trying to understand how someone raised with Believer’s Baptism, someone who had experienced it personally, could possibly be baptizing babies.  And so we talked about the Bible and tradition.  We talked about what each of us thought baptism means -for the person and for God.  We talked and talked and talked.  And at the end of all of that talking… we agreed to disagree.
 
So, what do you think?   Who’s right?  What does baptism mean?  What actually happens to the person being baptized?  And what is God’s doing in all of this splashing around?  I know folks who love to debate questions like that.  I used to be one of them.  But long ago I tired of such conversations because I came to understand what many of those arguments are really about - the desire to make divine things fit into our preconceived worldviews.  And while everyone claims to have the Bible as their source, everyone also does intellectual acrobatics in order to make the Bible say what they want it to say, instead of living with the ambiguities.  
 
Today’s reading from the book of Matthew actually challenges all kinds of sincerely held beliefs about baptism and about who Jesus was and what he came to do.  
 
Matthew writes: “Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him.”  At first, this statement seems rather innocuous.  But it’s not.  In the Judaism that Jesus practiced, to be baptized by someone meant that you were submitting to that person’s authority; that you were literally becoming a disciple of the one who baptized you.  So, you might be wondering, what on earth was Jesus, who is Lord of all, doing submitting to anyone’s authority or becoming anyone’s disciple?  Good question!
 
In addition, John was preaching about baptism as a sign of the repentance of sins.  And yet the book of Hebrews declares that Jesus was “without sin.” (Hebrews 4:15) So what was he doing participating in a ritual of repentance?  Good question!
 
John the Baptist seems to understand the problematic nature of Jesus’s request and protests: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”  John understands the dissonance and the challenge to the commonly accepted theology of his day.  But Jesus replies rather cryptically: “Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
 
So, this story does not fit easily into anyone’s theology of baptism.  And it certainly messes with our beliefs about Christ.  In fact, the early church found this story to be such a huge embarrassment that they mostly ignored it.  We no longer ignore it, but we do all sorts of theological acrobatics in order to make this story fit into our preconceived notions and theologies and traditions.  We say things like, “Well, Jesus was just going through the motions, but he didn’t really need to repent.”  Or we say, “Jesus might have been baptized by his cousin, but he certainly did not submit to his authority.”  But those are arguments from silence – a particularly weak way to make one’s point.  
 
But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: theology is not arithmetic.  And the Divine is not always logical.  God will not fit into little, easily digestible packages.  Our problem with theology is that we have superimposed our Western assumptions about the nature of truth onto what is actually a living, breathing, dynamic relationship called faith.  And when we do that, we miss the transformative truth of who Jesus was and what he came to do.  
 
We miss things like this… the River Jordan, where Jesus was baptized, empties into the Dead Sea.  And the surface of the Dead Sea is the lowest place on the surface of the Earth.  And that detail, so easy to miss, sets the stage for understanding what I believe to be the main point about the Baptism of Jesus.  
 
You see, this is not a story about a theology of baptism.  This is a story about the Incarnation.  This is a messy tale of flesh and blood, tears and pain, laughter and hope.  This is yet another scandalous story about just how far down God would come to meet us where we are - all the way to the lowest point on earth.  It is a story about the Lord’s identification with those whom society counts as the lowest: the poor and the stranger, the least and the lost.  This story dares us to ask: did Jesus only pretend to be one of us?  Or did he come all the way down into the full human experience; into the mud and silt of this beautiful but broken world?
 
The blessed waters of baptism are many things to many people.  And folks may argue about those things if they wish.  But I am satisfied with this meaning alone: that these blessed waters are physical reminders, on our own bodies, of a divine love that came all the way down.  
 
In a few moments, we will stand to sing a hymn.  And you will be invited to come forward on the second verse of that hymn, if you wish, to receive some water on your head and to hear these words: “Remember your baptism and be thankful.”  Some will actually remember it.  But most will not.  But you’re not really coming forward to remember an event.  You’re coming forward to remember that the One who made you loves you - and would go to any length, take on any ugliness, descend to any depth… in order to raise you up.  
 
Thanks be to God.  Amen.
 

Sunday, January 5, 2025, Epiphany
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Matthew 2:1-12
 
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.” When King Herod heard this, he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him; and calling together all the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Messiah was to be born. They told him, “In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’” Then Herod secretly called for the wise men and learned from them the exact time when the star had appeared. Then he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, “Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I may also go and pay him homage.”
 
When they had heard the king, they set out; and there, ahead of them, went the star that they had seen at its rising, until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw that the star had stopped, they were overwhelmed with joy. On entering the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they left for their own country by another road.
 
 
Once upon a time, I stood hand-in-hand with my grandmother out in her backyard.  Twilight had descended and the first faint twinkle of the North Star could be seen.  She pointed it out to me and then she taught me this: “Star light, star bright, first star I’ve seen tonight.  I wish I may, I wish I might, get the wish I wish tonight.”  And then she told me that I should always wish upon a star, because some of those wishes would come true.  And so, they have.
 
I’ve always been drawn to the night sky.  And sometimes I stare into the vast expanse, and I wonder: who are we?  And is who God?  And what is this life all about?  Stargazing an act of worship as old as the human race.
 
Of course, it used to be a lot easier than it is now.  Light pollution prevents us from seeing the night sky as all our ancestors did.  There’s just too much artificial light, which is damaging not only to our stargazing, but to our overall health and the health of the other creatures who share this world.  
 
But today, we remember a time when the stars were far more easily seen.  Today we lift our collective heads to scan the horizon for one particular star, so firmly ensconced in our collective Christmas consciousness that we cannot think of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus without also thinking of THAT STAR.
 
Every year there is a spate of articles about what it was that the Wise Men actually saw.  Was it an alignment of the planets?  Was it a comet?  Was it a supernova?  Or is this simply a literary device?  In many ancient cultures, a star heralded the birth of a great person or a god.  Maybe, some scholars say, Matthew simply borrowed that idea so that his readers would know that something remarkable had happened in the birth of Jesus.  
 
And what about those people first drawn by that star? Who were they, these Magi; these Wise Men; these Three Kings of Orient?  Well, that too is up for debate, but one thing is clear: these stargazers were unlikely heroes because they were strangers.  And they were strangers, not just because they were from some far-off land.  They were strangers in that they were strange, different, unusual.  Biblical scholars tell us that they may have been magicians or astronomers or astrologers or pseudo-scientists or fortune-tellers or horoscope fanatics.  But by any decent standard, they were odd.  Strange.  Strangers.  
 
Part of their strangeness was their religion.  They practiced the ancient faith of Persia called Zoroastrianism.  Why would heretics be called to look for the King of the Jews?  And they came from the wrong part of the world.  The East was where all the enemies of Israel came from to wage war.  Yet here they were, with their strange astrological calculations and their strange religion, in their strange clothing, speaking their strange language, and coming from a strange and dangerous place.  
 
And yet they are the heroes of this tale - because they had that one essential thing that the Lord loves.  They were curious. 
 
And so, they set out on their 1000-mile journey.  And after months of traveling, they finally arrived in Jerusalem, where they sought the assistance of King Herod.  But Herod was a despicable man known for his cruelty.  He murdered his wife, his three sons, his mother-in-law, his brother-in-law, his uncle, and assorted others because he thought them a threat to his power.  So, when the Wise Men told him that a new king had been born, he was determined to kill that child too.  
 
And you know the rest of the story, how they continued to follow the Star all the way to Bethlehem, until it came to rest over the house where the Holy Family lived.  And upon entering, they presented the Child with the strange gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  And then having been warned in a dream about Herod’s wicked intent, they headed home, but by another road. 
 
By another road; a new road; an unknown road.  That’s what we all started on, just a few days ago.  This new year, like any new road, is unknown to us.  And it will be full of twists and turns, trickery and danger, revelation and light.  But those Wise Ones left us some wisdom for any time we find ourselves on a new road. 
 
The first is, perhaps, the most obvious.  And it’s simply this: curiosity is always a virtue.  It seems odd to even have to say that, but in this world of cock-sure opinions about everything, it’s important to say.  Remember that these Magi could have simply stayed the course.  They could have stayed where they were.  They were comfortable.  They had nice lives and families and wealth and privilege and education.  And they had their own traditions and religious practices and holy books.  But, like every curious seeker, they suspected that God could not be contained by any one religious system.  They suspected that the truth could not be controlled by any human-made ideology.    
 
Now some folks will tell you that being spiritually curious is a dangerous thing.  They think they know the road that everyone should take.  But I think that the real danger is in believing that you already know all you need to know; or worse yet, that you understand this great mystery we call God.  
 
Second, the Wise Ones knew the value of the journey itself.  On this very long trek, they slept many-a-night together under the stars.  And they spent countless hours speaking to one another around the fire, and singing songs, and roasting meat, and debating what that star meant.  And some of those days were good.  And some of those days were bad.  But all of those days were a gift.  And all of those days were part of the divine revelation.  
 
We over-simplify this story when we make it all about the Star.  The Star is important, but it alone did not prepare them to meet Jesus.  It was the journey that did that.  On the road, they were formed and shaped and changed and opened, so that when they finally arrived, their hopes and fears met in a moment of transcendence.  The journey itself made them ready for that. 
 
And here’s one more bit of wisdom from those Wise Guys: you don’t find God on the path of least resistance.  Those Magi were not looking for political intrigue.  They were just out for an adventure, but then they met the ugliness of life in the face of Herod.  And they had a choice to make.
 
Of course, they could have just done as the king asked.  After all, they wouldn’t be doing the killing.  They would just be obeying orders.   But Herod’s law was immoral.  And so, they resisted, quietly, but effectively.  They did not go back to see him again, even though they said they would.  Instead, they took another road home.  They did what every Christian promises in the waters of baptism: “to resist oppression and evil” in all its forms.    
 
I don’t know what this new year will hold for any of us.  But some very wise folks have left us their best advice.  
 
And so, in 2025, I intend to more fully engage my curiosity in the search for beauty and truth and light and goodness, wherever it is found, in whomever it is found.  No boundaries.  And I hope to be intentional about each moment, each day, each night of this marvelous adventure we call life.   And when oppression and evil show their face, as they no doubt will, by God’s grace, I will resist.  And I will gaze into the night sky, and remember my grandmother, and look for any sign of light in the darkness.
 

Sunday, December 22, 2024 – Advent 4
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 1:39-55
In those days Mary set out and went with haste to a Judean town in the hill country, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth. When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the child leaped in her womb. And Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit and exclaimed with a loud cry, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And why has this happened to me, that the mother of my Lord comes to me? For as soon as I heard the sound of your greeting, the child in my womb leaped for joy. And blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.” And Mary said, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for the Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever.”
 
 
The great W.C. Fields, comedic actor of the early film industry, is said to have offered this sage advice to his colleagues: “Never work with children or animals. They will steal the limelight every single time...”  
 
It’s true, you know.  And it happened here just last week at the Festival of Carols.  As little Eliza Gilchrist climbed the pulpit steps with Pastor Alison, every eye in the house turned toward her.  There she was in a sparkling gold lame dress, with shoes to match.  There she was, with a glittering golden headband, looking every bit the angel.  And when she opened her mouth to read from the book of Genesis, we were mesmerized.  She spoke in the clear, sweet voice of a child, reminding us once again of our original innocence and the tragic events of the Garden of Eden.  Well, by the time that Eliza was done, the rest of us could have just packed it up and gone home.
 
If ever there was another scene-stealing child, it was the Baby Jesus.  After all, when he showed up there were star-shows in the heavens and choirs of angels and mysterious dignitaries from the East.  And when he grew up, he started a movement that changed the world.  God-in-the-flesh, we call him.  That Jesus was a show-stopper from the very beginning.  And everyone, it seemed, got pulled into his orbit, including his mother.  In fact, that’s really all we care to know about her – that she was the mother of Jesus.  But like any other mother, of this, we can be sure: Mary had a life of her own - gifts and graces, hopes and dreams.  She had opinions and a voice and her own message from God before her son ever came on the scene.  
 
Scholars tell us that Mary was likely about 15 years old when she conceived.  And when her parents asked her how this had happened, she told them that the Holy Spirit was responsible.  An angel had told her that.  Well, you can imagine their reaction.  And so, Mary hit the road.  And she ran off to the home of her cousin Elizabeth and Elizabeth’s husband, Zechariah.  And she made that trip all by herself, in a time and place in which women never traveled alone.  Was it fear that drove her to break such conventions?  Or was it a sense of excitement, or destiny, or calling?
 
Elizabeth and Zechariah were much older than Mary.  And they had never had any children of their own.  In the ancient world, that was a shameful thing, almost always blamed on the woman, and seen as a punishment from God.  But something really odd was going on with this whole family, for not only was Mary pregnant, but so was Elizabeth, in her old age.  
 
When Mary entered her cousin’s house, Elizabeth’s baby, another scene-stealer, whom we know as John the Baptist, leapt in his mother’s womb.  And Elizabeth, poked by an elbow or a knee or a foot, cried out: “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb!”  
 
This impromptu family reunion was suddenly charged with Pentecostal power.  The Holy Spirit jumping from one person to the next - first in the unborn John the Baptist and then in his mother Elizabeth and then in the young Mary herself, who was so overcome by the Spirit that she opened her mouth and began to sing.  
 
The great preacher, Barbara Brown Taylor has written, that this simple teenage girl was “no politician, no revolutionary; she simply wants to sing a happy song, but all of a sudden she has become an articulate radical, an astonished prophet singing about a world in which the last have become first and the first, last.”[1]  
 
Her song was astonishing, and for all kinds of reasons.  But it was its content that was the most explosive.  You see, these were dangerous times for a song like hers.  The Roman puppet king, Herod, was on the throne.  And he was a pompous old fool who wanted to leave his mark on the world.  And he did that by building great buildings in honor of himself.  To finance it all, he taxed the people heavily, so heavily that families literally lost their ancestral homes and farms.  And all the wealth was concentrated at the very top.  And the first were first, and the last were last – and thus it shall always be.  
 
In addition to that, this Herod was exceedingly cruel.  He ordered the execution of anyone who got in his way or threatened his fragile ego, including members of his own family.  And since everyone hated him, he imprisoned 70 prominent Jewish citizens with the order that on the day of his death they would all be executed to make sure that somebody would cry.  
 
And that’s the world in which Mary sang her protest anthem, about how God had scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.  God had brought down the powerful from their thrones.  God had lifted up the lowly.  God had filled the hungry with good things, but the rich God had sent away empty.  And notice that Mary sang all of this in the past tense, as if it had already happened.   That’s the thing with prophets… they often have trouble with verb tenses.  
 
Her song was dangerous then.  It’s dangerous now.  
 
In the 1980s, when Guatemala was under a military dictatorship, it was actually declared illegal to sing Mary’s song in church.  I guess those in control were afraid that the people might actually believe her words and then demand the justice and equity of which she sang.  
 
But what about us?  Is this song dangerous for us too?  Well, we live in a nation where 67% of the wealth is in the hands of 10% of the population.  And those with power just get more, while we cheer them on, and make them our heroes.  Meanwhile, the poor get poorer, but we decided long ago that it was all their fault.  And children are hungry and without health care, but we turn a blind eye, because it’s just too upsetting to think about at Christmas.  
 
But this strong woman refuses to sit down and shut up.  And her song has never been silenced, nor will it ever be, because it’s God’s song.  And it’s not just about Herod the King or a 1980s Central American dictator or the billionaires and corporations that run the systems of the world.  This song is also about me.  It’s also about my choices.  It’s about my own willingness to live into the promised Kingdom of God; to use my privilege and my wealth and my influence to make a difference for those who are always, always last.  
 
But what can I do, you might be thinking.  It’s all so overwhelming and my contribution is just a drop in the bucket.  True.  But notice that Mary did not sing her edgy song all alone.  She sang it in community.  The great theologian Henri Nouwen wrote that Mary and Elizabeth … “could wait together and thus deepen in each other their faith in God…  Thus, God’s most radical intervention into history, was listened to and received (and sung) in community.”[2]
 
And that is where the power of this song lies.  Maybe that’s why the dictator of Guatemala did not forbid individuals from singing Mary’s song.  He forbad it in the churches, in the gathered communities of the faithful.  
 
And that is why I will never stop urging you, the people of God, to be regular in your worship; to gather in this room often.  Because left on our own, we are tempted to despair.  But together, in community, the Spirit sings in and through us.  And hope rises, and we can dare to actually believe the words we pray: “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
 
That has always been the song of the prophets.  It was the song of the great prophet Mary, who sang the Baby Jesus to sleep with it promise, until one day, he sang it too.  
 
 


[1] The Rev. Kate Huey, https://www.ucc.org/sermon-seeds/weekly-seeds-heartbeat-of-justice-liberations-song/, accessed on 12/19/24

[2] Huey, Kate. https://www.ucc.org/sermon-seeds/weekly-seeds-moving-with-marys-song/, accessed 12/19/24

Sunday, December 15, 2024 – Advent 3
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Philippians 4:4-7
 
Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
 
 
 
Hold on to your hats.  I’m about to say something that you may not like.  (Maybe you think that most Sundays!) Are you ready?  I’m one of those people who’s not especially fond of Christmas, at least as we know it.  I once expressed something like that when I was still on Facebook, to which a former parishioner replied, “And you a Minister!  Shame on you!” 
 
I guess she could never imagine a Minister saying such a thing.  Maybe you can’t either.  Maybe you imagine that for people like me and Pastor Alison that this is the most wonderful time of the year!  Well, it’s a time of the year, but wonderful is not the first word that comes to mind.  And it’s not because I’m extra busy at this time of the year.  Every pastor signed up for that.  And it’s not because of all those unspoken expectations at this time of the year.  And it’s certainly not because I don’t love Jesus and long to welcome him again into our weary world.  
 
I think what bothers me is the expectation about how I am supposed to feel at this so-called “most wonderful time of the year.”  You know what I’m talking about.  There is this tremendous peer pressure to be happy!  We’re all supposed to make merry!  We’re supposed to cast aside every worry and pretend as if we all live in a Hallmark movie.  And, at first glance, the Scripture lesson of the day seems to back up that happy worldview! In his letter to the Philippians, Saint Paul wrote: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.”  
 
This third Sunday of Advent is also known as Gaudete Sunday.  Gaudete is a Latin word meaning “Rejoice!”  And on this Sunday, we do rejoice.  We lay aside the penitential purple tones and instead we go pink.  It’s a pink candle and pink stoles and pink attitudes.  Think pink!  It’s like the color itself shouts at us: “Be happy!”  “Be cheerful!”  “Be positive!”  To which I am tempted to reply, “Bah humbug!”
 
Now it’s not that I don’t like to be happy or cheerful or positive.  I do.  But I also suspect that we have mistaken something profound, like joy, for something cheap, that is often helped along by eggnog.  Furthermore, sometimes these cheap seasonal imitations get turned into battering rams against folks whose lives are difficult and challenging and painful; who suffer from loss or depression or loneliness, while the whole world screams at them: “Be merry!”
 
The book of Philippians is sometimes referred to as the Epistle of Joy because it has more references to joy than any other book of the Bible.  Be that as it may, this Epistle of Joy was written to a congregation without a lot of reasons to be happy.  They were engaged in turmoil and in-fighting and parking lot gossip.  And Paul wrote this Epistle of Joy from prison, where he was awaiting trial and likely execution.  It was bleak time.  So, I think, we can reasonably conclude that the command to rejoice is not about seasonal merriment or how others think we are supposed to feel.  In fact, it’s not about a feeling at all.  It’s far deeper than that.  It’s about a way of life.  I’s about a practice.  It is about the cultivation of the life of your soul.
 
The cultivation of the life of the soul.  Do we even talk about that in church anymore?  Do we even teach folks how to do that in church anymore.  Or have we become content with information dumps and the related idea that faith primarily resides in the mind, as if what we think is somehow the sum total of our practice.  
 
 
But I think that is a big mistake.  I don’t think God really cares that much about the nuances of our theology; the finer points of what we believe about the Trinity or predestination or Holy Communion.  It’s not that theology is unimportant, but faith is as faith does, not what faith thinks.  And according to Paul, what faith does is to cultivate the interior life, so that it bears fruit in the world.  Plainly put, what Paul is calling for in this passage is a consistent life of prayer and supplication and contemplation.  These things have anchored the Christian life since the beginning.  How many times do we read in the Gospels that our Lord Jesus went off all by himself to pray, often early in the morning, to be quiet, and care for his soul?
 
But I fear that in the place of prayer and quiet and contemplation, most Christians, of all stripes, have substituted non-stop news and social media distractions and shopping frenzies and forced merriment - and then slapped the name of Jesus on it like that makes it OK.  And then we wonder about the poverty of our souls, the emptiness we feel, the longings that have no resolution.
 
I say this not as a judgment, but as a confession.  I too have known the poverty of my soul.  I too have taken in the empty calories of corporate babble about everything, as if it were the Holy Gospel.  And then I wonder why I’m anxious and depressed and fearful.  I wonder why I am angry when gentleness is supposed to be my language.  I wonder why God feels so far away, even though Paul assures us that the Lord is near.  And rejoicing always?  You’ve got to be kidding.  
 
But there’s something to be said about the school of hard knocks.  My own foundations have been shaken pretty hard lately.  Some old illusions invincibility have been shattered.  I say this, not for the sake of pity, but for the sake of solidarity.  We are all in this human thing together.  And part of that shaking of the foundations was the stark realization that all those things I thought I could count on, I suddenly could not. 
 
At first, I just felt naked and vulnerable and afraid and angry.  But then I thought, “Jmaes, you know what to do.”
 
And this is what I did.  I stopped grabbing my phone upon waking to see what had happened in the world since I went to sleep.  In fact, I decided that a steady diet of bad news was poisoning my soul.  And I don’t read my email first thing in the morning either.  In fact, I don’t connect at all.  Instead, I do this: early in the morning, before the rest of the house is awake, I go into the living room and I sit.  And I watch the daylight come.  And I breathe.  And I try to be conscious of the fact that I am alive.  And I stay in the now as much as I can.  And I pray.  I pray for all of you.  I pray for my family.  I pray for the people of the world.  I pray for Creation.  I pray for myself.  It’s just me and the Lord and good cup of Brazilian coffee.  
 
And somehow, this simply practice has moved around the furniture of my mind… and made room for joy - not happiness or merriment, but a sense of blessedness that comes from knowing that the Lord is near.  And this nearness, this joy does not depend upon the state of the world or what is happening in my family or with my health.  In fact, it has nothing to do with all of those things that I cannot control – which is, actually, everything.
 
Does that joy last all day?  No.  But it’s last long enough to give me strength and courage for the day ahead.  It last long enough to reorient me for the challenges ahead.  
 
Friends, at this most wonderful time of the year, don’t forget your souls.  Feed yourself with goodness.  Learn stillness.  Talk to God.  Make room for joy.  
​

Sunday, December 8, 2024
300th Anniversary of 
the First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Psalm 46 declares: “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God…”
 
The Wabash River was a few blocks from my house when I was a boy. The neighborhood kids and I would gather there to fish and wade and skip stones.  I was fascinated by that river for many reasons, not the least of which was that I knew my geography.  I knew that eventually the Wabash River ran into the Ohio River.  And I knew that the Ohio ran into the Mississippi.  And the Mississippi ran into the Gulf of Mexico.  And the Gulf met the Atlantic Ocean.  So, when I dipped my toes into the Wabash, I had a sense that I was connecting to all of those other bodies of water, and through that water to the whole wide world. 
 
“There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God…”
 
The church is a river.  And as such, it is never static.  It is never the same body of water.  It moves and shifts.  It is wild and untamable.  It ebbs and flows.  
 
That might seem an odd description for this formidable New England institution.  We think of this church as representing stability itself.  We are the center of this town and intricately tied to its founding, for every village in colonial Connecticut needed a Congregational Church.  And so, it was, in part, that the area known as Ye Fresh Meadows became the Village of New Cheshire because of this church.  That’s stability.
 
We live in an historic building well-known for its architectural significance.  Our steeple adorns the town seal and is thus THE symbol of the whole community.  The land upon which this church rests, and the Church Green, and the Town Hall, and the old Hillside cemetery were gifts from the Rev. Samuel Hall, our founding pastor and a wealthy man.  That’s stability.
 
And stability is attractive.  Stability replicates itself.  Perhaps that is why from the thirty or so founding members, this congregation quickly grew into one of the largest in New England, with 400-500 communicants.[1]  And since 1724, at least 5000 more people have been admitted to membership here.  At least 6224 children and adults were baptized here.  At least 1531 couples were married here.  That’s stability.
 
During these 300 years, three meeting houses have been erected – each one larger and more elaborate than the one before.  We started in what was essentially a 40 by 30-foot barn, near the intersection of Route 10 and Lanyon Drive.  Then a mere thirteen years later, a larger space was needed and so the second meeting house was erected.  It was twice the size of the first.  And ninety years after that, in 1826, the cornerstone of this final and finest meeting house was laid.  It was completed in 1827.  And here we still gather, 197 years later, in one of the finest examples of Federal-style architecture to be found anywhere.  That’s stability.
 
But story of this church, and of any church, is not only about its string of successes.  For the water of a river does not only flow.  It also ebbs.  It knows the variations of the seasons and the harshness of the climate.  
 
From the very earliest days of our existence, there have been many hardships, many sacrifices, much loss.  Our first Minister, the Rev. Samuel Hall, knew this great ebb of life.   Not only did he live long enough to bury his wife Ann and five of this thirteen children, but Rev. Hall “lived to bury all those who originally formed this church when he was ordained.”[2]  Imagine that – laying to rest the entire original congregation.  And since those days, at least 3762 people have been buried by this congregation.  And the river ebbs.
 
And then there were the wars – twelve major conflicts since 1724.  And the sons and daughters of this church, black and white, rich and poor, served their nation.  Some of them never came home.  Some of them are memorialized throughout this building.  And the waters ebb.
 
And there was the Smallpox epidemic that closed the church and killed parishioners, and the Spanish Flu pandemic that closed the church and killed parishioners, and the Covid 19 pandemic that closed the church and killed parishioners.  And there were pastor scandals and member scandals.  And there was the very great shame of captive people forced to worship in the shadows of this very room.  
 
And generations of people came and went.  Babies were born and elders died.  Faith was tested and tragedy endured.  Money was raised and food was cooked and charities were funded and the Gospel was faithfully proclaimed… in the great ebb and flow of life.   
 
“There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God…”
 
More than 30 years ago, I made a pilgrimage to the Abbey of the Genesee in Western New York.  I had never done such a thing before and had no idea what to expect.  Many things there impressed me: the beauty of the chanted Psalms, the intense quiet, the delicious food.  But underneath all of that, there was something far more profound at work – a river of sorts, deep and wide.  I first became conscious of it while worshipping with the monks.  We were chanting the ancient Psalms of David when quite suddenly, I felt an intense connection to all the faithful who had ever gone before me and all those who would come after me.  I understood that the worship happening in that moment had actually been happening since the beginning of time.  And I saw myself not so much as an individual, but as part of a greater whole.  I was but one drop of water in a very great River.  And just like that kid who dipped his toes in the Wabash and felt connected to the whole wide world, worshipping in that abbey connected to me the whole people of God, in all times and in all places, through the great ebb and flow of human history. 
 
It is one of the great honors of my life to stand in this pulpit on this 300th Anniversary Sunday.  What a privilege for both of your pastors.  But if I am honest, there is also something about anniversaries that makes me anxious.  As we get older and as we celebrate more of them, we cannot help but wonder: “How many more of these are left?”  
 
The same can be asked of institutions.  300 years is a very long time.  And on a day like this, we might wonder: will people actually gather here 300 years from now to celebrate a 600th Anniversary?  Who can know?  But “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God…”
 
For 300 years this congregation has been a stream, making these Fresh Meadows glad.  But this stream and all streams exist but for one purpose: to feed the River.  The River is the point. 
 
And I take great comfort in that.  For when my time on this earth is done, when my own name is but a footnote of history; when this church’s time on this earth is done, we will not cease to be. We will simply be absorbed into the greater work of God; the great cloud of witnesses; the great communion of saints, the River. 
 
And for our part in something so broad and deep and wide and pure and everlasting, let us with one voice say: Thanks be to God! Amen!


[1] An Historical Sketch of Rev. Samuel Hall, First Minister of Cheshire by Theodore Parsons Hall and EC Baldwin, p.13

[2] An Historical Sketch of Rev. Samuel Hall, First Minister of Cheshire by Theodore Parsons Hall and EC Baldwin, p.14

Advent 1 – Sunday, December 1, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
1 Thessalonians 3:9-13
 
How can we thank God enough for you in return for all the joy that we feel before our God because of you? Night and day, we pray most earnestly that we may see you face to face and restore whatever is lacking in your faith.
 
Now may our God and Father himself and our Lord Jesus direct our way to you. And may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all, just as we abound in love for you. And may he so strengthen your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints.
 
 
 
It all started with a simple winterberry wreath.  The wreath was very tasteful.  Very reserved.  Striking but not ostentatious against our dark blue front door.   Oh… and we also had one of those small “trees in winter” with the tiny clear lights that we put on the front porch. That looked nice too.  But then we realized that we had some outdoor lights.  So, it only made sense to put those on a few bushes.  But one or two bushes with lights, well, that just looked a little sad, like we weren’t trying very hard.  And so, we added another string of lights.  And then another.  And another.  Until we ran out… and so we ran to Lowe’s.  Because when you start with outdoor lights, it can be hard to tell when enough is enough.
 
When we finally got the bushes in order, we noticed that the dogwood tree looked rather forlorn by comparison. But lo and behold, we had some of those gigantic Christmas ornaments that we could tie to the branches.  And so, we did.  But there were not enough of them.  And so, we bought some more.  And then some more.  
 
Then Marcos, who is very creative, decided that our outdoor lawn lamp post would look much better with some lights of its own.  And he didn’t just wrap them around the pole.  No, no, no.  He strung those down to the ground in the shape of a Christmas tree.  
 
Each year, it seems, Christmas at the Campbell-Martins house has become exponentially brighter and bigger and more festive.  Of course, our house cannot compare to some of yours.  We know that because we’ve seen them.  Sometimes just for fun we get out the church directory and just drive around town to see what you’re up to.  
 
Now I say all of this as a way of coming clean… because I spent many-a-year gleefully playing the role of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.  I would squawk and complain and criticize all of the extravagance because I assumed that it always detracted from the reason for the season.  And I suppose it can and it does.  But I’ve also learned that it doesn’t have to.  Because the capital “R” Reason for the Season taught us the blessings of plenty and abundance and feasting and dancing and rejoicing.  Jesus taught us that sometimes in this world, more is actually more.  
 
Our Scripture lesson today is taken from the first letter to the church at Thessalonica in modern day Greece. Scholars tell us that this letter is probably the very first epistle that St. Paul ever wrote to any of the early churches.  The reason for his letter was that he was worried about the congregation there.  He worried that they were overburdened and stressed.  
 
So, just who were these early Christians?  Well, this tiny congregation was made up mostly of day laborers who lived and worked in that busy port city.  But it wasn’t just a port.  Thessalonica was also a religious center - a city full of the Greek gods.  There were temples and statues and holidays everywhere.  And so, when these folks decided to follow Jesus, they were suddenly cut off all of those supports: from friends and families and holidays and traditions.  And it was a lot for them to carry.  And so, Paul worried about them.
 
Now, if I were their pastor, knowing how busy and complicated their lives were, I likely wouldn’t have asked them to do anything else.  I likely would have told them to take care of themselves first.  That’s how we do pastoral ministry in the modern-day America.  We are very careful about asking you for too much of anything, which I suspect is likely a big part of the problem of a church in decline.  
 
But Paul understood, perhaps better than I, that when it comes to the Gospel lived out in the world, more is more.  And more is better.  And more actually gets us the satisfaction that we crave.  
 
And this is what he wrote to those overburdened, busy people: “May the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all, just as we abound in love for you.  And may God so strengthen your hearts in holiness that you may be blameless before our God and Father at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ with all his saints.”
 
Increase in love for all.  Abound in love for all.  And if you do, then you will be blameless when Christ comes again. 
 
During these weeks of Advent, we talk a lot about the coming of Christ.  We speak of hearts that prepare him room.  And we know it’s important, and so we try to squeeze it in to our overly busy lives.  We might come to church more often.  We might even come to the Wednesday evening Communion Services or the Quiet Christmas Service or to church on Christmas Eve.  Or we might be more intentional in our prayers and Bible readings and quiet times.  But, you might be thinking, that’s about all I can do, James, so please don’t ask me for anything more.  
 
I’m tempted not to.  I know how busy your lives are.  I know how busy this time of year is.  But friends, we’re talking about getting ready for Jesus.  And according to Paul, there is only one way to do that.  It’s increasing and abounding love!  And I am not talking about some mawkish sentiment or some Hallmark movie-induced feeling – but love that changes lives; love that is spent and poured out into the world.  
 
Paul actually described what that kind of love would look like, later on in the fifth chapter.  And his advice is very practical and just as applicable in modern-day Cheshire as it was in ancient Thessalonica.  This is what he wrote: Respect others; be at peace; admonish the idlers; encourage the faint hearted; help the weak; be patient with all; never repay evil for evil; always seek to do good; rejoice always; pray without ceasing; give thanks in all circumstances; don’t quench the spirit; listen to the words of prophets; test everything; abstain from evil; and hold fast to what is good.
 
In these times of uncertainty and distress, when the promises of peace on earth and good will to all can seem like a distant dream, there is only thing to do: you go and make peace.  You go and spread good will.  You go and increase and abound in love.  Because of those things, more is always more.  
 
For years now, I have used a little prayer book to anchor my own morning prayers.  And those morning prayers always end with this benediction: “We go (now) in peace to love and serve the Lord, and to live our lives so that those for whom love is a stranger will find in us generous friends.”
 
We can do that.  We can get ready for Jesus.  Let's go!
 

Sunday, November 17, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
Mark 13:1-8
 
As he came out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, “Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!” Then Jesus asked him, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”
 
When he was sitting on the Mount of Olives opposite the temple, Peter, James, John, and Andrew asked him privately, “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign that all these things are about to be accomplished?” Then Jesus began to say to them, “Beware that no one leads you astray. Many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.
 
 
 
It was my first day in Jerusalem.  I had made the kind of “quick friends” one does when traveling in a group, and together we had set out to explore the Holy City on foot.  We had no destination in mind and so it was a complete surprise when we crested a hill and there it was - the Wailing Wall, the Western Wall, that surviving partial foundation of Herod’s Temple.  It was bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun.  And the sight of it literally stopped me in my tracks.   
 
We approached and donned the cardboard yarmulkes available in large containers for Gentiles like us.  In between the stones, in the cracks, were thousands of pieces of paper, each containing a hand-written prayer.  I put mine in there too.  I don’t know what I prayed for that day, but I remember feeling connected to something far greater than that present moment or my singular life. 
 
Historians tell us that the Temple was constructed of white marble and that its exterior walls were covered with sheets of gold.  First century Jewish historian Josephus wrote that the gold on the temple "reflected so fierce a blaze of fire that those who tried to look at it were forced to turn away… It seemed in the distance like a mountain covered in snow, for any part not covered in gold was dazzling white."    
 
It was a building meant to last for the ages, but in 70 AD, Rome sacked Jerusalem and destroyed the Temple.  And then the site was profaned, a common practice in the Ancient World, meant to completely humiliate the vanquished.  Sometimes holy sites were even used as latrines.  Imagine this room turned into a public toilet.  One day, the Temple stood gleaming in the sun.  The next day, it was a smoky ruin. 
 
Today’s Gospel lesson is a continuation of last week’s, in which Jesus observed a poor widow giving her last two cents to support that grand institution.  As Jesus and his disciples left the Temple that day, one of them, overcome by its splendor, remarked on how magnificent it was.   What a shock, then, when the Lord replied: “Do you see these great buildings?  I tell you, not one stone will be left on top of the other.  All will be thrown down.”  Well, that was an end to the conversation and a gloomy silence settled over the group. 
 
They left the city center and climbed the Mount of Olives, with its bird’s eye view of the Temple.  Finally, some of them screwed up their courage and asked Jesus about what he said.  “When will this happen?” they wanted to know. But Jesus didn’t tell them when.  He just told them what.  And he said: “Beware that no one leads you astray.  Many will come in my name and say, 'I am he!' and they will lead many astray.   When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come.  For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birthpangs.”  
 
This passage is an example of apocalyptic literature - a florid way of revealing how all things end.  We don’t understand this literature very well, being separated as we are, by culture and time.  And so, we read passages like this one and think them strange.  Because they are.  But they are also strangely familiar.  Because we all know what it’s like to be afraid.  We know what it’s like to think that your world is ending.  Apocalyptic language may be foreign to us, but apocalyptic living is not.
 
And so, we look for someone to save us.  Some look to systems or governments or leaders.  Others look to faith.  For the faithful, we want God to save us from our fears.  But this passage contains no such promise.  Rather, it is a blunt warning about how hard and unpredictable and unfair life can be.  It is a reminder of all that is out of our control: of wars and rumors of wars, nation against nation, earthquakes, famines.   
 
And yet, in the middle of all this doom, Jesus says: “Don’t be alarmed.”  It’s almost a throw-away line; very easy to miss if you’re not paying attention.  But attention must be paid.  
 
“Don’t be alarmed.”  Throughout the Bible’s pages, this message is repeated again and again.  Angels appear to frightened, terrorized people and the first words they speak are, “Fear not!”  The Risen Jesus appeared to his terrified friends, who had witnessed his execution and were now running for their own lives, and the first words he spoke were, “Peace be with you.”      
 
So we know this is the message of Scripture, but the real question is: what does it mean to not be alarmed in a world so obviously full of danger?
 
Well, it’s not an invitation to magical thinking.  And it’s not denial.  And it’s not a promise that there is nothing to be afraid of.  Instead, it is an invitation to a perspective, to see the human story and human history as something larger than the scope of our own years.  
 
Jewish faith and the Christianity that grew out of it do not see human history as circular or random or meaningless.  Instead, we see the human story as linear.  Yes, with lots of ups and downs, but there is an end point, a purpose, a culmination.  That is part of what it means when we say “Christ will come again.”  To say that “Christ will come again” is to declare that chaos and fear and division and evil will not ultimately triumph - even though they may win the day.  To say that “Christ will come again” is to push back against the despair of the immediate and to affirm that God has promised us good.  “Christ will come again.”
 
And then there is that odd reference to birthpangs in this passage.   It, too, is easy to miss.  But the word is rich and true to our human experience.  History and destiny are like being in labor.  There is pain and blood and sweat and tears before something new and hopeful is brought forth.  
 
About a hundred years ago now, I took a New Testament class taught by a wonderful and wise professor.  I don’t remember much of what I learned that term, but I will never forget what Dr. Helyer said at the very end of the very last class of the semester.  
 
It was a fearful time in the nation and the world, and we students were talking about current events, wars and rumors of wars.  Dr. Helyer just let us talk and get it all out.  And he did not tell us that everything would be OK.  Instead, he reminded us of what we knew, but so often forget.  “I want you to remember,” he said, “that even if this republic should collapse around our knees, and everything we know come to ruin, the Reign of God will stand forever.”  
 
And all these years later, the memory of those words still stirs something deep inside me.  It’s hope.  It’s perspective - that my life, your life, everyone’s life… is part of a much bigger story that has a purpose and a goal. 
 
God has planted that seed of hope in every human heart.  And it is very resilient.  It needs to be.  Because the road we travel is not easy.  There are many twists and turns.  There are wars and rumors of wars.  But up ahead - in the distance - there is the gleam of something far better.  That’s the promise.  And I’ve staked my life and faith on it.  So, don’t be alarmed.  Christ will come again.  
​

Sunday, November 10, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
 
Mark 12:38-44
 
As he taught, he said, “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers. They will receive the greater condemnation.”
 
He sat down opposite the treasury, and watched the crowd putting money into the treasury. Many rich people put in large sums. A poor widow came and put in two small copper coins, which are worth a penny. Then he called his disciples and said to them, “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on.”
 
 
 
Do you ever wonder how you got to be as old as you are?  Boy, I sure do.  And on those days when I forget or pretend like it isn’t true, my body has a way of reminding me.  I have a knee that acts up and a hip that can be wonky.  My eyes aren’t what they used to be and I have a slight hearing loss in my left ear.  I often get tired in the afternoon and sometime need a nap before an evening meeting.  And all those delicious Doritos that I have eaten for years now cause small infernos in my stomach.  
 
 
But perhaps the oddest of all of my age-related bodily changes is that… I have become invisible.  Yes, I know you can see me now, but there are plenty of days when I am convinced, based on real-world experience, that I could pass through a room and set it on fire… and no one would notice.  
 
This seems to be especially true in restaurants.  I walk in, but can wait and wait and wait for someone to see me and take me to a table or to bring me a menu or glass of water.  And I have walked out of more than one restaurant, never to return, because I was not seen.
 
Now, that might seem rather petty to you, until you stop to realize that being seen is really about having your humanity recognized.  To be seen is to be valued and validated.
 
Political campaigns are largely about appealing to people’s need to be seen, and thus to be understood.  We want our leaders to really see us for who we are: people of color and white folks, male and female and non-binary.  Rich and poor.  Liberal and Conservative.  Gay and straight.  Cisgender and transgender.  Believers or not.  And if we think that our leaders actually see us, and thus understand us, well, then, they will get our vote.  
 
If ever there was a person who needed to be seen, it is the main character of our story today.  This woman was invisible for all sorts of reasons – primarily because she was a woman in a male-dominated society.  And so, she didn’t count that much.  And she was invisible because she was a widow, which is another side effect of that male-dominated society.  She didn’t have a man to hook her identity to.  And she was invisible because she was poor.  Poor folks have always been invisible, which is perhaps why Jesus and all the prophets talked about them so much.  
 
We don’t know her name, which only adds to her invisibility.  But one day, she suddenly became visible because a man named Jesus saw her.  I mean, he really saw her, understood her, got her.  And because he did, her story is one of the best known of the New Testament.  
 
The setting was the great Temple of Jerusalem.  The time was Holy Week, just days before Jesus would be executed by the Empire.  And Jesus and his disciples were people watching – one of my favorite things.  They were sitting in the Court of the Women, which was so called because it was as far as any woman could actually go in the male-dominated Temple complex.  The Court of the Women was also the location of the Treasury, where people came to pay their pledges.  How genius was that - making sure the women could pay too?
 
In the Treasury there were these large money receptacles, with trumpet-shaped openings, large at the top and getting narrower as they went down, funneling the money into a container.  Remember that money was all coins back then, so when people gave, it was metal against metal.  The more you poured, the louder the racket.  In addition, you made your own racket, because everyone had to announce what they were giving before they dropped it in.   Can you imagine?!  So, for example, a man in fine robes, from a good family, might call out “5000 denarii” and then pour all those clanging coins into the treasury.  How very non-New England.  
 
In line with all the rich folks that day, there was a poor widow, who approached the money box and called out, “2 Leptas.”  And eyes rolled and tongues clucked and giggles abounded.  Two Leptas wasn’t even one penny.  So, what she gave was quite literally a drop in the bucket.  But it was a noise heard round the world and it got Jesus’s attention.  And he called his disciples together and said: “Truly I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury.  For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on."
 
The Greek word translated as “poor” really means “the poorest of the poor.” And so, when Jesus said that this was all she had to live on, he really meant it.  These were her last two cents.  Maybe after this, she just went home and died from starvation.  After all, it happened to widows in the ancient world sometimes.  
 
Now I have heard at least two dozen sermons on this passage, most of them about stewardship.  And at first blush, that seems to be the way to go with this story.  Preachers say things like: “Be like the widow and give sacrificially.”  “Be like the widow and God will provide.”   
 
Well, the widow did give sacrificially, but in a way that none of us can really identify with.  Who here has given away everything you have?  So, that’s a little problematic for a stewardship theme.  And as for God providing and giving this story a happy ending, well, maybe.  But that’s really an argument from silence.  Jesus doesn’t say that.  And the righteous suffer all the time.  And besides, is that really the point?
 
So, what is the point, then?  Well, some scholars say that Jesus’s statement here was essentially a lament for the way the poor were treated in his time.  Others say that Jesus’s statement was a prophetic judgment over a system that allowed someone to get down to their last two cents.  
 
So, maybe it was a lament.  Or maybe it was judgment.  Or maybe stewardship really was the point.  But there is another point, so obvious that it gets overlooked. 
 
This woman was a nobody.  She passed through the streets as invisible as a ghost.  And if she went home to die of hunger, who would notice?  But Jesus… he really saw her.  And it might have been the first time in her life that anyone with any authority or agency had ever taken notice of her.  And because Jesus took the time to see her, here we are 2000 years later, in Cheshire, Connecticut, talking about her and thinking about her and giving her the kind of dignity, she never had when she was alive.  
 
Because to be seen makes all the difference in the world.
 
In this week of winners and losers, some folks are feeling seen and validated and understood.  But others have never felt so invisible.  And some of them are sitting beside you in the pew.  Or living in the house next door.  Or standing with you in line at Dunkin Donuts.  And all they want is to be seen.  
 
Today, in churches all over America, people wonder: “So, where do we go from here?  How do we continue to be the church in such a divided and angry time?”
 
Well, that’s the kind of time Jesus lived in too - divided and angry.  So maybe we should simply do what he did, and people watch.  Maybe we should practice the discipline of eyes wide open in a world of selective sight.  
 
That’s the thing about truly opening your eyes: it will move us beyond the academic and the noises of the talking heads and the fear mongering meant to control and divided us.  And we will see… those on the margins.  We will see the scapegoated.  We will see those who are genuinely afraid.  We will see the poor and the immigrant and the orphan and the widow and the prisoner and the hungry and the lonely and the sad.  
 
And if see them – I mean really see them - then this congregation will know exactly where to go from here.  
 

Memorial Music Sunday, November 3, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Not long ago someone at church described me as a “Midwesterner.”  I was amused by this description, since I’ve lived on the east coast for more than half of my life.  But this person was not wrong.  I may not have lived in the Midwest for decades, but that place with its agricultural roots formed me and continues to influence the way I think and see the world.
 
I hadn’t been to the Midwest in a long time, until a few weeks ago.  My parents have recently relocated from Florida back to Indiana, and I hadn’t seen them since they moved.  And so, I made the long trek back to the town where I went to high school.  On a sunny morning, I drove out of Connecticut, into New York, across Pennsylvania, traversed Ohio, and finally arrived in Indiana.  The further west I drove, the flatter the land became, dotted, as it was with beautiful farms – red barns, white houses, and a view that seemed to stretch to the horizon.  
 
As a kid, I never appreciated that vista.  But at this stage of my life, I see those farms and that great flat plain in a new light.  And there were moments on that road trip when I literally shouted for joy at the sheer beauty of it all.
 
I, myself, never lived on a farm, but my life was shaped by farm culture.  Cheshire has its own deep connection to farming.  And the Bible has a universal connection to the land because our holy book comes out of a farming culture and economy.  Just listen to the parables of Jesus about the sower scattering seed, the lost sheep, the mustard seed, the fig tree.
 
That farm connection is even found in the today’s passage from the mysterious book of Revelation.  During the Litany of Remembrance, you heard these words: “Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, "Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?"  I said to him, "Sir, you are the one that knows." Then he said to me, "These are they who have come out of the great tribulation; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”[1]
 
The word tribulation is taken from the Latin word “tribulum.”  And a tribulum was a farm instrument used for beating the stems and husks of wheat.  With the tribulum, the farmer would thresh the wheat stalks, in order to extract the precious kernel of wheat, separating it from the straw.  So, when John the Revelator referred to the people’s current suffering as the Great Tribulation, the Great Tribulum, it was a powerful image that everyone would have understood, beaten down as they were.  
 
So, just who were these suffering people?  They were the Christians of Asia Minor, located in modern day Turkey.  And they were suffering a great persecution because, like all early Christians, when they proclaimed that Jesus of Nazareth was Lord, it meant that the Roman Emperor was not.  This, of course, was blasphemy and sedition.  And for these crimes, some of these early Christ-followers had been martyred.  Others, fearing a similar fate, had defected.  The foundations of the early church were shaken.  It was a very bad time, indeed.  And let me add that while we Americans are not persecuted for our faith, we still must like Christians in every age, between the way of the humble Christ or the way of haughty Empire.  
 
So, John had a vision about how all human things end.  And with the strange and poetic language of apocalyptic literature, he encouraged the people to be faithful.  He told them that these hard times would not last forever.  He reminded them that God is faithful.  And he promised them that one day the Great Tribulation would be over and their reward would be to dwell with God forever.  
 
What wonderful promises… but hard to believe on the threshing floor of life.  It’s hard to be hopeful when your job disappears.  Or your love abandons.  Or storms wash your dreams away.  Or your nation teeters.  Or your health fails.  Or those you love die.  And we are beaten down, like so many stalks of wheat.  
 
But that’s the thing about the threshing floor.  It doesn’t just contain the husks and the straw.  Scattered all around are also the kernels of wheat.  And in each kernel, in each seed, there is the potential for new and resurrected life.  
 
St. Paul, using that seed analogy, put it like this in his first letter to the church at Corinth: “So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.”[2]
 
This is the cornerstone of our faith: Resurrection, new life, new hope, new beginnings.  We need to hear that again and again, because we are so often beaten down.  And that is precisely why this day, full of beautiful music and hopeful promises, is so important.  That is why what we do in this room week after week is so important.  That is why your own lives of prayer and service are so important.  These things reorient us.  They remind us of what we know or at least hope, but so easily forget.
 
This week will likely be full of threshing.  No matter the outcome of the election, our nation is dangerously divided.  We are angry and resentful and suspicious and afraid.  We have gotten used to living on the threshing floor.  
 
But today, we gather to remember what is true.  Today, we gather, as sign and symbol of what we actually are: one people, one human family.  Today, we gather to proclaim Resurrection, even as we mourn those who have died.  Today, we lift our voices to sing with the angels: “Peace on earth, good will to all.”  Today, we come to Christ’s Table, where all are equal and all are valued.  And today, we give ourselves once more to One who has promised us that the threshing floor is not our final destination.  We were made for something more: imperishable, full of glory and power.  
 
Thanks be to God.


[1] Revelation 7:13-14

[2] I Corinthians 15:42-43

Sunday, October 13, 2024
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 10:17-31
 
As he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.’” He said to him, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
 
Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” They were greatly astounded and said to one another, “Then who can be saved?” Jesus looked at them and said, “For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.”
 
Peter began to say to him, “Look, we have left everything and followed you.” Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age—houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children, and fields with persecutions—and in the age to come eternal life. But many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.”
 
 
Whenever we’re in Maine, we always make a stop at our favorite kitchen store in downtown Portland.  It’s full of treasures and all kinds of gadgets and doo-dads that you never knew you needed… until you see them.  We always walk away with something we hadn’t thought to buy.
 
But a couple of summers ago we were there on a mission.  I had determined to find a really good kitchen knife to assist me in my chopping and dicing.  And we ended up with a real beauty - crafted in Germany and with an edge that can split a hair.
 
I love that knife, but truth be told, it also kind of scares me.  I’m careful when I use it and when I wash it and when I put it away.  I know that in the wrong hands, a knife can do a world of harm.  But in the right hands, a knife can do a world of good.  In a surgeon’s hands, a knife can save your life.  
 
The book of Hebrews declares that “the Word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword (which is really just a big knife!), piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joint from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”
 
This is the language of surgery – a knife that divides soul from spirit, joint from marrow.  And how apt it is that the editors of the New Revised Common Lectionary paired this epistle reading with today’s Gospel lesson, because the Gospel lesson is actually a healing story.  
 
I know it doesn’t seem like it at first.  The main character, described in some accounts as a “rich young ruler,” is not physically ill.  But Mark uses certain language in telling this story that he only uses when describing a healing.  For example, there is the rich man’s physicality: he runs up to Jesus and kneels before him.  There is also an element of desperation in what he does and in how he humbles himself.  And those are hallmarks of a healing story.  And then there is the placement of the story within Mark’s Gospel.  It is wedged smack dab between two other healing stories: the boy with an unclean spirit and Blind Bartimaeus.  
 
So, this desperate man ran up to Jesus and blurted out: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?”  And notice how Jesus answered.  He didn’t ask the man about his theology.  He didn’t require that the man pray a specific prayer.  He didn’t ask him to join a church.  Instead, Jesus guided the conversation toward how the man lived with his neighbors.  
 
“You know the commandments,” Jesus said.  “Don’t kill.  Don’t steal.  Don’t cheat on love.  Don’t lie.  Don’t defraud.  And honor your parents.  – Now here’s something really interesting: “thou shalt not defraud” is not actually one of the Big Ten.  So, let me say it again: theology is poetry, not arithmetic.
 
When the rich young man heard this, he replied: “I’ve kept all these commandments since I was a boy!”  And you know what?  He was telling the truth.  This was an all-round good guy.  And Jesus knew that.  Mark says that Jesus looked at him; he really looked at him and saw him… and he loved him.  In fact, he loved him enough to tell him the whole truth.  And it was surgical.
 
“You lack one thing,” Jesus said.  “Go, sell everything you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”
 
When the rich young man heard this, he was shocked.  And the disciples were shocked.  And most of us are shocked.  Then the rich young man hung his head and cried. Because it was just too much to ask.  Because the knife was too sharp; the surgery too extensive.  And so, he decided to take his chances with what ailed him.  
 
A lot has been said about this passage over the centuries – most of it said in an attempt to offer us some wiggle room; to dull these sharp words of Jesus and make them less dangerous.  
 
Here’s an example: one ancient scribe actually rewrote verse 24 to read: “How hard it is for those who trust in riches to enter the Kingdom of God.”  Well, that’s better!  We know we shouldn’t trust in our money.  We know we should trust in God.  We even print that on our money: “In God We Trust.”  The problem is that’s not what Mark wrote.  
 
A 9th century biblical interpreter invented the idea that a camel going through “the eye of the needle” was not a reference to a sewing needle at all.  Instead, it was a reference to an especially low gate in the wall that surrounded ancient Jerusalem.  And the camels could only get through this “Eye of the Needle Gate” if stooped low and unladen of their cargo.  So, said this interpreter, Jesus’s real point was that the rich should humble themselves and bow low.  They should get rid of any excess baggage in order to pass through the gate and into the Kingdom of God.  But here's the problem with that one: archeologists say that no such gate ever existed.  
 
Other parsers of the Bible have suggested that Jesus never really meant for this man to give up his money, but simply wanted to expose him to the futility of trying to keep the law of Moses.  Besides the possible anti-Semitism in such an idea, it completely ignores the fact that Jesus himself said that not one letter of the law would disappear until Kingdom come.  
 
Aha, you might be thinking!  But I’m not rich!  This can’t apply to me!  Well, according to current data, modern Americans, as a collective, are considered the wealthiest people in the history of the world, with a cumulative net worth reaching unprecedented levels.  So yes, we are rich.  And Jesus said: “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the Kingdom of God!”  
 
I think Jesus actually meant what he said to the man because Jesus talked a lot about money and the poor.  Nearly 15% of everything Jesus ever said was about money and possessions.  But Jesus also knew other rich people, some of whom supported his ministry, that he did not ask the same thing of.  So, what was really going on here with this rich young man?  
 
A wise old preacher once said that there is a direct connection between your wallet and your heart.  You pull on one, you feel it in the other.  Our own dear Ford Cole once told me that a former rector of his thundered from the pulpit: “If God doesn’t have your heart, he doesn’t want your money!”  And which point, the entire Stewardship Team passed out!  
 
But that old rector was on to something.  God does want our hearts.  The problem is that they are crowded places, full of idols.  For some folks, that means trusting in their money more than they could ever trust in God.  But for others, it might be fear in your heart’s chambers.  Or maybe jealously hides in your heart.  Or an old resentment has set up shop there.  Or maybe you secretly hate your neighbor.  Or maybe your politics have become your idol; a political party has become your savior.  Or maybe your heart is sick with pride.  Or deceit.  Or vanity.  Or something else entirely.  The list of all those things that can displace God is endless.
 
Whatever it is that fills our hearts, God looks at us and sees us… and loves us just the same.  Because that is not all we are.  Like the rich young man, we are so much more.  But the love of God will not leave us in ill health when we could be well.  
 
The rich young man walked away from his healing that day.  Did you know that he is the only person in the Gospels to ever walk away?  And maybe that was the end of his story.  Or maybe not.  Maybe, like me, after he resisted, he went home and thought about it.  And maybe the next day or the next week or the next year, he went out and found Jesus again, and got his heart straightened out.  And maybe… I will be too.
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