THIS MIGHT HURT A LITTLE
Sunday, August 7, 2022
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Isaiah 1:1, 10-20
 
The vision of Isaiah son of Amoz, which he saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem in the days of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, kings of Judah.
 
Hear the word of the Lord, you rulers of Sodom! Listen to the teaching of our God, you people of Gomorrah! What to me is the multitude of your sacrifices? says the Lord; I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams and the fat of fed beasts; I do not delight in the blood of bulls, or of lambs, or of goats. When you come to appear before me, who asked this from your hand? Trample my courts no more; bringing offerings is futile; incense is an abomination to me. New moon and sabbath and calling of convocation— I cannot endure solemn assemblies with iniquity. Your new moons and your appointed festivals my soul hates; they have become a burden to me, I am weary of bearing them. When you stretch out your hands, I will hide my eyes from you; even though you make many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood.
 
Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow. Come now, let us argue it out, says the Lord: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool. If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land; but if you refuse and rebel, you shall be devoured by the sword; for the mouth of the Lord has spoken.
 
 
When I was first diagnosed with chronic migraine in my late-twenties, I began to very seriously pursue getting well.  But what I discovered in that process, and in all the years since then, is that sometimes the process of getting well has a pain of its own.  
 
In the beginning, there were lots of dietary restrictions – the kind that a 20-something found onerous: bans on peanut butter and ice cream and pizza and chocolate.  I was forced to cut back severely on caffeine and at one point had to give up coffee altogether.  I began to drink an inordinate amount of water.  I avoided all processed foods – including Ranch-flavored Doritos.  I paid attention to sleep and exercise and stress.  But despite my best efforts, the severe headaches continued. And so, I saw more doctors and had more tests and heard all kinds of opinions.  
 
Eventually, I decided to try some alternative methods.  Some people claim that acupuncture doesn’t hurt, but, trust me, needles between my toes – well, that hurt!  -- I ate my weight in supplements every day.  I put Ben Gay on my temples.  I rubbed peppermint oil onto the roof of my mouth.  Once, I even spent $600 on a contraption I wore on my head for twenty minutes a day that sent painful electric shocks throughout my skull, in an attempt to disrupt the spasming nerves.  
 
And I bet you have your own stories about what you have endured because of the promise of getting well.  Isn’t it ironic that this is how healing and recovery work?  Sometimes you get worse before you get better.  Sometimes, the cure hurts a little... or a lot.  And what is true for our physical bodies is also true for our souls.  The healing of our souls can be painful.
 
We don’t talk about soul-healing a lot in churches like ours, mostly because we don’t talk about repentance a lot in churches like ours.  There are reasons for that, but one of the biggest is that the message of repentance has been so misused by so many, as a way to control and manipulate and accumulate power, that we don’t want to be associated with it.  It’s understandable.  
 
But it also has a domino effect.  In our shying away from the message of repentance, of the need to examine ourselves and then change our ways, have we also, however inadvertently, discounted the concept of grace?  And if repentance and grace have lost their meaning; if it all boils down to “I’m OK, you’re OK,” then what are we doing here?  And what is the Gospel for?  And what did Jesus mean?  
 
The book of Isaiah is actually at least three books that scholars refer to as I, II, and III Isaiah.  It was compiled over many years and reflects the political and religious realities of different people in different times.  But these books are tied together by some strong, common themes that flow throughout the prophetic tradition of Israel, including the ministry of Jesus: things like justice, liberation, hospitality, peace, and plenty.  The prophets were relentless in declaring that these things are God’s will for everyone.   But what God wants and what humans get are often two very different things because sin gets in the way.  And sin is not only manifested in individual lives; it is also manifested in any society in which the few are rewarded by denying the many.  And so, the prophets called the people to repentance.  They railed against these societal abuses.  They reminded the people that they were indeed their sister’s and brother’s keepers.  And then they warned the people of judgment if changes were not made.   
 
And in this way, prophets are a bit like doctors.  They examine the patient.  Run some tests.  Find the source of the sickness.  Announce a treatment.  And then say: You can get better, but it’s going to hurt a little.  
 
And in Isaiah’s case, hurt it did.  Isaiah attacked the thing the people thought showed their health: their religious institutions themselves.  Isaiah attacked their public worship and displays of piety.  He had the audacity to point out that their civil religion – that is, their religious nationalism – had nothing to do with true faith in God, because true faith in God will always elevate the lowliest members of society.  
 
Now this was a tremendous shock to them because everything they did; everything they were so proud of, could be found in the Bible!  Things like burnt offerings and incense and Sabbath celebrations and convocations and solemn assemblies and new moon gatherings and festivals.  And it was all wrapped up in marvelous pomp and circumstance and music and processions and the swirl of vestments and a thousand voice choir.  It was enough to thrill the crustiest cynic.  
 
But, Dr. Isaiah said, God hates it.  God hates it all.   
 
And doesn’t that just rock our world?  Don’t we also think of public displays of piety as somehow being ultimately pleasing to God?  Wasn’t there just a case decided by the Supreme Court in favor of praying on a public-school football field?  And wasn’t that decision celebrated by many of the faithful?  Does God hate prayers on school football fields too? 
 
Well, I don’t know about that, but I can tell you this – Isaiah was having none of it because he knew that their faith was divorced from justice in the real world.  And that made their worship empty and meaningless.  
 
“Your hands are full of blood,” the prophet thundered.  “What you say you will do for the people and what you actually do are two very different things.  You’re sick and you need a cure.  And it might hurt.”
 
And it might – because doing the right thing in the world will always cost us something.  True justice always has an element of sacrifice to it.  To share the goodness of creation is about doing unto others exactly as you would want others to do to you.  It’s very practical.  
 
Isaiah described their cure like this: “Learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”  This is not about a warm feeling or a beautiful call to worship.  This is about making it real in the lives of real people.  This is about justice as the fruit of true repentance – which simply means to turn around and go in a new direction. 
 
Heavy stuff – Repentance is always heavy stuff.  But it is always answered by grace.  The Gospel of Jesus will not leave us in our sick beds - hopeless or helpless or wallowing in self-pity.  It heals us and restores us and renews us.  
 
Toward the end of the passage, Isaiah writes: “Come, let us argue it out, says the Lord.”   This can also be translated as: “Come, let us correct the situation.”  And isn’t that marvelous?  Because if we are invited to correct the situation, then that means we can!  And if we can, then there is hope.  And that means that every day is a new beginning.  For us.  For this church.  For this nation.   For this world.  
 
It might involve some bitter pills.  There might be some radical surgery.  The rehab might be grueling.  It might hurt a little.  It might hurt a lot.  But good health is worth it.  

RICH TOWARD GOD
Sunday, July 31, 2022
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 12:13-21
 
Someone in the crowd said to him, “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.” But he said to him, “Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?” And he said to them, “Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” Then he told them a parable: “The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, ‘What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?’ So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”
 
Let me tell you a story about my big red chair. 
 
Recently I was at the famed Chautauqua Institution in far Western New York for some continuing education.  One afternoon, my friend Jim and I sat out on an antiquing adventure.  We ended up in a rather rough-around-the-edges little town on the shores of Lake Erie, where we knew there was a particularly good antique store.  The first floor was sort of a bust, but on the second floor, toward the back of the room, sat the big red chair – its deep crimson leather unbroken, its workmanship unquestionable.  And I was smitten.  Of course, I had no idea if it would fit in the SUV or if it would fit in our house.  But it was so beautiful and the price was right.  Of course, I went to find the owner to see if I get a better price.  And surprisingly, the man agreed.  His wife, however, looked on with cool detachment, before informing me that the Jamestown Royal Furniture Company, who had made that chair, used to supply the White House.  I guess she wanted me to know that I really was getting a bargain.  And then the big red chair was in the back of the SUV and on its way to life in Connecticut.  It now lives in my church office if you’d like to stop by sometime and say hello.  
 
I have a story like that for every painting and vase and rug and knickknack that we own.  Each piece has its own history and carries its own meaning.  And together these treasures and their stories make up the patchwork of our life story.  But the hard truth is that one day, when are no more, people will take our things and divide them and sell them and fight over them, or maybe just throw them away. 
 
One day, someone in a crowd called out to Jesus: “Rabbi, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.”  This was likely a younger brother who was unhappy with the unequal distribution of assets based on Jewish inheritance practices of the day.  It was customary for the oldest male child to receive 2/3s of the entire estate, leaving 1/3 to be divided between however many other males there were.  Maybe the man in the crowd that day hoped that this rabbi, with his radical new ideas, would say something fresh about dividing money more equitably.  But apparently, Jesus didn’t do probate.  Instead, he used this dramatic moment as a jumping off point to tell a story about how we usually measure riches and how we ought to measure riches.  
 
And he said: Once upon a time, there was a very rich farmer who had a bumper crop – so great that his old barns just would not do.  So, he decided that he would tear them down and build much bigger ones.  Then he would kick back for the rest of his life, take an early retirement, and sail around the world.
 
But the party took a sudden turn when God spoke up.  “You fool!  This very night your life is demanded of you.  And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?”  Jesus ends this most unsettling story by saying: “So it is with everyone who stores up treasures for himself or herself, but is not rich toward God.” 
 
This is a difficult lesson because it flies in the face of ideas that we hold dear: things like pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps; like saving for a rainy day; like enjoying the fruits of your labor – values that my folks raised me with.  I was taught to work hard and save my money – the more you saved, the better because you didn’t know what the future would hold.  And that sounds exactly like what the farmer was doing.  Surely Jesus wasn’t disparaging being prepared.  What was so wrong with the farmer enjoying his success? 
 
Well, to understand Jesus’s criticism, you have to understand that this was no ordinary farmer.  This man was a major landowner.  And his farm was an agribusiness.  And that made him significantly different from almost everyone else.  Historians tell us that in the time of Jesus, 80-90% of all people either worked on or benefitted from others working on someone else’s land.  In other words, they were serfs or tenant farmers.  They worked for “the man.” And all of those non-land owners bought their daily bread, their staples, from “the man.”  His success or failure was essential to the entire community’s success or failure. He was, quite literally, his brothers’ and sisters’ keeper.  So, he had a major responsibility.
 
Therefore, when that bumper crop came, what he could have done – what he should have done - was to sell his surplus grain to his neighbors at a reduced rate.  In that way, it would have meant a blessing of abundance for everyone.  The farmer would still have made a profit just by the sheer volume of his sales. 
 
But greed does awful things to us humans.  It confuses our thinking and messes with our morals.  And so, this man, who knew better, hoarded the daily bread of others.  One biblical commentator has suggested that by doing so, he could dole out that grain bit by bit, creating a demand that really wasn’t there and thus driving up the price – making large profits on the backs of the poor.  – Some stories never get old.
 
In addition to that, notice the way that the rich man speaks of his success.  It’s all about him.  In the four verses it takes to tell the story, he uses the words “I” or “my” eleven times!  Not once does the man mention the God who created the sun and the soil and the seed.  There is no prayer of thanksgiving for the blessings of a bumper crop.  There is no recognition of his responsibility to his neighbors.  Instead there is the selfish and a singular attention to what this wealth will mean for him and him alone – to hell with everybody else. 
 
And that’s why God speaks up.  This is the only time in any of the parables of Jesus that God actually says anything.  And what God says should give us all pause.  “You fool, your time’s up.  You’re planning for your future at just the moment that your life is over.  And all these things you have accumulated, (like your big red chair!) whose will they be once you’re gone?”  Or, as the writer of Ecclesiastes put it: “one who has worked with wisdom and knowledge and skill must leave all to be enjoyed by another who did not work for it.” (Ecclesiastes 2:21)
 
And then the farmer died and left it all behind.  And one day, I will too.  But how he lived and how I live and how you live will be the legacy by which we are judged.  We can choose greed and selfishness, and that can be our legacy.  Or,  we can choose justice and kindness and generosity.  It’s about planning for our retirements… and or expirements… all at the same time!  
 
There is a lot of blustering going on in the world right now – a lot of ego and blow-hard-ism and fear.  And one thing fear will do is make you selfish.  And when you are afraid, then all those constant calls to stockpile and hoard and build walls of suspicion against your neighbors sound like good ideas.  If you believe that the world is going to hell, then selfishness is the natural response because you never know when you’re going to need all those barns full of your treasures.  
 
But the challenge of the Gospel of Jesus has always been to live by faith, and not by fear.  And what is true for people is also true for institutions.  The call to live by faith is true for this church, as we consider what God is calling us to do and be in a world so radically changed in the last few years.  And if we are to live by faith, then we have to exercise that faith muscle, that generosity muscle, that justice muscle, something Jesus called being “rich toward God. “ 
 
So, friends, by all means, enjoy your lives.  I do.  Eat, drink, and be merry. I do.  Just don’t be fooled.  Don’t forget that there are the riches that matter and the riches that don’t.  Choose wisely.  Be rich toward God.
 

TEACH US TO PRAY
Sunday, July 24, 2022
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
Luke 11:1-13
 
He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.’ He said to them, ‘When you pray, say:
 
   Father, hallowed be your name.
   Your kingdom come. 
   Give us each day our daily bread. 
   And forgive us our sins,
    for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.
   And do not bring us to the time of trial.’
 
And he said to them, ‘Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, “Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.” And he answers from within, “Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.” I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs.
 
‘So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!’
 
 
I struggle with prayer.  I do it in great fits and starts – sort of like exercise or a new diet.  But like exercise or a diet, when I pray, I am easily bored; easily distracted, never quite sure if it’s having the intended result.  
 
 I very often feel conflicted about this because, as a child, I was surrounded by prayer.  My whole family prayed – a lot.  My paternal great grandmother used to spend hours on her knees in prayer every day –despite her severe arthritis.  My grandmother, with a flair for the dramatic, would sometimes take on the air of an Old Testament prophet when she repented of her sins, dressing in tattered clothes and letting her hair fall down around her face as a sign of her sorrow.  My parents were and are a little tamer than that, but they are still serious pray-ers - remembering me and Marcos and this church every day – without fail.  And when the people in my family pray, they actually believe that God answers prayers in ways that are observable and verifiable.
 
As a young adult, I too prayed often and earnestly.  I used to carry around a list of people in my wallet - dozens of names – that I prayed for every day. And I kept a record of when those prayers were answered – and dutifully moved those names from the “needs list” to the “thanksgivings list.”
 
But over time, I found that these intense daily prayers often felt one-sided.  And then one day, I had the most uncomfortable realization that most of my praying was really about me trying to convince the Almighty to do what I thought best. And that sort of made me God, if you think about it.  But God is God and I am not.  And that stark discovery left me without a reason or a way to pray.  
 
One day Jesus was praying, as he often did.  And maybe his disciples, for all their good intentions, were like so many of us - not quite sure about how to do it.  And so, they asked the Teacher to teach them how to pray.  
 
And here we should pause for just a moment because there is in some American Protestant piety this notion that one should automatically know how to pray.  When I was a child, I was told: “It’s just like having a conversation with a friend.”  Well, there is some truth to that – with this glaring exception: none of my friends are not invisible.  And all of my friends have something to say in return.  So, in that way, prayer is not just like having a conversation with a friend.  And that means that most of us need to learn how to do it.  Which begs the question: why isn’t the church teaching God’s people how to pray?  
 
So, Jesus taught his friends how to do it, using words we now call the Lord’s Prayer.  And this prayer - which is a model, not an idol - contains the essential building blocks of prayer: praise – that is, acknowledging the greatness of God; petition – asking for what we need; and confession – naming our failings and asking for forgiveness and a new beginning.  
 
Perhaps you noticed that Luke doesn’t have our beloved ending: “For thine is the Kingdom and the power and the glory forever.” He doesn’t have it because those words are not in the most reliable and ancient manuscripts.  They were likely added, centuries later, by monks who didn’t like Jesus’s abrupt ending.  But we like it and we’re not about to get rid of it now!  
 
And then Jesus told them a parable about being persistent in the practice of prayer.  And here is where I should really pay attention, since persistence is where I struggle.  And Jesus ends the parable with these memorable words: “Ask, and it will be given you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you.  For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.”
 
And that, at first glance, seems like an invitation to ask for anything, as if God is some sort of Santa Claus, dispensing wishes to those who are persistent and haven’t been too naughty.  And that, I suspect, is how many folks actually think of prayer.  It’s a reward system for being good.  And you have to keep at it.  -- But if that is your understanding of prayer, then when you are in real need - and you don’t get what you ask for - then the logical conclusion is that God is capricious and temperamental… or maybe even cruel.
 
Over the course of many years of ministry, these uneven ways in which prayers seem to be answered bring more people to my office than most anything else.  Think about it: we pray for those we love – and some people get well; but many don’t.  Some poverty is relieved; most isn’t.  God seems to favor one part of the world over another.  And that process of asking and waiting and hoping and being disappointed over and over again just keeps swelling the ranks of those who have given up on the church and God.  
 
But a careful examination of this passage leads us to very different conclusion about the aim and purpose of prayer.  Because these verses do not end with a promise that if you are good, and persistent, then God will give you anything you ask for.  Instead, what Jesus said was, “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask!” 
 
When we pray, what we are promised is what we actually need – the presence of God.  The answer to every prayer is more of God – deeper understanding, further revelation, intimacy, belonging, and ultimately a deep, deep peace.  That does not mean that we cannot ask God for what we need or others need.  After all, the Lord’s Prayer teaches us to ask for our daily bread.  But the measure of an answered prayer is a deeper communion with the One to whom we pray.  
 
And that kind of connection doesn’t always need a lot of words.  In the early church, a contemplative name Macarius the Great, was asked how to pray.  He replied: "There is no need at all to make long discourses. It is enough to stretch out one's hands and say, 'Lord, as you will, and as you know, have mercy.” And if the conflict grows fiercer,” Macarius continued,” say, 'Lord, help!'  In modern times, another contemplative, the writer Anne Lamott, has said that all prayer can be boiled down to these three essential words: “Help!” “Thanks!” “Wow!”
 
And then, sometimes, words are superfluous to prayer.  Prayer is like the silence between lovers – full of meaning.  It is intention, attitude, yearning, desire, tears, laughter, music - or even breath.  
 
A wise rabbi once said that the Jewish name for God – Yahweh – is not spoken, but breathed.  Its correct pronunciation is an attempt to imitate the sound of inhalation and exhalation.” (Yah – weh, Yah –weh…) -- And if that is true, then with every breath, we are saying the divine name.  And if that is true, then with every breath, we are, as St. Paul put it, “praying without ceasing.”   And if that is true, then as we emerge from our mother’s wombs, we are praying.  And as we die, our very last act will be a prayer. 
 
Lord, teach us to pray.  And the Lord replied: take a breath.  In - Out.  Live - Love.  Laugh - Cry.  Believe - Doubt.  Strive - Rest.  Breathe - Pray.  Pray.  Pray…
 
 

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER
Sunday, July 17, 2022
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
Luke 10:38-42
 
Now as they went on their way, he entered a certain village, where a woman named Martha welcomed him into her home. She had a sister named Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”
 
 
 
As much as I would like to be, I am not an easy host.  I hope my guests are not aware of that, because I work very hard to give the opposite impression; to appear as if dinner parties and weekend company are things that I can organize effortlessly.  But the fact of the matter is that it all makes me a nervous wreck.  It makes me nervous – not because I don’t like entertaining people - but because I am a perfectionist.  And because I am, I want everything about those events to be perfect.  And that means that I need a lot of time to plan; a lot of advance notice.  But very often, true hospitality doesn’t allow for the luxury of planning.
 
That was certainly the case for Martha, who had a dinner party hoisted upon her without much notice at all.  Now there are some significant differences between Martha and me – perhaps most significantly, Martha lived in a culture that deeply valued and continues to value hospitality.  Any stranger who showed up at the door was fed and given a place to lodge for the night.  That continues to be a bedrock value of many Middle Eastern cultures to this day.  
 
And so, it was a no-brainer that when Martha heard that Jesus of Nazareth, the rising star preacher, was in town, she invited him to dinner.  That doesn’t sound so bad.  Even I can add one plate to the table without too much complaining.  But if you read closely, you will see in the verses that precede these that Jesus was traveling with 70 of his new disciples.  And we have every reason to believe that they came to dinner too.  So, it was actually 71 people for dinner!   And trust me, I could have six months’ notice and that would still make me a nervous wreck!  
 
This Martha had a sister named Mary.  And even though the Gospel of Luke doesn’t mention it, they also had a brother named Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. 
 
Jesus had settled in another part of the house and had begun teaching those who were gathered there.  And Mary, eager to learn about the Kingdom of God, found the perfect spot right at Jesus’s feet. 
 
Now, this detail is noteworthy of several reasons.  The first is that one would expect to find Mary in the kitchen helping her sister, Martha.  That certainly seemed to have been Martha’s expectation, given her reaction later on.  The second is that Mary, in the simple act of sitting at the feet of a rabbi, shattered cultural gender expectations.  She assumed the position of a male in a society that was strictly ordered on perceived biology.  Only men were taught by men.  But Jesus treated her for what she was – a disciple – showing everyone that in Christ there is no male or female, Jew or Greek, slave or free.  But trust me, it was the talk of the town for weeks afterwards.
 
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, there was a lot of door-slamming and pot-rattling and heavy sighing.  Martha was so distracted that she cut herself while chopping onions.  And then three pots started to boil over at once.  And the lamb was roasting too slowly.  And the bread wouldn’t rise.  And every time she walked past the doorway, there was her lazy sister – just sitting there.  And frankly, it was driving her crazy.
 
Finally, Martha just couldn’t take it anymore.  You know that point of no return - just before you do something you are going to regret for years to come?  That’s the moment she was in.  Suddenly, she burst out of the kitchen, strode into the parlor, and didn’t even look at her sister.  Instead, and rather shockingly, her anger was misdirected toward the guest of honor.  In a classic case of triangulation, putting everyone else in the room on edge, she blurted out: “Lord, don’t you care that my sister has left me to do all the work? Tell her to help me!”  In other words, “Hey Lord, how about a little justice?  Hey Lord, how about a little fairness?”  Not a bad prayer, really.
 
For a moment, no one breathed.  And then Jesus smiled and said her name… twice.  Commentators say that this is likely an indication of compassion and tenderness.  He was recognizing her humanity and her emotion.  “Martha, Martha… you are worried and distracted by many things.  There is need of only one thing… and Mary has chosen the better part.”
 
The better part… There are all kinds of ways that this passage has been interpreted, some of them better than others.  Let’s start with the not so good.  The first is to pit action and contemplation against one another, as if, in the Christian life, we have to choose one over the other.  In this interpretation, we are told that the life of contemplation is superior because Jesus commends Mary for sitting quietly and listening to him.  But he chides Martha for being busy trying to get a meal together for 70 plus hungry people.  
 
But this interpretation doesn’t really hold water because the story just before this one is the story of the Good Samaritan, which is all about action and doing the right thing.  And that tales ends with these words: “Go and do likewise.”  Don’t think about it; don’t contemplate it.  DO IT.
 
Pitting action against contemplation also ignores the fact that somebody has to make dinner.  Somebody has to make the coffee.  Somebody has to clean the church and pull the weeds and set up church school class rooms and organize backpack drives and youth mission trips and rehearse the music and pass out bulletins and write the sermons and visit the sick and take communion to the home-bound.  Someone has to make sure that the mechanisms are in place so that contemplation of the Word of God can actually happen.
 
And then, in more recent times, feminist theologians have rightly pointed out that pitting action and contemplation actually propagates gender stereotypes.  Notice that the one working in the kitchen - doing traditional woman’s work - is criticized, but the one who has assumed the role of the man – sitting at the feet of a great teacher – is valorized.  
 
So maybe the truth of this passage is not so much about what the women are doing but much more about howthey are doing it.  Notice that when Jesus spoke to Martha, he actually said nothing to criticize her essential kitchen.  He certainly didn’t tell her to stop.  His belly was rumbling too!  Instead, he reacted to her angry outburst.  And what he said was, “Martha, Martha… You are worried and distracted by many things…”
 
And because she was worried and distracted, Martha was unable to be present to the glory revealing itself in her house.  But Mary, in being quiet and attentive and open, understood, on some level, that God had come to dinner. 
 
This week, the whole world was dazzled by the amazing images, captured by the James Webb Space Telescope and released by NASA.  These images are absolutely stunning, for they show us more clearly than ever before the shadows of our own beginnings.  In these images, we are reminded of the immensity of the Universe; of all that is unknown to us.  We are reminded of our smallness and the smallness of our concerns and the smallness of our opinions and the smallness of our ideas.  And perhaps best of all, we are reminded that unbearable beauty exists for beauty’s sake alone.
 
Did you slow down at all this week to take any of that in; to ponder those images; to contemplate what they mean; to tremble at the Power of God; to sit at the feet of Wonder?
 
The late great scholar and rabbi, Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Awareness of the divine begins with wonder.”  
 
What did Mary see and hear that day that filled her with wonder?  How did her life change because she paused long enough to see it?  How might our lives change by staying in moments of wonder; in the presence of God; at the feet of Jesus – something our Lord himself once called “the better part”?
 
 
 

IN A DITCH
Sunday, July 10, 2022
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell
 
 
 
Luke 10:25-37
 
Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”
 
It was Christmastime, 1966. I had just seen a commercial about Santa Claus appearing at a local shopping center, and determined to go, I pestered my parents until my father finally relented. That same night, my dad and I got into the car and started off to see Santa.  We were traveling down a two-lane road in rural Louisiana when all of a sudden, there were headlights coming right toward us.  My dad swerved wildly as he shouted “Hold on, Jimmy!” and threw his arm over me, a sort of human seatbelt. There was the tremendous sound of breaking glass and grinding metal, and then absolute stillness. My next memory is of my dad’s heavy body pressing against mine, and my body pressing against the passenger door.  Our car was upright, resting on its right side, in a deep ditch.  
 
My dad climbed out of the driver’s door and then reached back in to pull me out. The ditch was in front of a small, simple house.  We knocked on the door and an elderly couple answered.  We asked if we could use the phone to call the police and my mother.  And then the old lady, in an attempt to comfort a shaken child, went into the kitchen and came back with a bowl of Circus Peanuts, those marvelous spongy, neon orange candies in the shape of oversized peanuts.  I was delighted.  They delight me still!
 
My father and I were very lucky to have walked away from an accident that totaled our car.  A drunk, hit-and-run driver, the son of a local judge who was never prosecuted for this incident, had literally knocked us into a ditch and then left us for dead.  But some Good Samaritans with Circus Peanuts and some basic human kindness tended to us in our distress.
 
One day, a young hot-shot lawyer approached Jesus and asked: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” It was actually a trick question meant to put the peasant Jesus in his place and to demonstrate his ignorance of Jewish law. But Jesus wasn’t ignorant of the law at all, and so he turned the tables and asked: “What is written in the law?  What do you read there?”  And the lawyer rattled off the answer that any good Jew would have known: “Love God and love your neighbor as yourself.”  “That’s it,” said Jesus.  “Do that and you will live.”  But this lawyer was not about to be shown up by a peasant.  And so, he asked a more probing follow-up question: “So just who is my neighbor?”
 
And Jesus replied: Once upon a time there was a man, who against the wise warnings of his wife, walked the dangerous Jericho Road all alone.  He was rounding a corner when suddenly robbers jumped out from behind a boulder, stole everything he had, and beat him half to death.  For the next few hours he lay there, in and out of consciousness, under the brutal sun, wondering if he would ever see his wife and children again.  
 
After a while, a priest happened by, but he pretended not to see the man and passed by on the other side of the road.  Then along came a Levite, another professional religious person, who also caught sight of him and feigned being in a bigger hurry than he actually was. Finally, a Samaritan came along and when he saw the bloody man, he was moved with pity.  He knelt down, cradled the man’s head and whispered that everything was going to be OK, even though he wasn’t sure it would be. And then he cleaned and bandaged the man’s wounds, gave him some cool water, put him on his donkey and took him to an inn, where he sat by the man’s bed all night, as a fever rattled his body.   The next day, when the man was a little better, the Samaritan paid the innkeeper for two more days of lodging and said, “Take care of him.  And when I come back through, I will pay you anything else that is owed.”
 
We know this story as the Parable of the Good Samaritan.  And we think of it as a morality tale about our responsibility to those in need.  And there is truth in that.  How much better this world would be if we all remembered that we are our sister’s and brother’s keepers.  It’s just that this is not the whole truth of this tale.  
 
First of all, you have to understand the characters to understand the story.  It’s hard to overstate just how hated the Samaritans were in first century Palestine. They were half-breeds and traitors, who practiced a perverted form of Judaism. They had refused to participate in the rebuilding of Jerusalem after the exile.  They had helped the Syrians wage war against the Jews.   By the time Jesus told this tale, the hatred between Jews and Samaritans was 1000 years old.  To anybody listening to Jesus that day, there was no such thing as a “good Samaritan.”  It was an oxymoron. 
 
Secondly, in telling this story, Jesus is underscoring something we Americans seem to have forgotten in 2022.  And that is simply this: that people and kindness and decency are always, always, always more important than political opinion.  Despite the ancient misunderstandings between Jews and Samaritans, Jesus doesn’t address it at allHe doesn’t use his very powerful platform to engage in historical analysis.  He doesn’t argue about who’s right and who’s wrong.  There is no time for that because this is the story of human crisis.  As theologian Debie Thomas writes: “… all tribalisms fall away on a broken road.  All divisions of ‘us’ and ‘them’ disappear of necessity.  When you’re lying bloody in a ditch… what matters most is whether or not anyone will stop and show you mercy before you die.”  
 
Thirdly, there is good reason to believe that this is one of Jesus’s famous role reversal stories that Luke is so fond of - you know, one of those tales where the first are last and the last are first.  Maybe Jesus isn’t simply suggesting that the lawyer act like a Good Samaritan and give help to those in need.  Maybe, and far more provocatively, Jesus is suggesting that the one in need of help is the lawyer.  He’s in the ditch, bruised and bloodied by his pride and privilege. Maybe the shocker of this tale is that for Jesus, the ones in the world who need the help are the ones who think they don’t.  They’re in a ditch and the ones who can help them are the “others” they so often ignore or… despise.  
 
There was a 12-year-old Palestinian boy named Ahmad who was tragically shot and killed by Israeli soldiers during street fighting near his home in Jenin, the West Bank. He had been playing in the street with a toy gun, and you can imagine...  Still alive at first, Ahmad was rushed to an Israeli hospital, where he died after two days. His heart-broken parents could have turned the whole sad spectacle into a political moment.  It would have been very powerful.  But instead, they made the decision to allow Ahmad’s organs to be harvested for transplant to Israeli people. A total of six Israelis received Ahmad’s organs.  Ahmad’s mother later said, "My son has died. But maybe he can give life to others."
 
Ahmad’s mother could have been the one in a ditch of grief and bitterness.  That’s the role we expect her to play – the victim; the supplicant; the weak one.  But how this story changes when we see Ahmad’s mother as the strong woman she is, who reaches into the ditch and pulls others to safety, perhaps even some who would have despised her because she is a Palestinian. 
 
The last shall be first and the first shall be last.  Maybe we’re the ones in the ditch, bruised and battered by our willful ignorance and dearly guarded privilege and our unyielding opinions about everything.  Maybe our life-blood is draining away and we don’t even know it.  Maybe our help is close at hand, but from the very people we hold at arm’s length and silently despise.  Maybe we’re in the ditch.  
 
But thank God that is not how this story ends.  
 

​IN THE WILDERNESS OF THE WORLD
First Sunday in Lent, March 6, 2022
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell

Luke 4:1-13

Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’” Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, “To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours.” Jesus answered him, “It is written, ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’” Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” Jesus answered him, “It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.


During Lent, we clergy types try to create an atmosphere; a mood.  It is purposefully barren and stark.  During Lent, we do not sing a Gloria because we are not rejoicing.  We are repenting.  And so we sing something called a Trisagion (“Tri-sai-yon”) – which means three times holy, in which we ask Almighty God to have mercy upon us.  

The usual ornamentations of the Sanctuary are removed.  After Communion today, there will be no brass cross or Bible stand or candlesticks returning to this table.  Instead, there will simply be the Lenten Watch Candle.  No banners will hang on the wall.  Even the simple cross that hangs on the wall above the pulpit has been temporarily removed.

Most years the barrenness of Lent feels rather counter-cultural - because Spring is coming, after a long winter.  And we feel hopeful.   And Easter is already on our minds.  And summer vacations cannot be that far behind!  But not this year.  This year, this stripped-down sanctuary seems perfectly appropriate for a stripped-down and barren world.  

After two plus years of a world-wide pandemic, we are emerging from that cocoon looking for hope, but instead finding a horrifying war in Europe; wanting our lives back, but discovering a country so divided that the basic workings of our democracy are threatened; longing for spring, but seeing a planet so abused by humans that the normal cycles and planetary functions now abuse and threaten us.

I struggled all week long with whether or not I could say any of this to you, for fear of depressing you all so much that you’d never come back.  But I am not telling you anything you don’t already know.  And my charge is not to keep you entertained or placated, but to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ against the backdrop of the world he came to save.  My charge is, as the great 20th century Swiss theologian Karl Barth once famously said, to read the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other.

And I have come to believe, now more than ever, that unless the Gospel of Jesus Christ speaks in transformative way to a world in crisis, then it is not Good News and it has no power to save us.  If our faith has nothing to say in the face of 6 million COVID deaths - 1 million of them in this country - then what good is it?  And if the Gospel of Jesus cannot offer hope to people battered by war, then what good is it?  And if it cannot speak a word of reconciliation to a divided country, then what good is it?  And if the Good News is not Good News to the planet that God so loved that God sent the Only Begotten Son, then what good is it?

We don’t need a stripped-down sanctuary to remind us of the barrenness of our lives in this moment.  This is the most Lenten Lent I can ever remember.  And the whole world is our Wilderness.

In the verses that precede the passage read for us today, Luke reports that Jesus had just been baptized.  And Luke says that he was full of the Holy Spirit.  Everything was coming up roses!  His ministry stretched out before him like a beautiful field.  But then the Holy Spirit led him into the Wilderness.  And everything changed.

The Wilderness where Jesus was driven by God’s Spirit is a harsh and barren place in southern Israel between the fertile lands near the Mediterranean and the sands of the Sahara.  And there, Luke says, Jesus was tempted by the devil for 40 days.  In Scripture, 40 is often a symbolic number simply meant to indicate a long time.  And during this long time of testing, Jesus ate nothing.  And when it was over, Luke tells us that he was famished.  

It was then, in his moment of human weakness and vulnerability, that the devil came to him with the three temptations.  The first was to turn a stone into a loaf of freshly baked bread.  But Jesus replied: “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone.’  Then the devil took Jesus up to a high place and showed him all the glittering kingdoms of the world and promised to give them to him if only Jesus would worship him.  But Jesus answered, ‘It is written, Worship the Lord your God, and serve only God.’  Then the devil took him to the Holy City of Jerusalem, to the top of the glorious Temple, and taunted Jesus to throw himself off to see if the angels of God would catch him, as had been promised.  But Jesus replied, ‘It is said, ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’

The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell this story with slightly different details.  Matthew adds the lovely note that when the temptations were over, angels came and waited on Jesus.  Mark mentions that there were wild beasts in the Wilderness, adding an additional layer of danger.  But Luke concludes this dramatic tale in a most undramatic way.  He simply writes: “When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.”  The end.

“That’s it?” I thought, when I first read this passage on Monday last.  With the state of the world and the hope that needs to be proclaimed, that’s it?  With a world that seems more Wilderness than Paradise, that’s it?  Why couldn’t this year’s lesson be drawn from Matthew with its mention of angels?  Because if we have ever needed ministering angels after a long time of testing, it is now.  

But as is so often the case with Scripture, the longer I stayed with the text, the more of its light it revealed.  It’s easy to miss.  It’s even easier to ignore.  And it’s simply this: Luke is the only Gospel writer to add this detail: that before he ever went to the Wilderness, Jesus was FULL OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.  

Remember that just before being led into the Wilderness, Jesus was baptized by John in the Jordan.  He had been drenched with the waters of grace.  He had heard the very voice of God saying “You are my beloved.”  The Spirit had descended upon him like a dove.  And he was full of light and love and grace… and the Spirit.  And that is what he took with him into the Wilderness.  

And that is what we can so easily ignore.  And that it what we can so easily treat as an afterthought, instead of what it is: an essential provision for the Wilderness of the World.  

And so dear friends, on this first Sunday in Lent, I remind you to pack what you need for this journey in the Wilderness of the World.  I call you to prayer and fasting and charity and good deeds.  I call you to love and service and deeds of kindness.  I call you to remember the poor and those who suffer.  I charge you to go outside and bless the earth and let the sun kiss your face.  As an act of Lenten devotion: get off your devices and turn off the endless voices of doom and give up your appetite for despair and tend to your souls - not as an afterthought, but as a first thought.  Be full of the Holy Spirit.    

I don’t know how long we will be in this particular Wilderness.  It may get worse before it gets better.  But it will get better, because Lent doesn’t last forever.  And the promises of God are true.  And Resurrection is as unstoppable as the sunrise.  And goodness is stronger than evil.  Love is stronger than hate.  Light is stronger than darkness.  Life is stronger than death.  Victory is ours through Christ who loves us and who loves this beautiful world.  

OF WILD BEASTS AND ANGELS
February 21, 2021 – Lent 1
First Congregational Church of Cheshire
© the Rev. Dr. James Campbell


Mark 1:9-15

In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.

Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”



As a child, I was given to horrible nightmares – vivid, technicolor visions of my worst fears.  These dreams were so real that I would sometimes startle awake and run to my parents’ bedroom to ask to sleep with them.  

Lots of kids have nightmares, but I had them all the time.  And so at some point, my parents started to worry and to look for answers.  My father, in particular, seemed determined to make me face my fears and thus, he hoped, to vanquish them.  

One day, our dog disappeared.  Pepper used to run free at night, but always came back in the morning.  But that morning, he didn’t.  All day long, we searched and worried.  That evening during dinner, a neighborhood kid knocked on our door and told us that there was a dead dog on the road to the gravel pit near our house.  He thought it might be ours.  “Come on,” my father said, “let’s go see if it’s Pepper.”  And so, we grabbed some flashlights and a shovel.

But I was afraid, and so before we left, I tried to convince my dad that we should wait until the morning light.  I didn’t want to walk down that very dark gravel road to the gravel pit.  But my dad was insistent.  

I couldn’t see much of anything as we walked alone, the gravel crunching under our shoes on that quiet summer night.  Eventually, we came to the spot where the dog was.  And sure enough, it was Pepper.  And so my father and I buried him beside the road.

I wish I could say that that late-night excursion helped to free me from some of my fears.  But it didn’t.  I continued to be afraid of so many things that, after a while, fear was simply my default mode.  And the only tool I had to resist it was my faith.  My faith became a talisman of sorts; a means to protect me from evil.  As long as I stayed close to Jesus, I thought, those things I was most afraid of simply could not get me.  I would be protected.

In churches like ours, we may not say that as plainly or as boldly, but on some level, we believe it.  There is an implicit understanding in most churches that if we just believe the right things and do the right things; if we are humble and loving, then God will protect us from those things that frighten us.  And yet we still get sick sometimes.  We still lose jobs.  Some relationships crumble.  Geopolitical realities threaten.  We pray, we ask, we hope - but more often than not, those things we fear are still with us.  So, what are we to make of that?  Are our fears signs of a lack of faith?  Or are our fears just part of life, and something that lives alongside our faith?  

The Gospel of Mark is the oldest and the shortest of the four Gospels.  Mark is not into flowery detail, and he loves the word “immediately.”  He has Jesus rushing from one event to another with hardly a breath in between.  And that is certainly true of how he tells the story of the Temptation of Jesus.

This story is always heard on the first Sunday in Lent, because the symbolism is too rich to ignore.  Jesus was tempted for 40 days.  And our Lenten journey is 40 days long.  Jesus faced his mortality, and in Lent, we face our own.  Jesus was tempted to find ultimate comfort in the material world.  And in Lent, we seek to be more conscious of those riches that are not material.  

Mark’s temptation account starts with the baptism of Jesus - a dramatic event during which the heavens are ripped in two and the Spirit divebombed like a bird of prey.  Then the voice of God announced that Jesus was the Beloved Son, with whom God was well pleased.  It was a moment of pure joy and clarity of purpose.

But it didn’t last long.  Mark reports that immediately afterwards, the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness.  The Greek verb “to drive” is “ekballo” and it is very strong.  In other words, Jesus was thrown out or cast out into the wilderness, implying it might have even been against his will. 

Once there, he was tempted by Satan for 40 days.  But Mark gives us none of the details that the other Gospels do about what those temptations were.  The point seems to simply be that Jesus was tempted, as we are.  In that way, he identifies with us, and we with him.  

But then Mark adds a unique detail, found in no other Gospel.  All the gospel writers mention angels coming to minister to or feed Jesus, but Mark alone adds this intriguing tidbit: “and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”

In the entire New Testament, the wild beasts are only mentioned two other times.  And each time, the implication is that they are deadly and dangerous.  Imagine, if you will, Jesus in the middle of the night, out in the wilderness, surrounded by the glowing, beady eyes of wild beasts.  Maybe he heard them rustling in the brush or panting in the dark.  

In the other Gospels, the angels arrive only at the end of his Temptation.  They are his reward for a job well done. But in Mark, there is no sense of a strict chronology.  Mark seems to put the angels and the wild beast together: “… he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.”  wild beasts and angels - together.

And doesn’t that mixed bag sound familiar, surrounded as we are by the wild beasts of illness and loss and unemployment and loneliness.  And then there’s COVID - a beast so ferocious that fear of it has shut down our world; a beast so relentless that almost 500,000 Americans are dead.  

But the wilderness is also the natural habitat of angels.  Fear is far flashier and gets more press.  But that doesn’t mean the angels of God are not there.  Wild beasts and angels, grace and fear, want and plenty: they all live side-by-side.  Our lives are not neatly divided between good days and bad days.  They are simply messy, complicated days.  And that makes the Gospel very good new indeed.  

I am still sometimes afraid of those things that go bump in the night.  I still have my moments when fear grabs me by the throat and throttles me.  There are specters that still haunt my dreams.  I still try to avoid them.  But the Spirit keeps driving me into the wilderness, where those wild beasts dwell.  But so do the angels.

They come with extraordinary kindness when we were sick.  They comfort us when we are confused.  We meet them in a hand on our shoulders or in a gentle hug or a shared tear.  And sometimes, there is even a peace that surpasses our human understanding, and we have known something of the divine presence.

I wish I could tell you that you will always be rescued in the way you want to be.  But I can’t.  What I can tell you, however; what I can promise you is that you will never go to that place of wild beasts alone.  There will always be angels there to minister to you.  And there will always be Jesus, who traveled this road before us.  

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

GROANING WITH HOPE
Sunday, July 19, 2020
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.
 
 
Humans are made in the very image of God.  This is a foundational belief for Jews and Christians, and one which has strongly influenced my own theology for years.  For many people, however, to say that humans are made in the image of God is to also imply that we are the only ones who are.  But I wonder if that image of God is not imprinted upon the whole creation.
 
As a child, I loved plants and animals.  And I also loved rocks and dirt and sunsets and the smells of the seasons.  Looking back, I guess I was a bit of a child mystic who saw God everywhere, and who saw image reflected a thousand different ways.  
 
That makes me an outlier of sorts.  It’s true that a theology of separation between humans and everything else has dominated the thinking of the church for centuries.  But here’s one thing to remember when talking about human made theology: even when it’s popular that doesn’t make it necessarily so.  
 
This theology of the supremacy of humans, or as I call it, a theology of domination, has had some very bad consequences.  Domination theology becomes a convenient excuse for us to do with earth as we see fit; as if we are God.  We bless all sorts of selfish and destructive actions, we blithely call “progress.”  And then we slap God’s name on it as if that will excuse our actions.  
 
And then to make it all worse, we get lost in ideological arguments that keep us stuck where we are, while the earth convulses and species go extinct and sea levels rise, flooding Florida neighborhoods on sunny days.  But we still insist on domination and the illusion of control and the absolute love of money above everything else.  And then we have the audacity to claim that this is the way God intended it to be.
 
In his foundational epistle to the church at Rome, St. Paul uses graphic language to describe the suffering of creation as it waits for us to grow up.  He likens this suffering to the pain and blood of childbirth.  But like childbirth, Paul has a vision of something new being born; a time in which the suffering of creation is relieved.  
 
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 – a description of the suffering of all creation, along with a promise that creation will be saved as we grow more and more into our potential.  Very lovely words indeed, but how are we to understand this incredulous promise when we are bombarded daily with predictions of doom?  Does it simply mean that God will rescue us from the messes we have made?  Or does it mean that we have a role to play in salvation?  And if we play a role, then hope must be a major building block of our theology.  
 
Does this all sound like crazy talk, new age babble, theology run amok?  Well, it’s actually some very old theology.  The church has not always and in every place taught a theology of domination.  The great Francis of Assisi, converted to Christ as a young man, saw intimate connections between us and creation and the God who made it all.  He referred to his Brother Sun and his Sister Moon and his Mother Earth.  These were not metaphors for Francis.  They were expressions of praise and adoration and intimacy and connection.  
 
For Francis of Assisi and the Celtic Christians and others in history, humans do not dominate or stand above the creation.  Humans are of the earth, formed of the dust of the earth (Genesis 2:7). And this earth, from which we come, does not belong to us.  The earth is the Lord’s. (Psalm 24:1). Therefore, every act of conservation and preservation and ecological advancement is an act of praise for the One who made it all.  
 
It’s too late, some say.  There is nothing I can do about it, many others say.  We are afraid.  We are overwhelmed.  We are in deep denial.  Cynicism is our most natural defense mechanism.  But it’s not the most faithful response, because Christians have always been called toward hope.  Despite whatever is happening around us; despite what we cannot see, we have been called to live in hope - not magical thinking, not head in the sand, not denial, but hope. 
 
We are not the first people to be called to live in hope despite our fears.  God’s people in every age have lived with dire existential threats.  They have lived under the crushing brutality of Empire and hideous years of war and the threat of famine and the specter of epidemics and the terror of annihilation.  But in each of these times, God’s people have been called to lean into what has been promised, and then to do what we can, in our own place and time, in our own corner of creation, to make those promises a reality. We do what we can.
 
In the 2014 film The Man Who Stopped the Desert we see what hope in action can actually do in the face of overwhelming odds. 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 turned 50 acres of harsh desert into lush forest.  How did he do it?  Well, it was all rather simple. First, he 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.  Then he used small stones to create pathways for the rainwater to fill the holes.  Then he planted trees and vines and crops in those Zai holes.  Whenever it rains, the stone paths direct more water to 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 in his hopefulness.  Government officials tried to dissuade him.  But Yacouba persisted.   The end results?  He and others like him now enjoy “food sovereignty.”  And because of him and his hopeful connection back to creation, the desert blooms and rejoices, to use a phrase from the Bible.  And in his tiny corner of the world, the groaning of creation has eased.  
 
Fear paralyzes us, making us believe the poisonous lie that there is nothing we can do.  But hope, which is the gift of God to every person, moves us into action, no matter how small.  And hope is a far more efficient fuel than fear.  It lasts longer and its source is inexhaustible – because “our hope is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” (Psalm 124:8)
 
Thanks be to God.  Amen.  
​

IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS
Sunday, June 28, 2020
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.”


America is a land of superlatives.  So much of our popular culture has been defined by the language and concepts of advertising and consumerism.  A basic principle of sales is that you must convince people that what you have they actually need; that what you have is so much better than what they currently have. The result is a throwaway society, wasteful in the extreme, choking creation to death, and still never able to achieve the illusive level of happiness promised by those who sell happiness.

And the American church has, for the most part, bought into this model hook, line, and sinker.  You might be surprised (and a bit disheartened) to learn that the clergy are not excluded from this kind of thinking.  Clergy gather in groups and brag about the size of the congregation and their endowment earnings and their plentiful programming, as if it’s a winner-take-all contest.  

Of course, none of these measures of success has anything to do with Jesus Christ and his mission in the world.  In fact, one could argue, rather convincingly that the church as we know it, with its elaborate structures and careful polities and professional clergy is not anywhere close to what Jesus imagined when he first sent out his disciples into the world.

That’s the setting of today’s lesson.  Jesus is sending his disciples out into the world.  And he tells them what his version of success looks like.  First, Jesus gave them some very practical advice about ministry.  He said things like: “Travel lightly.”  “Don’t expect everyone to like you or what you’re doing,” “Don’t be surprised if the life I’ve called you to will be misunderstood by everyone, even members of your family.”  But in these three concluding verses, Jesus said something more esoteric: “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.”

This last bit is one of Jesus’s more famous saying.  Lots of people have heard this adage about “a cup of cold water” even if they don’t know where it comes from. But fewer people have contemplated the transforming spiritual wisdom contained in in the words before the adage about a cup of cold water.  

In fifteen words, Jesus masterfully summarizes the concept of the absolute spiritual unity of all things.  Now I know that’s a mouthful, so let’s break it down.  Notice that he makes no distinction between himself and his disciples, between himself and us, and between us and God.  Listen again: “Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me.”  It’s all woven together like a seamless piece of fabric.  God in me and God in you and you in God and the cosmos in all of us – and all of it unified. 

The absolute unity of all things - that’s shocking to hear for lots of people because the church has built most of its history on the idea that there is an absolute separation between God and us.  This is the theology that most of us grew up with.  It’s the theology that much of the Western Church continues to propagate.  It’s a theology built for the accumulation of power and control.

But the truth is that it’s only one theology.  Simply put, it’s the side of the theological argument that won.  But other Christian theologies, like those of the Celtic church and Franciscan theologians teach a much closer communion between God and us.  These theologies teach the essential goodness in humans as a reflection of the divine image. They see nature as intimately connected to us and to God.  In Celtic and Franciscan thought, these words of Jesus are to be taken literally: “Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me (literally), and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me (literally).”  God in me and God in you and you in God and the cosmos in all of us – and all of it unified. 

And if that is the truth of what Jesus taught; if we are all connected like one seamless piece of fabric, then the smallest act of kindness on any of our parts reverberates throughout the universe.  And that means that a cup of cold water given to a thirsty person is a direct interaction with the divine.  And if that’s the truth, then how we treat others – whether for good or for ill – is exactly how we treat God.  

Can true religion be boiled down to a simple act of kindness?  Can the Christian faith be summarized as radical hospitality and the unity of all things?  Is it really that simple?  Do the little things actually matter in an eternal way?   

The Rev. Dan De Leon is a UCC pastor in Texas who told this story in a sermon.  He and some of his parishioners were on a mission trip in Mexico.  While there, they met a man who had crossed the U.S. border illegally, only to be caught immediately and sent back.  And this is the story the man told: “Penniless and humiliated, he 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 under harsh treatment. After three years of saving up a little money under these conditions, he went back home, where he met his now three-year-old daughter for the first time.”

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, an (American) student in our (mission) 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." 

Be kind.  Be kind.  It’s so simple.  It’s not at all flashy. It’s not the biggest and the brightest mission of the church.  But kindness changes lives.  It is absolutely transformational – for the one who gives it and the one who receives it – because we are all one.  And kindness gives life, it refreshes - like a cup of cold water on a hot summer day.  

“Whoever welcomes you, welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me, welcomes the one who sent me.