The Baptism of Christ Sunday
January 13, 2019
​
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
 
As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.”
 
Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
 
 
Congregationalism is a religion of the people.  The people run the church.  The people raise the budget and decide how it is spent. The people vote on important issues like purchasing property and calling a minister.  And because this is a church of the people, it’s in our DNA to think of ourselves as a community of equals. And so we are – kind of.  Even in our religion of the people, some things are reserved solely for the clergy. There are certain priestly functions that only the ordained can do.  According to the faith and order of the United Church of Christ, of which we are a proud part, only ordained ministers can bless the bread and cup for a service of Holy Communion.  And only ordained ministers are authorized to baptize people into the household of God. 
 
These two acts - baptism and communion – we call sacraments.  And while our Catholics sisters and brother have seven of these sacraments, we Protestants only have these two.  There are lots of historical reasons for that, but primary among them is the both of these acts can be tied back directly to the life of Jesus Christ. Baptism and Communion are both things that Jesus himself did.  And because Jesus did them, and because we are disciples of Jesus, these things are holy, set-apart, sacred.  
 
Today is set-aside in the liturgical calendar as the Baptism of Christ Sunday.  And that information is usually met with one of two responses.  The first one is: “Who cares?”  What on earth does the baptism of Jesus have to do with life in 2019. For second response to the baptism of Jesus is: “uh oh.”  Why “uh oh?” Well, think about it.  What have we been taught about baptism?  Isn’t it about sin and redemption?  Aren’t there notions of being washed clean?  Isn’t there something in there about that perplexing idea of original sin?  But the Scripture says that Christ was without sin.   So, what on earth was he doing in the muddy Jordan that day?
 
To make things more complicated, Jesus was baptized by his cousin John.  And in the ancient world, to be baptized by someone meant to submit to their authority; to be their disciple.  But the New Testament is rather clear that Jesus Christ is Lord of all, including John the Baptist.  
 
And the Gospel of Luke presents a third rather embarrassing problem with the Baptism of Jesus.  Luke claims that when Jesus was baptized, John was already in prison awaiting execution. That’s embarrassing.  So which was it: John was in prison or John baptized Jesus? 
 
So to celebrate the Baptism of Christ is complicated.  And these contradictions make us nervous.  But I think we’re nervous because we’re trying to make Scripture fit into neat theological equations.  We already know what we believe and we don’t want the Bible to get in the way.  And so we push and shove these stories through the pigeonholes of doctrine and church history, trying to tie up all the loose ends.  But it has been my experience that grace – sometimes amazing grace - is often found in the questions and contradictions and loose ends. 
 
John the Baptist was preaching repentance out on the banks of the Jordan River.  To repent simply means to turn and walk in a new direction.  And who doesn’t need to do that?  It was a popular message and people thronged the banks of the Jordan. One day, Jesus happened along and decided that he should be baptized too.  And John saw the contradictions and protested.  But Jesus was undeterred and John finally relented.  When Christ came up out of the water, the spirit of God came down like a dove, and a voice announced: "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."
 
In Luke, this story is told simply – he gives it all of half a sentence.  And notice what is not present in this story or in any of the other Gospel’s accounts. There is no talk of original sin being washed away; no ordained priest or pastor there to administer the sacrament; no holy water; no sacred space; no special clothing: just some people down by a riverside, under an open sky, wanting a new life; and longing to know that they mattered.  And there was Jesus among them, using what was there - common water - to help remember what is true.  
 
To remember what is true – we all need that.  And so, we take pictures to capture a beautiful moment. We keep journals to remember beautiful thoughts.  We hug our friends and lovers to remember their bodies.  These are outward and visible symbols of an inwards and spiritual grace – sacraments if you will. 
 
Once a month, we gather around this table to eat bread and drink cup in order to recall, with our bodies, the Last Supper of Jesus.  There is something holy about the physicality of it. But the challenge of baptism is that most of us have absolutely no memory of it.  We don’t recreate it with our bodies.  And that, it seems to me, is to our detriment.
 
The great Protestant reformer Martin Luther needed reminders of his baptism.  Like so many other great spiritual leaders, Luther was constantly plagued doubt and despair. To drive back those demons, he kept an inscription over his desk that simply read, "Remember, you have been baptized."  And when that inscription alone was not enough, he would touch his own forehead and say out loud: "Martin, you have been baptized."  
 
My mentor in ministry, the Rev. George Bailey, had his own way to remember his baptism.  George was a character; a fresh and original thinker, very often misunderstood.  But what he was was a mystic.   I will never forget his sermon in which he encouraged us to use our morning showers as a way to celebrate and remember our baptisms.  “That’s what I do,” he said.  Each day as the waters poured down on his head and body; George Bailey remembered that grace and love and mercy were poured out upon him day after day after day. And then he stunned us all into silence when he declared, in no uncertain terms, that his morning shower wasa sacrament - an outward and physical reminder of an inward and spiritual reality.  
 
The physical world connects with the spiritual world.  And once you understand that, then the simplest gifts of life aremeans of grace.  And could it be that that was why Jesus was baptized?  Do you think it’s possible that before he began his three intensive and difficult years of ministry that he wanted to feel, on his own skin, the abundant grace and love of God?    
 
At the conclusion of this sermon, and as the choir sings, Alison and I invite any of you who so desire to come forward and remember your baptism.  We will stand at the head of these two aisle.  You will receive some simple water on your forehead, and when you do, we will say: “Remember your baptism and be thankful.”
 
These waters are not magic, but they are powerful.  They are powerful because they help us remember, with our bodies, those things thing we long to be true but often forget: that the grace of God is deeper than the oceans; that the love of God is an ever-flowing river; that the forgiveness of God washes us clean and gives us a fresh start – not just today, but every day.   
 
Amen.    

Sunday, January 6, 2019, 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.
 
 
One summer evening, long, long ago, I stood 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 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 she was right.
 
I’ve always been drawn to the night sky.  I think most of us are.  We lift our heads and stare into the vast expanse, and wonder who we are and who God is, and what life is about.  That makes stargazing an act of praise as old as the human race.
 
But it used to be a lot easier than it is now. Some years ago, I read a fascinating article in the New Yorker about light pollution and how it prevents us from seeing the night sky the way that all of our ancestors did. The article pointed out that most of us have never really seen the full glory of the heavens, even when we’re out in the country.  There’s simply too much artificial light.  And so, the American entrepreneurial spirit being what it is, something called astrotourism has arisen.  And for a fee, these tour companies will take you far out into a deserted place where you will see what our ancestors saw for free. 
 
Today is all about a star.  It’s the Feast of the Epiphany, the last day of the twelve days of Christmas.  It’s a day when our attention turns to the heavens, and in particular to that one star so ensconced in our collective Christmas consciousness that we cannot think of Mary and Joseph and the Baby Jesus without it. Today we remember those mysterious Wise Men who looked for Christ led only by a brilliant star and their astrological calculations.
 
Scholars debate what it is they actually saw.  Was it an alignment of the planets?  Was it a comet?  Was it a supernova?  Some people doubt the veracity of the whole tale, noting that in the folklore of many ancient cultures, a star heralded the birth of a great person or a god. Perhaps, they say, St. Matthew used this common belief simply as a literary device in order to signal his readers that the birth of Jesus was something truly extraordinary.  
 
I find all of this very interesting, but I’m not sure we’re supposed to get lost in speculations about what the Wise Ones actually saw, if anything. It seems to me that our attention attention is better spent on the human characters in this tale.  I’m more interested in the Wise Ones themselves, because, like in so many of the Bible’s stories, they are actually us. 
 
So, who were these Magi?  Well, that too is up for debate, but one thing is clear: they fit the uncomfortable pattern of so many other biblical characters.  They were outsiders, unlikely heroes, not the first persons you would think of to go looking for the Lord.  Scholars suggest that they may have been magicians or astronomers or astrologers or pseudo-scientists or fortune-tellers or horoscope fanatics.  But by any decent religious standard of their day or ours, they were heretics. In addition, they were the wrong race, and they came from the wrong part of the world, the East – a place where the enemies of Israel often came from.  So, their placement as heroes of this tale is noteworthy.  They had lots of things against them, but this one necessary thing for them: they were curious. 
 
So believing that they had seen a sign in the heavens, they set out on their journey.  And like other starry-eyed dreamers, they encountered plenty of opposition along the way. Upon arriving in Jerusalem, they met a king named Herod, whom they thought could help them find this Child-King. 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.  And because his ego was so fragile and he was easily threatened, once he heard that a new king had been born, he decided to murder him as well. But the Magi, feeling uneasy, never told the king where Jesus was.  
 
Backed into a corner, Herod did what any despot would do: he punished everyone. He ordered the murder of all the baby boys under the age of 2 who lived in and around Bethlehem.  We call this horror “the slaughter of the innocents.” And the only reason that Jesus survived was that his desperate parents escaped across a border into Egypt – the Holy Family, refugees running for their lives.
 
These unlikely characters are heroes of the Gospel, for all kinds of reasons. But mostly, they are heroes because they followed the light of God wherever it took them. They are heroes who threw caution to the wind in order to find the truth.  They are heroes because, in this search for truth, they thwarted the desires of the wicked who seek to obscure the light.  
 
The magi are long gone – but their spirit is still alive in any of us who search for the light, who believe in the promise, despite all the evidence to the contrary.   We know what they world is like, yet here we are singing and praying and hoping and working for this luminous idea called the Kingdom of God. We live in a world of drones and suicide bombers and terrorists, yet we work for and look for and expect the arrival of the Empire of Shalom.  We gaze at the stars and dream of a world where children are not gunned down in school, and women are believed, and greed doesn’t melt the polar icecaps.  All of this seems foolishness to those who have no hope.  But we have seen a star.  
 
Eventually, the Wise Men turned around and went home.  The star faded from the sky.  The Epiphany had passed. But here’s the thing: the Wise Ones still had each other.  They still had their shared experience.  They still had a common story.  And whenever doubt and fear came to call, they could sit around a fire and reminisce about that Star and that incredible journey and that dazzling Child, whose face they never forgot.  
 
And imagining them reminiscing together, makes e think of all of you. The truth is, you aren’t just my job. I actually need you because I cannot do this Christian thing on my own.  I cannot, on my own, look at this world and still believe in the coming Reign of Peace.  But withyou, I can sing.  And with you, I can tell stories.  With you I can remember all that is beautiful and hopeful.  
 
We have each other.  And we have a Star.   

December 24, 2018 – Christmas Eve
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 2:8-20
 
In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!” When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us.” So they went with haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the child lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known what had been told them about this child; and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds told them. But Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, as it had been told them.
 
 
As a child, I had a very rich interior life. I loved to spend time alone in my room.  I would lie on a hillside in our yard, stare at the sky, and get lost in the clouds for hours.  In school, I was often scolded for daydreaming.  And I fell in love with books - because books had the ability to take me even deeper into that interior world. 
 
A few years ago, it struck me that I hadn’t read a work of fiction in several years.  And I found that realization deeply disturbing, given my life-long love of books.  So, I bought a novel and set out to read it.  But I kept losing interest.  I would read one paragraph and then not have any idea of what I had just read because I was always thinking of something else.  And so, I put that book aside and bought another one.  But the same thing happened because I was always thinking of something else. I was always multi-tasking – this thing we’re constantly being told to do.  And this brought me to the sad conclusion that I had lost one of the great pleasures of my life – the ability to ponder. I had forgotten how to be quiet and allow my thoughts to run where they would.  
 
At first, I feared that this inability to concentrate might be a sign of illness.  It was, but not in the way I thought.  I was the victim of my electronic addiction. I was a victim of the relentless battles for my attention; the relentless onslaught of bad news; the relentless barrage of advertising.  In place of a book, I always had a device in my hand.  I went to bed with a device in my hand.  I was still reading a lot, but never one thing for very long because something else was always clawing for my attention. Maybe you know what I mean. 
 
Perhaps the worst part of that is that as our capacity for concentration has decreased, our capacity for fear has increased.  With each click, we are confronted with more bad news, and then worse news. So then we click and shop or we click and flirt.  Why do we do it?  Why this constant connection; this constant distraction?  I think we do it because we are deeply afraid of silence.  We are afraid of our own thoughts.  
 
In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.  Then the angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.  But the angel said to them: “Do not be afraid.”
 
“Do not be afraid.”  This is the most-often repeated command in the entire Bible – far more than don’t kill or don’t steal or love one another?  And yet we don’t really take this commandment seriously.  The best we seem able to do is to put our fears on hold for a few days, mostly by activities or diversions.  Most of us will do that with Christmas, as we eat, drink, and make merry. But on Wednesday, there will be some breaking news that demands our attention.  On Wednesday, there will be credit card bills.  On Wednesday, there will be doctor’s appointments and work conflicts and family arguments. Tonight and tomorrow, we make merry. But what about Wednesday when all the excitement is over?
 
After the shepherds stopped fearing for their lives, the angel told them where Jesus was. And then a choir of angels sang “Peace on earth!”  When that spectacle was over, the shepherds set out to find this baby.  And Luke says that they went with haste – excitement crackling in the air.  And they found the Holy Family.  And they told them what the angels had said about this Child, the words tumbling out of their mouths as they spoke over one another.  After all, this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them. 
 
But Mother Mary’s reaction to this incredible news was completely different from the shepherds.  Luke says that Mary “treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart.”  And that strikes me as really significant as all the emphasis is put on glory and angels and shepherds and stars.  Why doesn’t Mary shout for joy at the words of the shepherds?  How did pondering help her to frame her reality?  
 
It’s a good question because Mother Mary’s reality was challenging to say the least: still a young teenager, a new mother, with a very confused husband, disappointed parents, a life-time of poverty on the horizon, living under an oppressive government, being a second-class citizen.  What did pondering do for her?
 
I think it made room.  I think it created space in her heart and in her mind for something new. Her fears were still there, but now there was also room for the promises of God.  There was room for faith.  
 
And that, it seems to me, is the key for how we actually obey this commandment to fear not.  It is not by filling our minds with as many diversions as we can.  It is not by filling our lives with noise and accumulation of things and the bolstering the illusions of control.  We learn to “Fear not” by making room for the Word of the Lord to dwell with and interact with all those things that frighten us.  
 
And what is that Word that Mary pondered?  Well, it became flesh and lived among, full of grace and truth.  That Word was born into poverty to teach us the real riches of living.  That Word healed the sick and fed the hungry and touched the unclean.  That Word upset religious and social conventions that got in the way of mercy.  That Word wept at the tomb of a friend, and danced at a wedding, and died a very human and painful. And that Word rose to new life in the midst of fear.  
 
I did learn to read fiction again, but it took time and practice.  I had to work at it and be deliberate about it.  --I’m still working on not being afraid, but I’m getting better.  I’m learning to make room for the Word of the Lord.  And Mother Mary continues to show me the way.

Advent 3, December 16, 2018
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 3:7-18
 
John said to the crowds that came out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor’; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” And the crowds asked him, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”
 
As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah, John answered all of them by saying, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” So, with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.
 
+++
 
When my grandmother died, we did what all families eventually do: we divided her things, each according to interest or need. Some of my cousins needed the furniture and appliances.  Some of my aunts thought they needed the jewelry. I didn’t really need anything, but there was one thing that I wanted.  Unfortunately, it was long gone – a victim of my grandparents’ moves to smaller and smaller places as they aged. 
 
My grandma was a great keeper of Christmas – the sacred and the secular joyfully mixed together. She saw no contradictions in the parties and shopping with church and nativities. She would sing Silent Night and Silver Bells in the same breath. 
 
And nothing represented her ability to mix the sacred and the secular better than the object that disappeared, the one I longed to have to remember her by. It was a little garish, a little too shiny, tacky really - but she loved it and I loved her and so I loved it too. It was a statue of Santa Claus, kneeling at the Manger.   It was THE secular symbol of the season bowing down to worship the One whose birth we all await.
 
I thought about that statue again this week as I read about the so-called “War on Christmas.”  It’s a battle that has raged for years now. In this culture war, some of us say things like: “Keep Christ in Christmas” or “Wise Men Still Seek Him” or “Jesus is the Reason for the Season.”  And I believe all of these things to be true.  But I also think that when we say these words, we are often drawing a proverbial line in the sand; a declaration that, above everything else this day might be, it really belongs to us - the followers of Jesus. 
 
On the other side of that great divide, there are those who say that while this festival began as a religious holiday, over time it has evolved into something completely different. They say that now it’s really more about family and travel and feasting and gifts.  They say that in a pluralistic society, where people practice many faiths or no faith, the holiday has become broader, by necessity, in order to encompass everyone.
 
So what do you think?  As for me, well, I am of both minds.  I think that the ship has already sailed on the commercialization and secularization of Christmas.  But I also see December 25 as one of the most holy days of the year.  I guess I am my grandmother’s grandson.
 
Sometimes I wonder what Jesus thinks of all this fighting over his birthday. Sometimes I wonder what Jesus thinks about all of our fighting in general.  And I suspect he is not pleased. I say that because during his ministry, Jesus was often dismissive of arguments about words.  You could say that he wasn’t so concerned with what we call orthodoxy – that is the right beliefs and the right words to describe them. Jesus always seemed more concerned with orthopraxy – that is the right behaviors in regard to our neighbors. 
 
And that is the setting for the Gospel lesson today.  A bunch of regular folks like us had gone out into the wilderness to hear the preaching of this character named John the Baptist.  Scholars say that many people believed that John was the Messiah because of preaching and popularity.  He was famous long before his cousin Jesus. 
 
I don’t know why John was so popular because his sermons weren’t exactly crowd-pleasers.  They didn’t make people feel good. Instead, after they gave up a days work and hiked for hours under the hot Mediterranean sun, this is how he greeted them: “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance. Do not begin to say to yourselves, “We have Abraham as our ancestor”; for I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham. Even now the axe is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.”
 
When the Gospel of Matthew reports this same story, these harsh words are reserved for the hypocritical religious leaders.  But in Luke’s Gospel, it is the regular folks who get blasted by these words.  And instead of being offended, these people were convicted.  These people knew they needed to change.  And instead of storming off in a huff, they replied: “What then should we do?”
 
And that question, it seems to me, is not just a question about life in general.  It’s a question about Christmas and how we keep it. As this most holy day approaches, what should we do?  I dare say it’s not to fight over whether or not someone says Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays.  And I don’t think it’s simply about coming to church.  I don’t even think it’s about the intellectual belief that Christ is the Savior of the World.  It’s something far simpler and more profound.
 
“What then should we do?” they asked. And John replied: “If you have two coats, give one of them away.  And do the same with your extra food.”  Life is not about accumulation.  Some of the people in his congregation that day were the hated tax collectors, who made their money by over-charging people and pocketing what was left over.  They too asked: “What should wedo?” And John replied: “Don’t collect any more from the people than what is required.”  There were even some despised Roman soldiers who had come to be baptized and they too asked: “What should wedo?”  And John replied: “Don’t extort money from anyone by threats or accusations. Instead, be satisfied with your wages.”
 
Now what is really striking about these answers is that even though John was preaching an apocalyptic message, proclaiming that the whole world was about to change, his call to participate in that change was incredible simple.  It was something everyone could do. To the crowds he said "Share." To the tax collectors, he said, "Be fair." And to the soldiers he said, "Don't bully."  SHARE. BE FAIR.  DON’T BULLY. 
 
Fidelity to the Gospel of this One who is coming does not have to be heroic.  The Good News of John’s message is that in all of our lives, in every moment of every day, we can participate in the Incarnation.  We can enflesh the divine.  We can prepare the way of the Lord by sharing what we have, by insisting on fairness to every person ever born, and in this mean-spirited age, refusing to ever bully anyone. 
 
God doesn’t want us to argue about Christmas.  God wants us to BE Christmas.  The Incarnation of God in Christ is replicated every time any of us does the will of God.  And that, it seems to me, is the transformational power of the Gospel.  It begins with the simple question: what should Ido? 
 
What should you do? What should I do? How will we keep Christmas all year long?  SHARE. BE FAIR.  DON’T BULLY.  And thus prepare the way of the Lord!
 

Advent I, December 2, 2018
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
                                                                        
 
Jeremiah 33:14-16
 
33:14 The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah.
 
33:15 In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.
 
33:16 In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which it will be called: "The LORD is our righteousness."
 
+++
 
My father didn’t mean to squelch hope.  In fact, he was trying to instill hope in his children, and so he would say things like: “Next year, we’re going to buy a new house and everyone will have his or her own bedroom!”  Or “Let’s all go to the movies tonight, and you can have any kind of candy you want.”  Or “On your next birthday, I am going to buy you a new bicycle.”  My dear dad meant what he said, but the limits of his Baptist preacher’s salary, with three kids to raise, meant that most of the time, despite his best intentions, he was not able to do what he had promised.  For years, every time my dad would speak magnanimously about the future, my heart would fill with expectation.  But after awhile, seeing the same pattern of disappointment repeated again and again, I eventually stopped believing the promises.  Hope deferred is hope denied, and as a teenager I became silent and cynical when he would speak, mumbling under my breath: “Promises, promises…”
 
Inadvertently, my father prepared me on for a lifetime of the disappointments that come when promises are not kept.  As adults we learn the hard way that employers and lovers and churches and governments often promise us the moon, only to keep us earthbound and disappointed by not acting on their word, by not fulfilling their promises.  
 
And so here I am, distrustful of anyone who makes big promises.  Here I am, adorned with my cynicism like a coat of armor.  I tell myself that it’s better to expect nothing than to be disappointed.  And at this time of year in particular, I give my cynical coat of armor an extra shine. I’m a bit of a Grinch.  I cringe at the forced merriment. I bristle at the crass commercialization of this most holy time of year.
 
But then last Wednesday evening, I walked into this space and for the first time ever saw those stars that Alison made suspended above our heads.  And something inside of me began to stir.  My cynicism seemed to soften a little around the edges.  And I let myself wonder if maybe, just maybe, I could afford a little hope.  Maybe I could dare to let my spirit rise to meet the Advent promises of God, despite all evidence to the contrary? 
 
Jeremiah the prophet lived through the reign of three, less-than-stellar Judean kings.  And as a prophet he railed against the political intrigues of Jerusalem. He preached against the cynical use of religion for political gain.  And all the while, he watched as these kings broke promises, made dirty political alliances, and always kept their own best interests at heart.  And because Jeremiah called them out, he was not their favorite person.  They had the power to simply dispatch him permanently.  But there would be a heavy political price to pay.  So instead, the king threw old Jeremiah into a cold, dark prison - his only crime being the courage to speak truth to power.  
 
Eventually, the corruption rotted the foundation of the government and the Judean kingdom fell, hard.  Great calamity followed.  Babylon conquered them, destroyed their cities, desecrated their holy places, and forced the best and the brightest of them into exile in Babylon.  The poor and vulnerable were simply left behind to live in the ruins of their former greatness.  Think Damascus.
 
Such an incredible devastation seemed to leave little room for hope.  But that’s always the moment that hope appears.  And the word of hope was spoken by the same prophet who warned of calamity. In the nuclear winter of their discontent, Jeremiah told the Babylonian exiles the most incredulous thing.  He said that the kingdom would be restored; that the ruined cities would be rebuilt; that the glory of the Lord would once again hover over the land.  It seemed impossible to believe amidst the rubble of their dreams, so far from home. It seemed impossible to believe living, as they did, as desperate refugees. But Jeremiah proclaimed the word of the Lord, which often sounds like a little bit of nonsense.  He said: “The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.”  
 
That righteous branch was a baby named Jesus. But here’s the thing: Jeremiah prophesied it.  But he never saw it.  It happened, but he was already dead.  And therein lies the power and the challenge of hope.  The word of the Lord shall surely come to pass, but it may be on some distant horizon.  And there is no guarantee that our eyes will ever behold it. 
 
Another year is coming to a close.  And this year, like all the others past, has been filled with broken promises.  This year, like all the others past, is full of dust and ashes; fear and loathing.  Some of us are tired.  Others are afraid. And yet here we are, under the stars, waiting, longing, dreaming, hoping, praying for the kingdom of God to come upon this earth just as it is in heaven. 
 
And so it is, at this time of year, despite myself, that I feel the nudge of hope.  Something in me stirs as we sing and listen and recite the old, old the story about a God who never gives up on the human race; a God who came to us as one of us, born into poverty and oppression to an unwed teenage mother and a terribly confused father. 
 
Given that I’m a Grinch, I’ve often wondered why hope springs eternal despite all the messes I make.  And this is the only conclusion I can draw: that hope is the gift of God.  It is the image of God shining in each of us.  
 
There are stars in the sky.  There is music in the air.  And there is that promise that simply will not let us go. So let’s begin our Advent journey.  Let’s sing the songs.  Let’s light the candles.  Let’s sit in the silence.  Let’s open ourselves to HOPE. 
 
 

Matthew 6:25-33
Sunday, November 18, 2018
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Matthew 6:25-33
 
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you—you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What will we eat?’ or ‘What will we drink?’ or ‘What will we wear?’ For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.
 
 
I hate airports and it has nothing to do with my fear of flying.  I hate airports because of what happens as you wait to fly.  I’m not referring to being herded like cattle or those people who always refuse to wait for their section to be called or those folks whose cell phones seems to be extensions of their heads.  What really drives me to distraction are the ubiquitous televisions with their speakers embedded in the ceiling so that no matter where you are, you cannot escape the talking heads of cable news.  So there I sit, already nervous about getting on a plane, while plastic-looking people remind me of all that has gone wrong in the world that day – including, one time, an airline disaster!
 
A wise critic once observed that cable news is designed for people addicted to anger and fear.  They sell dread, innuendo, and suspicion.   But TV is a business, and so they wouldn’t peddle those things if we didn’t gobble them up like a Thanksgiving feast.  
 
Of course, there are real reasons for us to be afraid.  We live in a beautiful but broken world.  The murderous violence in houses of worship and nightclubs and concerts is so stark in part because it reminds us of what we all know to be true: that life is fleeting.  Life ends and sometimes not in the way we would hope.  And so we embark upon elaborate journeys of denial. We look for someone, anyone to save us from our fears.  We want to believe that they actually can.  And cynical politicians and giant corporations and power-hungry religious institutions rush into that place of fear and tell us that they can save us. They know we are afraid and they use it against us.
 
A therapist once told me that I was addicted to fear.  I was shocked by that opinion because fear is the one thing I have spent my life trying to avoid at all costs - or so I thought.  But over time I came to see the truth of what he said - that being afraid somehow made me feel more alive.  It was an occupation, an adrenaline buzz, a lover, an addiction. But it was also exhausting and debilitating, like some dread disease. 
 
The Rev. Dr. James Forbes, former senior minister of the Riverside Church in New York City, likes to say that the theme of the entire Bible can be boiled down to these two words: “Fear not!”  And if that is true, and if we are on some level addicted to fear, then the call to “Fear not!” is perhaps the most countercultural command in the Bible. 
 
“Fear not!”  Jesus repeats this mantra in the Gospel lesson today, but with different words. This passage is taken from the so-called Sermon on the Mount, a collection of some of the best-known sayings of Jesus.  Today we heard Pastor Alison read: “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?” 
 
The larger context of this passage is about a proper perspective on money.  And if there is anything that we are truly afraid of, it is the lack of money.  That is an old, old human concern, and the folks who heard Jesus preach that day knew a lot more about that concern than we do.  
 
Assuming that those who heard Jesus speak were a representative sampling of the society at large, then 2-3% of them would have been aristocrats, people of Greek or Roman background, family connections, old money.  For them, Jesus’s instruction not to worry about food and clothing would have been easy enough. They never did.  --Then there were the tax collectors and the major landowners, 12-14 % of the population.  They worked hard, but they always had plenty to eat. --Then there were the priests and the scribes.  They may not have been as rich as the others, but this 4-5% always had full bellies, plus they wore the most beautiful clothes of all.  --But everyone else, a full 78% of the general populace, was really poor.  And of the poor, there were levels of poverty.  The destitute – not the people at the bottom of the barrel but the people under the barrel were the beggars and disabled and prostitutes who were always only a few days away from starvation. 
 
And so there they sat, mostly poor, listening, hoping, longing for words that would relieve their fears of economic insecurity.  They knew Jesus sometimes talked about money, but on this day, there was no zealot’s talk of economic revolution.  Instead, Jesus simply said: “Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear.  Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”  
 
Well, yes Jesus, but if you don’t have those things, you can’t live! -- What kind of thing was that to say to poor and frightened people?  Why couldn’t Jesus have said something inspiring about God rescuing us from our fears?  Isn’t that what we all want. But the Gospel doesn’t promise us rescue.  Instead it promises us salvation.  And there is a significant difference between the two.  Salvation is often not about a change of circumstance, but a of perspective – in biblical language, being born again. 
 
Jesus asked the people that day: “Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to the span of your life?” That’s a question we all should answer, every day.  And then to try to help them move away from worry as a default mode, Jesus talked about flowers and birds.  He reminded the people that God loves them more than these.  But that alone is not the truth that saves us.  Our salvation is found in remembering howbirds and flowers experience the world.  These beautiful creations experience the world in the only way they can: in the present moment – not tomorrow or next week or next year, but right here, right now.  Jesus was teaching the supremacy and glory and blessing of the present.
 
And then as if to underscore the supremacy of the present, he concludes with these practical words: “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.  Today’s trouble is enough for today.” In other words, be present now.
 
I wish I were better at that.  How I struggle to even relax into this moment without thinking of what comes next in the service and what I need to do tomorrow and how we will meet our stewardship goal. Worrying about what has not yet happened is my addiction, and the root of most of my fear.  
 
Jesus wasn’t preaching the Gospel according to Bobby McFerrin that day: “Don’t worry, be happy!”  How cruel that would have been to those who first heard it; those who had no idea if there would be food for tomorrow.  How cruel that message would be to those of us living in the forward shadows of terror and racism and hatred and climate upheaval.  Jesus never said: “Don’t worry, be happy.”  Jesus said: “Don’t worry, be present.”
 
Be present.  Consider in this moment how good it is.  We are here together.  We are alive. We know the warmth of human touch. We can ponder beauty and wonder and mystery and awe.  We are able to reach out and help others.  That makes this present moment an incredible gift. And for that gift, may the Lord make us truly thankful. 

Sunday, November 11, 2018
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.”
 
+++
 
Sometimes I look at my life, all the places I’ve traveled; the decades spent living in Manhattan; that I’ve landed in such a wonderful congregation in this incredible building, in this charming New England town - and I think: it’s is a long, long way from where you started. For the truth is, I come from pretty humble beginnings.  One doesn’t have to travel very far back in my family’s history before you find extreme poverty and hardship.  My people, on both sides, come from hardscrabble Appalachia.  So I look at my life and I think: it’s a long, long way from where your people started.
 
One of my people was my paternal great-grandmother, whose name was Lennie Igo.  She died when I was 11, but I have clear memories of her smile, of her simple shotgun house, and of her faith.  My great grandmother was illiterate, but she had memorized large portions of Scripture that she could quote at length. She believed in the power of prayer and spent hours a day in that practice on her knees. She was poor and lived on a widow’s pension, but 10% of everything she had, she gave to her church.  My great grandmother staked her life on the Gospel.  I thought of her this week as I began to ponder this passage of Scripture, in which the hero of the story is another poor widow who staked her life on the Gospel.
 
Jesus was in the Temple on the Tuesday before he was executed by the Empire.  For some weeks now, he had been wowing the crowds by taking on the establishment and its systematic abuse of the poor – people just like that widow. Almost all of the folks who listened to Jesus were likewise poor, and so they listened to him with delight.  And they were especially thrilled to hear him take on the clergy, who sometimes abused the poor. “Beware of them,” Jesus said.  “They love to parade around in their holy outfits and pray elaborate prayers while at the same time devouring the poor widows’ houses.”  
 
And this was not hyperbole. The scribes were literally devouring the widows’ houses.  A widow in that patriarchal society was completely dependent upon living male relatives who would decide how much money to give her.  And if she had no relatives, then she was, quite literally, dependent upon the kindness of strangers.  And we all know that not all strangers are kind.  So, it was not unheard of for widows to be forced to choose between prostitution and death by starvation. 
 
Sometimes, if a woman had no male relatives to handle her affairs, then the religious authorities would swoop in to help manage the dead man’s estate.  And of course, they would charge a fee for this service.  Historian Chad Myers notes that this practice was rife with embezzlement and abuse.  Sometimes the scribes literally took the widow’s house as payment for services rendered. 
 
So, on this Tuesday of Holy Week, Jesus and his disciples were in the Temple, sitting in the Court of the Women – a designated place because women were not allowed to go any further.  That’s also where the Treasury was. I guess a woman’s money was holy enough, even if she wasn’t.  At the Treasury, the worshippers would pour their coins into 13 large metal containers.  Imagine the noise – metal against metal, crashing and clanging.  If you gave a lot, you made a lot of noise.  And everyone paid attention to that.  In addition, it was customary for the donors to announce how much they were giving before they dropped the money into the containers. Can you imagine such a practice here, before you dropped your envelope in the plate?
 
A widow appeared, walked up to the Treasury and announced: “Two Leptas!”  It was a measly amount.  It took 4 to 8 Leptas to make one penny.  What she gave was quite literally a drop in the bucket.  But she got Jesus’s attention.  “Truly I tell you,”he said, “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."
 
I suppose that over my lifetime, I have heard at least two-dozen sermons on this text.  And inevitably they lead to a plea for more generous stewardship. And make no mistake: being faithful and generous with what you have been given is a mark of discipleship.  But there is also another lesson here. And I wonder if it’s a lesson the widow preached without ever knowing it.  
 
So remember the scene: a busy place with plenty of rich folks pouring in their treasures and announcing how generous they were.  And then think of this widow, who with chin raised marched to the Treasury and announced her own participation in the Reign of God. By her boldness to claim her place among the people of God, she preached the vital importance of every act of faithfulness, kindness, and justice. 
 
The widow certainly could have been more penny-wise and simply used that money to buy herself some bread.  But that was not how she understood her role in the world.  She wasn’t just some poor widow.  She was an agent of change, a worker for tikkun olam – a Hebrew phrase translating as “the repair of the world.”  She could not do it all.  She could not repair the world on her own.  Be she could do her best and trust the Almighty to do the rest. And because she was faithful, her singular act of obedience is enshrined in the pages of Holy Scripture, while all those holy men in flowing robes are long forgotten.  
 
Now, you might read this story and think she was foolish.  And maybe she was according to the standards of this materialistic and selfish world. But sometimes foolishness is actually faithfulness. Sometimes it takes a fool to believe the word of God.  There is a Franciscan prayer that ends like this: “May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in the world, so that you can do what others claim cannot be done, to bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.”
 
We cannot fix the world all by ourselves.  We cannot lift up the poor all by ourselves.  We cannot even fix ourselves by ourselves.  But that is not now and never will be an excuse for despondency. That is no excuse for inaction. That is no excuse for fear or paralysis or cynicism. 
 
Taped to my office door I have this quote, inspired by the Talmud, that collection of ancient Jewish wisdom and interpretation: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.” 
 
And that is the Gospel of this powerful woman  - that every act of goodness, no matter how small, moves the whole world in the right direction.  And if you can believe that, or at least pretend to believe that, then that belief and practice will change your life.  It will change your faith.  It will heal your cynicism.  It will melt your bitterness.  It will save your soul - because it’s the Gospel, as proclaimed by this blessed woman who showed us the way. 
 
Thanks be to God.  Amen.      
 

Mark 10:35-45
Sunday, October 21, 2018
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Mark 10:35-45
 
James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came forward to him and said to him, “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you.” And he said to them, “What is it you want me to do for you?” And they said to him, “Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.” But Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with?” They replied, “We are able.” Then Jesus said to them, “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; but to sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.”
 
When the ten heard this, they began to be angry with James and John. So Jesus called them and said to them, “You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them. But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”
 
 +++
 
When I was a small child, I became convinced that I was adopted.  That’s really not so unusual.  But what was unusual was my suspicion that my so-called parents wore disguises all day long, and that they were, in fact, Chinese spies.  I have no idea where this notion came from.  But I do remember deciding that I had to find out if it was true. So, one night, I crept into their bedroom while they were sound asleep, thinking that, of course, they took their masks off at night.  As my mother tells it, she woke up from a dead sleep to have my five-year-old face about an inch away from hers as I tried desperately to see through the darkness who she really was.  
 
As I said, I don’t know where my crazy idea came from, but I suspect its genesis had to do with my growing realization that I was different. -- I think a lot of us felt or feel that way. The idea that you are somehow different from those who raised you is far more common than most folks acknowledge.  Feeling different is an important early part of self-differentiation; of coming into your sense of being an individual.  And you begin to understand that your dreams and desires and ambitions are not necessarily the same as your parents.  And very often, the dreams of the young are about having more than their parents did.  In fact, that is a building block of the American dream – that each generation will do better than the one before.  And that drive for success seems to be built right into our DNA. 
 
Of course, this desire for more power and more influence has resulted in some remarkable human achievements. We children of God have done some incredible things while striving toward excellence.  But this desire for more power and more influence has also resulted in some remarkable human problems.  Those problems even pop up in the church, because we are forever tempted to measure success by the markers of worldly power and influence. The late, great Catholic theologian Henri Nouwen once said that “the long, painful history of the church is the history of people ever and again tempted to choose power over love, control over the cross, being a leader over being led.”[1]
 
We see this temptation at work in the Gospel lesson today.  Two brothers, James and John, were early disciples of Jesus.  They followed him because they believed he was the Promised Messiah.  And what that meant for them was that Jesus would be a military leader who would drive the Romans out and reestablish the powerful and wealthy Kingdom of David.  And since they had been with Jesus from the beginning, it only made sense that they would share that power and wealth.  They were different and would have more than their parents did.
 
One day, when their anticipation had gotten the best of them, James and John got Jesus into a corner by themselves and whispered excitedly: “Rabbi, we have an idea!  We want you to do for us whatever we ask.” - “What is it you want?” Jesus replied.  And the brothers, exchanging knowing glances, spoke the lines they had been rehearsing for days “Lord, when you come into your glory, we want to share your power, one on your right hand and one on your left.”    
 
Well, you have to admire their chutzpah.  They saw what they wanted and they went after it.  When the other ten disciples heard about this, they were angry because the Zebedee brothers had beaten them to the punch.  These ten others were also poor, uneducated men who saw this “Jesus Adventure” as a shot for a better life. 
 
So how did they get it so wrong? Maybe for the same reason we get it so wrong. The things that Jesus said and taught are hard to understand and accept – enigmatic things like: “the first will be last and the last will be first” and “if you want greatness, you have to be a servant.” 
 
Many years ago, I worked in a large, affluent suburban church just outside of New York City.  Many of the people of that congregation had prestigious jobs.  They were a successful and powerful bunch. And the culture of that church was to wholeheartedly support this drive for success – as if success itself were a Christian virtue. I will never forget the Sunday that the senior minister preached on this story, but as told in the Gospel of Matthew. In Matthew’s version, it’s the mother of James and John who is trying to secure cabinet positions for her sons.  And in his sermon the senior minister vigorously defended the mother and lauded the fact that she was just looking out for her own. And, he said, we should all do the same. And I sat on that chancel dumbstruck. 
 
“Jesus, we want to sit on your right and left hand in your glory.”  And I imagine that Jesus looked at them and understood them and loved them.  And then he asked them: “Are you able to drink the same cup I will and be baptized as I am about to be?”  And imagining that this was their invitation to power and prestige, they answered enthusiastically: “Yes Lord, we are able!” Martin Copenhaver, President of Andover Newton Seminary, commenting on their enthusiasm writes: “It goes without saying that when James and John made their request they did not envision that the ones who would end up on Jesus’ right and left would be hanging on crosses.”
 
Then Jesus turned to the whole group and said: “You know that among the Gentiles those whom they recognize as their rulers lord it over them, and their great ones are tyrants over them.  But it is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”
 
The ways of this world; the power structures; the emphasis on youth and beauty and riches and control - are all very alluring. But we find, again and again, that those vain satisfactions do not last.  The thrill of victory is brief.  And before long we are off again searching for something else to make us happy; something new to conquer; something to fill the emptiness inside.  It’s an endless and exhausting cycle.
 
That rich, suburban church I told you about left a very deep impression on me – and not a good one.  It was from that parish that I left the ministry for ten years – angry and confused and embittered.  I would have written off those four years of ministry at that church as a complete waste of time, except for this: Every Thursday, I would drive a group of Jr. High students from the manicured lawns of our perfect village to the dirty and barren streets of Paterson, NJ where there was an old run-down building called St. Stephen’s Mission.  They had an after-school program and every Thursday we would tutor those desperately poor, sometimes abused, often misunderstood kids with their homework.  In the beginning, I did it because it was my job. In the beginning, the disparity between the two towns only made me more cynical.   But after awhile, after I got over myself, as the children in Paterson started to know and love me, as I began to know and love them, something inside of me began to change. And I found a deep meaning and purpose and salvation in humble service.  At a time when my faith seemed to be crumbling, I saw God in their faces.  And that experience is one of the main reasons I stand in this pulpit today. And all of these years later, I still cannot imagine anything that I have ever done that was more important and life giving than that.    
 
When Christ calls us to serve, he isn’t asking us to give up everything.  He’s asking to give us everything.  He’s calling us to real and eternal life. I know that I said that it’s in our DNA to seek power and influence; but I am also convinced that it is in our DNA to love and serve others.  That’s the image of God in us.  And humble service gives us the kind of treasure that all the money and influence in the world can never buy.  
 
Thanks be to God.  Amen.


[1]Nouwen, Henri.  In the Name of Jesus: Reflections on Christian Leadership,1990, p.60
 

Sunday, October 14, 2018
© The Rev. Dr. James Campbell
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
 
 
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.”
 
 
 
I am not naturally a morning person. My body wakes up slowly.  And it’s best, I’ve been told, to just leave me be until that happens.  I once had a college roommate who told me that I scared him to death first thing in the morning. A seminary friend once referred to me as a “box of hate” at an 8 am class.  And then she gave me this ceramic cereal bowl with the words “Good Morning Grumpy” painted in bright red letters around the rim.
 
Most of the folks in my life eventually get the clue and leave me alone until I am fully awake.  There was, however, one recalcitrant person who refused to learn that lesson.  He was my roommate one summer when I worked at a church camp.  And every day at about 6 am he would wake up happy just to be alive and insisting that I be happy too.  He would jump out of bed and start to clean, slamming drawers, and whistling happy little tunes.  It was all I could do not to grab him by the throat.  This all came to a very unpleasant climax one morning when I was jolted awake by the intense smell of bleach and my roommate singing, in full voice, “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down!”  It was 6 o’clock in the morning and he was mopping under mybed, and singing.  Well all the sugar in the world was not going to help me get his medicine down.  I don’t remember exactly what I said to him, but the next day, he moved out.  
 
So, that song is not my favorite. Yet its appeal is that is relays a certain truth. I do like my medicine with some sweetness to it. I do want bad or difficult news somehow couched in sweet, non-offensive language, and delicately delivered.    
 
But apparently Jesus never heard of a spoonful of sugar.  For three weeks now, we have had to endure some of Christ’s most bitter pills.  Two weeks ago, we listened as Jesus warned that those who would harm the little ones in this world are in danger of hell.  Last week, although it was not the topic of my sermon, the lectionary Gospel lesson of the day was about divorce.  And this week, Jesus takes up the subject of money. And if we ever needed anything to be sugarcoated, surely it’s talk of money.
 
Mark says that Jesus and his disciples were setting out on a journey, when suddenly a man ranup to Jesus and knelt before him. “Good Teacher,”he said breathlessly, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”  And Jesus, a faithful Jew responded to this other faithful Jew by saying: “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.”  To which the man replied: “Teacher, I have done all these things since I was young.” -  “You lack one thing,” Jesus said.  “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”  Mark reports that when the man heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.
 
Then Jesus looked at his disciples and said: “It is so hard for the rich to enter the kingdom of God.  It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God.”--“Who then can be saved?”the disciples wanted to know.  Who indeed?
 
For centuries, pastors and theologians have tried their best to sugarcoat these hard words of Jesus.  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.”  That’s a little more palatable for us.  We know that we shouldn’t trust in our money.  The problem is that’s not what Mark wrote.  Further, a 9thcentury interpreter invented the idea that a camel going through “the eye of the needle” was not a sewing needle at all, but instead a reference to a low gate in the wall that surrounded Jerusalem. And the camels could only get through the Eye of the Needle Gate if stooped and unladen.  So, said this interpreter, Jesus’s real point was that the rich should humble themselves and get rid of any unnecessary baggage in order to get through the gate into the Kingdom.  That, too, is a very nice theory, but archeologists say that no such gate ever existed.  Other parsers of the Bible have suggested that Jesus never really meant this man to give up his money, but simply wanted to expose him to the futility of trying to keep the law.  But that’s an argument from silence, and that’s never a good way to start.
 
So, what’s the point here?  The point here is the same point of every story in this book.  These stories are our stories, humanity’s stories, not because all of the details are the same, but because the path to spiritual transformation is always the same. We have to let go in order to grab hold of that which is eternal. 
 
For thisman, it was his money. And so Jesus asked thisman to relinquish his wealth and to give it to the poor.  But apparently Jesus didn’t ask this of every rich person he met. For example, the Gospel of Luke reports that some rich women helped to fund the ministry of Jesus.  Presumably he did not ask these women to give all of their money away – because for them their wealth was not their spiritual problem. 
 
Our culture places a very high priority on getting ahead.  We love a self-made person.  Our heroes are the rich and famous.  That is a classically American trait.  And I think that a great deal of this cultural obsession with wealth is based in fear. We grabbed hold of things because we are afraid.  Even when we know that this is wrong, even when our possessions own us, we refuse to let go because, we imagine, that the cure will be more painful still. 
 
In an episode of HBO’s morality tale The Sopranos,Carmela, the wife of mob boss Tony Soprano, goes to visit a therapist.  Carmela lives a life of luxury, but she is haunted by the way her husband makes his money.  And so, she seeks out a therapist in the hope that he will give her pity and absolution. The therapist is an old Jewish man who listens patiently as Carmela, with tears, pours out her heart.  She tells him everything.  Finally, he speaks.  “You must leave your husband.  You must renounce this lifestyle supported by blood.  You must take your children and flee.  Only then will you know any real happiness.”  Carmela is thunderstruck; first that he, a therapist, would offer any advice. And second, that he would offer this advice without any sugarcoating.  The viewer sees a range of emotions pass over her face: first disbelief, then anger and then a profound sadness as she decides that this is simply too much to ask, even though it would give her the very thing she seeks. And she walks away sad. 
 
Jesus is like that old Jewish therapist.  He will not sugarcoat those things that will actually set us free.  And his words can be sharp, but they are never cruel. Mark says that when the rich man told Jesus that he had kept the commandments from his birth, Jesus looked at him and loved him.  Jesus loved him enough to tell him the truth. 
 
In the same way, Jesus listens to our stories, to our excuses. He looks at us and loves us and tells us the truth. 
 
We don’t really know how this story ends.  Maybe the rich man went away and never thought of Jesus again.  Or maybe he went home and mulled it over for a while. Maybe his desire for eternal life pushed him to confront those things that stood in his way.  Maybe he remembered the look of love in Jesus’s face, even as Jesus spoke those difficult words. Maybe, after thinking about it for a while, he went out to look for Jesus again.  And maybe, just maybe, after thinking about it for a while, we will too. 

​FLESH OF OUR FLESH
World Communion Sunday, October 7, 2018
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Genesis 2:18-24
 
2:18 Then the LORD God said, "It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper as his partner."
 
2:19 So out of the ground the LORD God formed every animal of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name.
 
2:20 The man gave names to all cattle, and to the birds of the air, and to every animal of the field; but for the man there was not found a helper as his partner.
 
2:21 So the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept; then he took one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh.
 
2:22 And the rib that the LORD God had taken from the man he made into a woman and brought her to the man.
 
2:23 Then the man said, "This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; this one shall be called Woman, for out of Man this one was taken."
 
2:24 Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and clings to his wife, and they become one flesh.
 
+++
 
This summer I took a trip out to the Midwest, the place I came from all those years ago.  I saw old friends and visited old haunts.  I drove by the houses of people I had loved but who have since died.  I ate some of the old foods and heard the familiar accents.  And it was nurturing in a way I did not expect.
 
I had forgotten the stunning beauty of Indiana farmland that stretches to the horizon on a flat plane.  I had forgotten the charm of the rolling hills of central Ohio.  I had forgotten how good a fried pork tenderloin sandwich really is.  I had forgotten the easy smiles that greeted me almost everywhere.
 
But going back also conjured up some unpleasant ghosts. I was driving across the Ohio Turnpike, getting ready to cross the border into Indiana when I saw an enormous sign looming on the side of the highway.  As I got closer, it proclaimed in giant bold letters: “Thou shalt not kill.”  The next one likewise proclaimed: “Thou shalt not steal.”  In all, there were ten of these signs containing all of the Ten Commandments, those laws I learned as a child, and those laws that were the building block of ancient Israelite society.   There is a lot of goodness in the Ten Commandments, a lot of fairness and justice and even mercy.  But those signs also aggressive to me.  Those giant bolded letters felt like screaming; like a line in the sand; like an ultimatum.  And it gave me pause. But it was the next sign that sort of stopped me in my tracks. It simply read: “One Man.  One Woman.  God’s Way.” And that felt like a declaration of who was in and who was out; acceptable and unacceptable. Signs like that can be painful for any of us whose relationships have ended in acrimony or who love someone of the same gender or who either by choice or circumstance are a family of one.  We don’t fit.  And that is definitely a line in the sand
 
In these horrible so-called culture wars that have ripped our society into pieces, people use the Bible to bolster their points of view, on all sides.  And for those folks who are convinced that there is only one kind of legitimate family relationship, the passage we read today from the book of Genesis is a building block for them.  They see in the story of Adam and Eve the prototype for all human relationships and all human families.  But this wonderful and rich tale cannot be boiled down into a prooftext for the culture wars.  It’s far too rich and far too profound for that.  
 
I once heard a rabbi say that the story of the Garden of Eden is not about how God made the world.  It is not, in any way,  a scientific description of how the universe came to be.  Instead, he said, this story tells us why God made the world.  And why God made the world is so that God would be in relationship with us, and we with one another.  Additionally, this primordial tale seeks to frame the reality that already existed. We call that an etiology.  It seeks to answer basic questions like who are we, how we live together, why life is sometimes painful.  So, with that in mind, try to hear this story again.
 
Once upon a time, when the earth was new, and one solitary human walked upon the face of the earth, the Lord God saw that despite all the beauty of the world, the human was lonely. So, the Lord God decided to make the human some helpers.  And God dipped his finger into the rich soil of the fresh earth and formed from that glorious mud every creature that we know: camels and cows, snakes and seals, butterflies and bees.  And the Lord God took these magnificent creatures to the human and presented them to him as a gift.  And God said to the human: “Whatever you name these creatures that will be their name.” And this naming process was wildly entertaining.  And for awhile, the human seemed happy.  But no matter how magnificent these creatures were, none of them was like him.  None of them could really be his partner, as an equal. None could speak his language.  So the Lord God put the human into a deep sleep. And from this one human, God took a rib and made another human.  And once the first human woke from this divine anesthesia, the Lord God presented him with her, Adam and Eve, man and woman.  And in a moment of wonder that shook the heavens and rejoiced the heart of God, the man exclaimed: “This at last is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.” In other words, “I see me in someone else.”  
 
“Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.”  My relationship with my paternal grandmother was one big love affair.  I was her first grandchild and we were mad about each other. I remember the trips to the amusement parks and the lavish gifts and the delicious meals and the summer visits and the tearful goodbyes.  I was lucky enough to have my grandmother in my life until I was 42.  And I still have moments when I miss her so deeply that it hurts.  My dear grandmother was very affectionate.  She should kiss my cheek and rub my head and hold me tight.  And sometimes, when she was overcome with her love for me, she would stroke my cheek, look deeply into my eyes and say these words from Genesis: “You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.” 
 
And in that expression of love and connection, my grandmother was on to something.  She understood, on some level, that this verse need not be so narrowly applied to only one kind of love.  And in remembering her this week, it struck me that maybe that broad application is really the point of this ancient tale; this story of our race.  Maybe what we learn in Genesis is that all humans are intimately connected to one another: bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh; that in you I see me; that we are actually and truly our sisters’ and brothers’ keepers.  
 
But we seem to regularly forget that.  And maybe that is the root of every kind of sin.  And it exacts a punishing price.  The story of our race is littered with the carnage that is the natural result of forgetting Eden and our essential connectedness.  
 
We are at a frightening impasse as a society and as a world.  We are so deeply divided, so dug in, so invested in being right, so angry, so sure of our own truth, that those who don’t see it like we do have become something less than in our eyes.  We do not see ourselves in them.  And by our words and actions and silence and complicity, we act as if they are no longer flesh of our flesh or bone of our bone. 
 
But the call of the church of Jesus Christ has always been the restoration of Eden.  Week after week we pray: “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on EARTH.”  Does that sound like too much?  Then how about “thy will be done in Cheshire”?  Or “thy will be done” in this church?  Or “thy will be done” in our families?  -- For that to happen, we’re going to need to learn to listen again. We’re going to need to look one another in the eye and see something far more precious than our opinions.  And if we as the church of Jesus cannot do that as a model to the rest of society, then we are lost.
 
Today is World Communion Sunday. It’s one day each year that Christians all over the world eat the Lord’s Supper together, despite every difference that separates us.  This table is many things to many people.  But today, perhaps more than anything else, this table is a bold and prophetic act – a living into that which we do not yet see but long for: a table of peace big enough for all the people to sit and dine.  
 
That’s the thing about sitting down at table together.  It puts you at eye level with everyone else.  And in the sharing of food and laughter and conversation, you see the essential humanity of the other.  You see yourself in another’s eyes.  And you likewise suddenly and joyfully proclaim: “This is at last bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh.”  
 
Thanks be to God.  Amen.