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"And that, Jesus said, is what the Reign of God looks like: invasive and impossible to control."

7/30/2023

PLANTING CHAOS
Sunday, July 30, 2023
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

He put before them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.” He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.”

“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it. “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. “Have you understood all this?” They answered, “Yes.” And he said to them, “Therefore every scribe who has been trained for the kingdom of heaven is like the master of a household who brings out of his treasure what is new and what is old.”

True confession: I am a bit of a neat freak.  I really like order and decorum.  “A place for everything and everything in its place.”  Stop by my church office sometime and you might wonder if I even work there.

Over time I’ve done a lot of thinking about my passion for neatness and what it might represent psychologically. And I’ve come to realize that being a neat freak is, in part, my rather vain attempt at imposing order on what I experience as a disorderly and chaotic world.  Being neat lets me live in the illusion of control.

Be that as it may, there is also something deeply spiritual about order.  In Jewish faith, a well-ordered life is a witness to the orderly love of God; a way to mimic the design and purpose of the whole creation.  And in the Hebrew Scriptures, there are countless regulations about creating order and keeping things separated into neat categories.  These regulations are sometimes referred to as the Law of Diverse Kinds.  This law was meant to keep the sacred and the profane clearly separated from one another.  And you can still see some of those laws at work in a kosher household.

One of the Laws of Diverse Kinds prohibits mixing various kinds of plants in the same plot of land.  In other words, keep the corn with the corn, the wheat with the wheat, the barley with the barley.  It’s God’s way of saying “a place for everything and everything in its place.”

I have to admit that it was strangely comforting to read about the Law of Diverse Kinds because it seemed a justification for my own love of order.  I’m just doing what the Lord does!  Well, maybe…

The problem with a slavish devotion to order is that it very soon becomes a compulsion.  The need to impose order on others quickly becomes dictatorship.  A devotion to order can squelch creativity and freedom.  It can be a tyrant.

Now Jesus, the devout Jew, knew all about the Law of Diverse Kinds.  But he also proclaimed that the Kingdom of God can be quite chaotic.  To illustrate that point, Jesus told stories about yeast and hidden treasures and pearls and fish… and mustard seeds.

“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”

My earliest memory of mustard seeds comes from Sunday School.  One day, my teacher brought mustard seeds to class to show us just how tiny they were, and to illustrate that any act of kindness, no matter how small, has in it the potential to grow into something much bigger.  And haven’t we all known that to be the case: a smile at a stranger becomes the beginning of a great friendship; a home Bible study group grows into a new church start; one concerned person picking up trash becomes a conservation group.  From the smallest acts of goodness, mercy, justice, and love - the Reign of God can blossom and grow and spread.

That’s a good lesson.  And it’s also quite safe.  But this story is actually far more subversive than that.  Because while we might hear a rather bucolic tale of a garden and birds nesting in leafy branches, that first audience heard a tale of chaos.

You see, for the people of that time, it was an outrageous idea to imagine any farmer in his right mind would plant mustard in his field.  Pliny the Elder, the Roman horticulturalist and contemporary of Jesus, warned that mustard “…when it is sown, it is scarcely possible to get the place free of it, as the seed when it falls germinates at once.” And each mustard plant gives off thousands of seeds.  And that, Jesus said, is what the Reign of God looks like: invasive and impossible to control.

And if that weren’t bad enough, when the mustard gets big enough, it attracts birds to the garden who nest in its branches.  And if you have ever planted a garden, then you know that birds are not just sweet little creatures.  Birds are the competition.  They see all your delicious produce as their free lunch.

In the Bible, birds often represent the people of the earth in all their great variety: Gentiles and pagans, the poor and oppressed, slaves and women and refugees and children and sexual minorities.  And all those folks, Jesus said, find a shady home in the invasive and chaotic Reign of God.

So you see, this seemingly innocuous little tale was actually Jesus’s in-your-face confrontation to the religious authorities who made more of order than they did of compassion and kindness and justice.  And why not?  You see, society was working just fine for them.   It always seems to work just fine for those who are making the rules for everyone else.  -- So, when Jesus told this story and it thrilled his audience of dirty birds, he was suddenly a real and present threat to the religious and social order.  And when you understand that threat, then it suddenly makes sense why he ended up on a Roman cross.  It was his message of divine chaos that undid him.

The traditional way to interpret this parable is that the farmer is God.  God is the one who walks into the fields of the world and purposefully plants an invasive species, and then invites all the dirty birds to rest in its branches.  And while that might be an uncomfortable image of God, it’s still rather safe.  After all, if God is the one creating chaos, then God can take all the heat for the resultant disruption.

But there’s another way to see this story.  What if the farmer is not God, but us?  Think about it.  If the Kingdom of God is inside of us, as Jesus said; if we have been called to imitate Christ in the world, then maybe we are the chaos-planters.  Maybe we’re the ones tossing mustards seeds hither and yon.  And that, quite frankly, is a much more uncomfortable idea for most of us.  Because, you know, we’re nice people.  This is a nice, respectable church.  We don’t offend anyone.  And the system works for most of us.  But is that all we are called to?

Now, I am not suggesting that we need to become something we are not.  Churches, like people, have personalities and histories and cultures.  But I am suggesting that just being that nice church in the center of town is probably not what Jesus had in mind when he told this story.  And I am suggesting that one way we can live into this subversive Gospel is to simply sink more deeply into who and what we have already said we are.

And who are we?  Well, primarily, we are followers of Jesus the Christ.  And Jesus told us to love everyone; to refrain from judgments of any kind; to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and extend kindness to aliens and visit the prisoners.  Now, those things might not seem very subversive or chaotic at first, but in this increasingly angry and divided world and nation, to proclaim that absolutely everyone, without exception, is a beloved child of God, worthy of respect and dignity and justice and a place at the table – well, that will seem to lots of folks like planting chaos.  -- In a world in which political ideologies and affiliations turn our opponents into mortal enemy in a kind of blood sport; in a country where we blithely saw our opponents are not real Americans - to sit in this room together and to declare that our devotion to Jesus supersedes all our other allegiances – well, that’s planting chaos.  To speak boldly against the grievous sin of racism that continues to lift its ugly head – that’s planting chaos.  To be Open and Affirming during a time when the rights of LGBTQ+ people are being systematically subverted, that’s planting chaos.  To be a Green Congregation, calling us to account in world still in denial, that’s planting chaos.  Even things like collecting diapers and backpacks and baby formula is a witness against a society that still has not learned how to include everyone.

So no, we don’t have to be something we are not.  We just have to be MORE of what we say we are.  And that means following Jesus into the fields of this world, singing and dancing and scattering seeds of divine chaos; seeds of kindness, justice, and love.  And if that attracts some of those dirty birds, well, maybe we can scoot over and make some more room on the branch.

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What does hope look like in the midst of the constant bombardment of predictions of doom?

7/23/2023

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GROANING WITH HOPE
Sunday, July 23, 2023
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Romans 8:12-25

So then, brothers and sisters, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh— for if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live. For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, “Abba! Father!” it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ—if, in fact, we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him. I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

In the remarkable opening of her book, Here If You Need Me, the Rev. Kate Braestrup told the story of the tragic death of her husband, Drew, a state trooper killed in a car accident while on duty.  At the funeral home, the funeral director tried to help the family maintain that safe distance from death.  But Kate would have none of it.  Instead, she decided that she would do what humans have done for millennia.  As a final act of love, she would personally prepare her husband’s body for cremation and burial.  The funeral director tried to dissuade her, but she was undeterred.  So, the staff brought her a basin and soap and wash cloths.  And then, she lovingly and methodically washed the broken body of her husband.

I read this book many years ago, but that scene has never left me.  At first, I admit, I was repulsed by the idea of what she did.  I couldn’t imagine myself doing such a thing.  But then I realized that my own reluctance had everything to do with a cultural conditioning that denies pain and suffering and death.

This cultural conditioning is exceedingly strong.  And it plays out in innumerable ways.  We worship youth and vigor.  We hide age and illness.  And because we are so afraid of dying, we pretend as if we won’t.  As the great Loretta Lynn sang on her last studio album before she herself died: “Ever’body wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”  Well, ain’t that the truth?

But we know we will.  And it is one of the counterintuitive pillars of our Christian faith that in order to find hope, we must face our fears; we must stay with our fears, until they are transformed.  There is no Easter without Good Friday.

But the problem is that at this moment, Good Friday seems like it will never end.  This 21st century, to date, doesn’t seem to have much Easter in it at all.

Scientists say that this is the hottest the earth has been in the 125,000 years.  Canadian wildfires, one thousand miles away, turned our Connecticut skies apocalyptic for days on end.  Air quality alerts forced us indoors just when we wanted to be outside.  Raging floods decimated Vermont’s capital and small towns in upstate New York.  South Florida neighborhoods regularly flood on sunny days, while insurance companies flee that state.  And on and on and on it goes.

Our natural instinct is to turn away.  “It’s Sunday, James.  Give us a break!”  But just like Rev. Braestrup, we need to stay in this moment for a little while.  We need to look.  We need to lament.

Lament: such an old-fashioned word.  Such an outdated idea.  And yet, there is an entire book of the Bible entitled Lamentations.  It’s found in the Hebrew Scriptures, sometimes called the Old Testament, and is composed of a series of five heart-rending poems that mourn the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians in 586 BCE.  In these poems, the writer looks at the calamity full in the face.  He accepts human culpability in what has happened.  And he wonders where God is in the midst of such a mess.

Lament also finds its way into our New Testament.  In his foundational epistle to the church at Rome, St. Paul laments the suffering of Creation as it waits for us humans to grow up into the fullness of Christ.  Paul says that the whole Creation groans in labor pains waiting for us to get our act together.

Listen again to his words: “For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subject to futility… (But) the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.  We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now…”

So, there it is, as if it were written yesterday – a description of this present moment; a stark view of what human sin does to everything else that God has made.  And we need to stay with that stark reality for a while.  We need to pause and repent and throw ourselves on the mercy of God.

Lament is the first step and essential step in human transformation.  It is the first building block of a vibrant and active faith.  It’s just not the whole building.  Instead, as Paul says in Romans 8: “In hope we (are) saved.”

But what does hope look like in the midst of the constant bombardment of predictions of doom?  Well, some people say that God will rescue us from the messes we have made.  They look to the Second Coming of Christ or to the promise of eternal life as an “escape hatch” from a planet in peril.  -- But I don’t think of those divine promises as escape hatches.  Remember that even Jesus was not rescued from the Cross, even when he prayed “Let this cup pass from me.”  He had to go through it.  He had to stay with it to get from Good Friday to Easter.

And Paul writes boldly, not of escape, but of the salvation of this groaning creation.  And Jesus, our Lord, taught us to pray: “thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”  So, our faith is not about escaping while everyone and everything else suffers.  Our faith is about rising up to repair and heal and love and bless this beautiful but broken world.

It’s too late, some say.  There is nothing we can do about it, many others say.  And besides that, we are afraid.  We are overwhelmed.  We are in deep denial.

But we are not the first people to be in such an existential predicament.  Long before us, faithful people have lived under the crushing brutality of Empire and through hideous decades of war and the cruelty of famine and the specter of disease and the terror of nuclear annihilation.  Think of what the faithful in Ukraine are living through right now.  And in each of these moments, God’s people have been called to lean into what has been promised, and then to do what you can.

In the 2014 film The Man Who Stopped the Desert, we see what practicing hope can do in the face of overwhelming challenges. Yacouba Sawadogo is an illiterate farmer from the West African nation of Burkina Faso.  But this simple man has done more to reverse the ravages of drought, brought on by over-farming, deforestation, and climate change than any Western intervention.  Sawadogo’s unorthodox methods have returned 50 acres of harsh desert back into a verdant garden.  How did he do it?  Well, it was all rather simple.

Yacouba dug something called “Zai holes.”  They are much deeper and wider than what is usually used for planting.  Then he filled the Zai holes with water-absorbing compost – mostly animal manure.  Then he used small stones to create pathways for the rainwater to fill those holes.  Then he planted trees and vines and crops in those Zai holes.  Whenever it rains, the stone paths direct all the excess water into the holes.  And when it doesn’t rain, the compost retains the dampness necessary for the plants to thrive.  In the beginning, the other farmers mocked him for his hopefulness.  Government officials tried to dissuade him.  But Yacouba persisted.   And now, he and others like him enjoy “food sovereignty.”  Because he was undeterred; because he put hope into action, the words of Prophet Isaiah are fulfilled: “the desert blooms and rejoices.”[1]

Lament is a necessary first step.  And frankly, fear can be a great motivator.  But lament and fear are not our final destinations.  Because continual lament makes us self-centered.  And constant fear paralyzes us, making us believe the poisonous lie that there is nothing we can do.  But friends, we are the children of God.  We are joint-heirs with Jesus Christ.  We have been given the power of the Holy Spirit.  And the fruit of that Spirit is HOPE IN ACTION.

How will you make that true?

[1] Isaiah 35:1

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"Kindness does not depend upon agreement. Kindness is not weakness. It is strength."

7/2/2023

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LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT
Sunday, July 2, 2023
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Matthew 10:40-42

“Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. Whoever welcomes a prophet in the name of a prophet will receive a prophet’s reward; and whoever welcomes a righteous person in the name of a righteous person will receive the reward of the righteous; and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

What does success look like for you?  What does success look like for this church?  What does success look like for God?

Most of our ideas about what it means to be successful are defined by the language and concepts of advertising and consumerism.  It’s about who is best and what is shiniest.   It’s about market share and buying power.  It’s about our choice of zip code and even what church we belong to.

You might be surprised (and a bit disheartened) to learn that the clergy are not exempt from this kind of thinking, not just in their personal lives, but in their professional lives as well.  You should be a fly on the wall at a clergy gathering.  The conversation always starts politely enough, with gentle questions about how long you have been ordained or what denomination you belong to or how many years you have been at your current church.  But eventually, these conversations turn to boasting, although always with the pastiche of humility.  Pastors of big churches will drop comments about the size of their membership, the size of their investments, the number of new programs and initiatives; while the faithful pastors of smaller congregations just stay quiet and feel like losers – because they’re not “successful.”

Of course, somewhere deep down inside of us, we all know that none of those measures of success has any real connection to faithfulness or even to effectiveness in spreading the Gospel of Jesus.  In fact, one could argue just the opposite - that the modern church, with its elaborate structures and careful polities and professional clergy and business model mentality is pretty far away from anything Jesus had in mind when he first sent his disciples into the world.

And that initial sending of the disciples is the setting of today’s very short Gospel lesson.  It’s the end of a much longer discourse in which Jesus tells his friends what ministry is and what success in ministry looks like. And he ends with these words: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me...”  And “whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

Now, lots of people have heard this adage about “a cup of cold water” even if they don’t know where it comes from. It’s one of Jesus’s greatest hits.  But far fewer people, including those of us in the church, have contemplated the deep spiritual wisdom contained in the fifteen words that that immediately precede the adage about the cup of cold water.

In them, Jesus masterfully summarizes the foundational truth he actually came to teach.  In those fifteen words, Jesus makes no distinction whatsoever between himself and his disciples, between himself and us, between us and God.  Listen again to what he said: “Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me.”

And that is the set-up for the teaching about a cup of cold water.  The reason that cup of cold water is so important is because that thirsty person you give the water to is actually Jesus and everyone else you have ever known or could know.  It’s all connected.

Jesus was teaching the absolute unity of all things.  Now, I know that sounds like a bunch of New Age gobbledygook.  And I know that the church has built most of its history on the idea of separation and hierarchy: clergy and people; people and God.  In that system, the church is the mediator of the separations.  The church bridges the gap.  Therefore, the church holds a great deal of power – which it sometimes abuses.

But the idea that everything is connected; the idea of the absolute unity of all things is actually a very old interpretation of the Christian faith.  Celtic Christians have taught it since at least the Middle Ages, as have the Franciscans.  Modern theologians, using the insights of science and quantum mechanics, proclaim that this spiritual truth is built into the whole connected universe.   And these insights have greatly influenced my own thinking as I live and grow in Christ.

And if you take that point of view, then these words of Jesus are meant to be taken quite literally.  “Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me (literally), and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me (literally).”  It’s God in me and God in you and you in God and God in everything.  And that means that our actions ripple throughout the universe, like a pebble dropped in a pond.

Maybe that’s why Scripture tells us that we are indeed our sisters’ and brothers’ keepers.  Maybe that’s why Jesus said “Love your neighbor exactly as you love yourself.”  Maybe that’s why the author of I John wrote: “Those who say, ‘I love God, and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen.”[1]

Which brings me back to the idea of success.  What does true success look like for a church?  Is it primarily about numbers or programs or activities?  Or is it measured by acts of justice and love and kindness?

The Rev. Dan De Leon is a United Church of Christ pastor in Texas who told this story in a nationally broadcast sermon.  Rev. De Leon and some of his parishioners had taken a mission trip to Mexico.  While there, they met a man who had crossed the U.S. border illegally, only to be caught immediately and sent back.  And here I quote Rev. De Leon’s sermon: “Penniless and humiliated, (the man) started over. He… took the horrendous journey again, and this time he made it into the United States where he found work. He worked ten-hour shifts with no breaks making less than minimum wage, never stopped even when he cut his hand open washing dishes... And since he couldn't speak English, he couldn't express his needs, let alone defend himself (from such) harsh treatment. After three years of saving up a little money under these conditions, he went back home (to Mexico), where he met his now three-year-old daughter for the first time.”

Rev. De Leon continues, “At this point I looked over at his wife. She was still knitting, still looking down; and then a tear rolled down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away, as if it (were) an enemy to which she refused to succumb. Finally, a student in our group, moved by the man's testimony, asked, "How can we help? What can we do…?" And (the man) looked at us and said, "Just be nicer. Don't treat us like we're horrible. Be kind."[2]

Be kind.  No matter your political opinion about immigration or a host of other things: be kind.  Kindness does not depend upon agreement.  Kindness is not weakness.  It is strength.  And because we are all connected, kindness is a cup of cold water we give to ourselves, that quenches are souls and washes us clean.

“Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me… and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones—truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward.”

[1] I John 4:20
[2] “Hospitality: A Crucial Cup of Cold Water” – a sermon by the Rev. Dr. Dan De Leon, www.Day1.org, accessed on June 22, 2020.

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"We need regular reminders that God is God and we are not."

7/2/2023

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YOKE OVER EASY
Sunday, June 25, 2023
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

“But to what will I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another, ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn.’ For John came neither eating nor drinking, and they say, ‘He has a demon’; the Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’ Yet wisdom is vindicated by her deeds.”

At that time Jesus said, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will. All things have been handed over to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him. “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

I was raised with a very serious Protestant work ethic.  From my earliest childhood, I was praised for job well done, but chided for any perceived laziness.  Mostly these messages came from my mom.  - I guess they worked because Marcos once said to me that I might be accused of some things, but no one could ever accuse me of being lazy.  I wear his comment as a badge of honor.

One day this week, I was out for my early morning walk on the canal trail.  I like to get up early and talk to God and snap photos, mostly of wildflowers.  But on that particular day, something else caught my eye.  I looked over the railing of the footpath, and there it was: a wild raspberry bush.  Its leaves were vibrant and its fruit enticing. And suddenly, I could hear my mother’s voice.  “Those would make good jam. You should pick those before the birds get them. Waste not, want not!”  And suddenly, I was in work mode!  Suddenly, I was no longer talking to God and enjoying nature and breathing deeply.  Instead, I was thinking about what I could do or should do with those berries.

In the end, I left them for the birds, not so much as an ethical decision, but more because I spied some poison ivy growing amongst the berries.   But that whole scenario got to me thinking again about how hard it is for me to actually disconnect and rest – even for a 45-minute walk; even when resting made it right into the Big Ten – commandments, that is.

It’s Commandment #4, and it’s the longest of them all.  It goes like this: “Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore, the Lord blessed the sabbath day and consecrated it.”[1]

And there you have it, Campbell – divine permission to do nothing once a week; an actual commandment to rest and to take care of myself.  -- But there always seems to be so much to do, you know?  And besides, isn’t the whole world a mess?  And didn’t Jesus send us into the world to help clean up the mess?  And how will any of that ever get done unless I do it?

Wow.  That sure is a lot of ego.  That sure is a lot about me.  And it begs the question: just who do I think I am?

Well, I’m not sure I like the answer.  Maybe that’s one of the reasons I stay busy.  When I’m busy, I don’t have to alone with these thoughts.  I don’t have to consider a world that will keep on spinning long after I’m gone.  – Maybe my resistance to rest is actually a spiritual issue. Because rest is not just about the cessation of some physical activity.  Rest is the relinquishing of control.  And to really do that, you have to trust.  Trust is the basis of any relationship – including our relationship with God.  And I think trust is a big part of what the Fourth Commandment is all about.

In the Gospel passage of the day, Jesus tells a rather odd little parable about how we live in the world and what our choices say about our ability to trust in the Lord.  Jesus said that people were like children playing in a marketplace while their parents bought and sold.  One group of those children wanted the other group to play “party.”  And so, they played the flute and invited the others to dance.  It was a light-hearted game, full of joy.  But the other group wasn’t interested in that game.  They wanted to play a far more serious game called “funeral.”  And so, they wailed and threw dust in the air, like they had seen the professional mourners do.  But the party group didn’t think that looked like much fun and so, they refused to play.

Then Jesus interpreted the parable; which he didn’t often do.  He said that John the Baptist’s ministry is represented by the funeral game.  John came preaching repentance.  He told the people to mourn their sins and turn and walk in a new direction – in other words, to get busy!  Religion, for John, was serious business and required a serious response.

But Jesus’s ministry is represented by the party game.  Jesus came announcing that the Reign of God was already here; already inside us, and all we had to do was open our eyes and see it; open our hearts and live it.  Jesus was known as someone who liked a good meal and a good drink.  He liked feasting so much that the gossips said he was a glutton and a drunk who hung out with all the wrong kinds of people.  Jesus just wasn’t serious enough for some people’s taste – especially those who always needed to be doing something important.

Two games.  Two ways of looking at how we live and what we believe.  The funeral game is driven by a sense of great urgency and obligation.  But the wedding game is undergirded by a great sense of trust.  It’s played in the very same world as the funeral game is, but in the party game, there’s this underlying sense that He really does have the whole world in his hands.

Jesus ends this passage with one of his most beloved statements, which at first seems out of place, but is actually an invitation to trust and thus, rest.  Jesus said: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

God, in great love, commands us to rest.  Jesus, in great love, provides that rest.  Our bodies need it; our minds need it.  But so do our souls.  We need regular reminders that God is God and we are not.

You’ve heard me talk of my friend Walter, a much beloved and faithful leader of the church in New York, who died of bone cancer far too young.  At the very end of his life, when he could no longer speak; when he had been catatonic for days; I prayed with him one last time.  And in that prayer, I said something I had not planned to say, but something we both needed to hear.  Maybe you need to hear it too.  I said, “Now Brother Walter, you trust Jesus to do for you what you cannot at this moment do for yourself.”  And suddenly, he looked right at me and wept at the gracious invitation to actually rest in the arms of Jesus; to let God do in that moment what we can never do for ourselves.

On another morning as I walked the canal trail, I listened to a podcast by psychotherapist and Christian teacher James Finley.  He was lecturing on medieval Christian mystics – a subject I find very interesting.  But it was the way Finley ended the podcast that moved this overly-busy, usually anxious child of God to tears.  Using Psalm 46:10 as a meditation, he encouraged the listener to trust and to rest in God alone.  Maybe this short meditation will speak to you too.  So, get comfortable, close your eyes, breathe, and listen:

Be still and know that I am God.
Be still and know that I am.
Be still and know.
Be still.
Be.

[1] Exodus 20:8-11

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