Boundary Issues 2 Samuel 6:1-7, Mark 5:21-43

Preacher – “The Lord be with you.”
Response – “And also with you.”
[By prior arrangement, the preacher’s cell phone rings. The preacher checks the caller I.D, holds up a finger to the congregation and says, “I’ve got to take this.” The preacher chats a few moments, then hangs up.]

There are some things you just don’t do… [Hold up cell phone]
some boundaries you just shouldn’t cross.
Sometimes these boundaries are tangible, physical –
that yellow tape the police put up around the scene of a crime,
a barbed wire fence marking off your neighbor’s pasture.
But other boundaries are invisible.
Most of the time these boundaries aren’t written down or even overtly articulated.
we just expect everyone to know where the line is.

Sometimes these invisible boundaries are culturally defined,
for example, how much personal space we give each other.
It’s not something you measure,
but you know when your personal space has been invaded,
when somebody gets just TOO close for comfort.

Sometimes boundaries are part of a social class consciousness.
Rules of dress, for example.
When I was a teenager, my mother let me know in no uncertain terms
that I was never to go without a shirt, no matter how hot it was,
unless I was at the beach, at the pool, or in my own back yard.
Where you live can be another class-conscious boundary.
The train may not have gone through your town for a hundred years
but you know what it means to live “on the wrong side of the tracks.”

Boundaries serve a function – they provide structure to social life.
But what happens when somebody comes along and ignores the social boundaries?
What happens when somebody comes along
and deliberately, WILLFULLY, crosses the line that good people just don’t cross?
I don’t mean wearing saggy britches where your underwear hangs out
or failing to cover your mouth when you sneeze in the buffet line…
I mean what happens when somebody comes along and does something so outrageous
that it makes your skin crawl;
it makes you question everything you’ve ever assumed about social order.
I’m talking…of course…about Jesus.

First of all, we shouldn’t act like we didn’t expect it.
Anybody who ends a story with, “The first shall be last, and the last first”
is bound to challenge the status quo.
Still, as boundaries go,
our story today makes the Great Wall of China look like gossamer thread.

Mark is anything but subtle.
First of all, he places this story of Jairus and the anonymous woman
in the context of extreme boundary crossing.
Remember last week that Jesus and his disciples crossed the Sea of Galilee
leaving behind the familiar Jewish side of the lake to go to the Gentile side.
The lake, itself, serves as a boundary between clean and unclean.
And now, as Mark begins this story, they’ve come back across to the Jewish side,
but there are still boundary issues to face,
lines to cross that will make them uncomfortable…to say the least!

The first line that gets crossed is a small one, but it sets the tone.
Jairus, a leader of the synagogue, elbows his way through the crowd
and falls at Jesus’ feet.
It’s not that unseemly for Jairus to bow at Jesus’ feet,
given that he’s asking Jesus to do him a significant favor.
But Mark makes a point of saying that Jairus “begged Jesus repeatedly”
to come heal his daughter.
The implication is that Jairus loses his composure, he gets all worked up,
he makes himself vulnerable to Jesus and exposes his neediness to the crowd.
Jesus agrees to go with Jairus, but on the way something happens.
In the crush of the crowd a woman comes up and touches Jesus –
touches Jesus and is healed.
That sounds simple. It is anything but.

Mark pulls no punches in letting us know
just how low on the social ladder this woman really is.
In a society that saw prosperity and health as a clear sign of God’s blessing
the poor woman has no hope.
For one thing, she’s a woman. That’s one strike against her right there.
For another thing, she has been hemorrhaging for twelve years.
Twelve years of “woman trouble.”
She has been hemorrhaging twelve years and has endured many physicians.
Like millions in this country who lack adequate health insurance,
she has spent all she had on doctor bills and not only is she no better,
Mark tells us that she has actually gotten WORSE.

So here’s a woman who, because of her condition,
is not only considered unclean by Jewish law
but who out of respect for all acceptable social boundaries
should have segregated herself, should have stayed at home.
Here’s this woman, out in public, mixing in with a jostling crowd
a woman who has the temerity to reach out and TOUCH Jesus!

I don’t know how to convey to you just how nasty those around Jesus
would have seen that,
how far beyond the bounds of decency that would have seemed to them.
It would be like somebody picking their nose
and then reaching out to shake hands. Even WORSE!
And then Jesus, calm and self-possessed even in the crushing crowd,
feels the power go out of him, stops and asks, “Who touched me?”

Did you ever want to crawl in a hole and pull it in after you?
Put on your Harry Potter cloak of invisibility and just slink away?
Here’s this woman who thought she was being inconspicuous,
who thought no one would notice her – not her, not nasty, despicable HER…
Here’s this woman – twelve years an outcast,
suddenly being drawn into the spotlight by Jesus himself.
She likely would have had a heart attack
if she hadn’t already felt in her body that she had been healed.
Even so, her trembling made the earth around her shake
as she collapsed at Jesus’ feet in fear.

I picture everyone in the crowd recoiling in horror from this woman.
Imagine the nicknames they had for her around town.
“Look everybody, here comes Bloody Mary.”
But when the crowd draws away, Jesus steps close.
He takes her by the hand, lifts her up, looks her in the eye and says,
“Daughter – DAUGHTER – daughter your faith has made you well.
Go in peace and be healed of your disease.”

It is astounding the lines Jesus crossed here –
touching a woman who wasn’t a relative,
touching a woman who, in the eyes of everyone in town, had been cursed by God.
touching a woman whose physical ailment gave her a serious “ICK” factor.
But one of the most significant lines Jesus crossed
was that in allowing himself to be delayed from his original mission,
Jairus daughter, the seemingly more IMPORTANT daughter, died.

She died. While he was allowing himself to be distracted by some tramp, the little girl died.
But that opened an even greater door for Jesus.
It gave him just the opportunity he needed
to show the mocking mourners, the grieving father, and his awe-struck disciples
that even the greatest boundary of all – even death itself –
could not block the purposes of God.

Jesus ordered all the scornful mourners to take their mess outside.
He took Jairus and his wife, and Peter, James, and John into the little girl’s room.
She lay there, still as stone, mouth slack, the color drained from her face.
Death hung thick in the air, a heavy curtain drawn around her tiny frame.
But Jesus pushed it aside.
To him it was no more than a spider’s web and he brushed it aside.
For the second time that day he reached out and lifted up.
And the little girl, the important man’s daughter, the joy of his life
got up and walked around.
To make sure we don’t miss the connection,
Mark then adds the kicker.
He says, “She was twelve years of age.”

Do you get it? Twelve. The number twelve.
In the Bible it is THE number that symbolizes God’s agency,
the activity of God working God’s purpose out.
Twelve tribes of Israel. Twelve disciples.
The woman in the street had been hemorrhaging for twelve years.
Jairus’ daughter had been alive just that long.
And through Jesus, God used them both to overcome boundaries:
boundaries of purity, of social status, even the boundary of death itself:
just blasted those boundaries to kingdom come!

This is not to say that there should be no boundaries.
King David found that there are certain lines even a king shouldn’t cross.
For example, the Ark of the Covenant was not to be touched. Period.
Abinadab’s son Uzzah found that out the hard way
when, without thinking, he reached out to steady the ark when it shifted.
And later, David discovered that, king or no king,
you don’t go committing adultery with your loyal soldier’s wife.

In Robert Frost’s poem, Mending Wall, two neighbors meet in an annual ritual
to repair the rock wall that serves as a boundary between their properties.
One neighbor cites conventional wisdom
that says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
The other, however, reflects to himself,
“Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.”1

In Ephesians the author writes of Jesus, “In his flesh he has made both groups into one
and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” (Eph. 2:14)
While there are boundaries that still give us some structure
and help us live together without being offensive or gross,
in Christ the boundaries that divide us have no place. No place at all.

________________
1 Frost, Robert, Mending Wall, North of Boston, 1915.

Bush League Ezekial 17:22-24, Mark 4:26-34

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God?”
That’s a tough one.
“With what can we compare the kingdom of God?”
That’s kind of like saying, “With what can we compare a sunset?”
or “With what can we compare that feeling of first love?”

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God?”
What’s a good analogy for God’s dream for God’s world?
I don’t know. Do you? Let me see…
God’s realm is…as big as a giant circus tent when you’re six years old
and you’re holding your Daddy’s hand and climbing the bleachers to find your seat
and your eyes are wide as saucers trying to take it all in.
God’s realm is…as colorful as the Aurora Borealis on a cold Minnesota night.
and you’re wrapped up in blankets, a steaming mug of cocoa warming your hands
and your heart’s about to burst from the beauty of it.
God’s kingdom, God’s realm, God’s dream for God’s world
It defies analogy, but that doesn’t stop people from trying.

The Prophet Ezekial used the analogy of one of the cedars of Lebanon,
the biggest tree he could imagine
to describe what he believed to be God’s coming glory.
The cedars of Lebanon were legendary for their size – 130 feet high, 8 feet in diameter.
They were long established symbols of majesty and grandeur
and Ezekiel borrowed the symbolism to fit his purpose.
In his vision, Ezekiel saw God take a tiny cutting from one of the mighty cedars
and plant that cutting on Mt. Zion in Israel.
And even though at the time Ezekiel was active as a prophet,
God’s people were being taken into exile in Babylon,
he still put forth the vision of a tiny sapling, transplanted in David’s city
that would one day stand so tall and strong,
that every kind of bird, that is, every other nation, would live in it’s shadow.

The Kingdom of God is like a lofty cedar,
straight, sturdy, enduring - growing from a twig into a mighty tree
that towers over every other tree.
That’s an analogy we can sink our teeth in;
the kind of triumphant imagery with which anyone would like to be identified.
It’s an image for the long haul,
an analogy for winners.

Across the country this month
thousands of high school seniors are walking across stages in cap and gown
reaching out to take their diploma and to shake the principal’s hand.
Many of those students are high achievers,
young men and women who have been on a steady, upward rise to success
from the moment they first sat in a sandbox.
They have had loving parents to read them bedtime stories,
creative teachers who knew how to captivate their imagination,
and a hearty breakfast to start each school day.

These students and their families have followed the rules.
They’ve done it right.
Their hard work has paid off.
THEY are like cedars – straight, sturdy, enduring.
There are no surprises. No surprises here.

That’s the way we like life, isn’t it? No surprises.
We like there to be rules, rules that, if followed, will lead us to success.
It’s the heart of our national mythology;
the whole “Founding Fathers” mystique;
the protestant work ethic and manifest destiny all rolled into one.
Like ancient Israel we in this country imagine ourselves to be God’s favorite.
We can easily adopt Ezekiel’s vision of the cedar as our own,
as the emblem of God’s blessing on us – strong, steadfast, immovable.
It suits us, especially the part about all other nations living in our shadow.

The problem Israel ran into with this image of the cedar
is that they forgot that it was an analogy of God’s strength, not their own.
They forgot that any steadfastness or endurance they showed
was not intrinsic to their nature, but a gracious gift from the Almighty.
They forgot that when other nations rested in their branches
it was their opportunity to serve, not to exploit.

It is precisely Israel’s tendency to forget,
to confuse their power and God’s power,
to get so lost in their dream for themselves
that they lose sight of God’s dream for God’s world
that is behind Jesus’ parables of the kingdom.

Only when we know the background of Ezekiel’s analogy of the giant cedar
can we see the humor in Jesus’ parables of God’s Kingdom.

“The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed.”
OK, I’m with you so far. The small becomes great.
That which is tiny has big potential.
It’s like Ezekiel said, the twig grows into the giant cedar.

The Kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed
tiny, barely visible, a speck.
But when it is sown upon the ground it grows up and becomes the greatest of all …
the greatest of all…
the greatest of all…SHRUBBERIES.
Not a giant cedar with sturdy trunk and evergreen crown.
A shrubbery. A bush. Not even a nice English boxwood or holly,
but an invasive species that no self-respecting gardener would ever plant on purpose.

Unlike the mighty cedar,
the mustard seed Jesus is talking about grows into an annual plant.
It grows up to six or eight feet, which, yes, considering the size of the seed it starts from
is quite impressive,
but the stem is hollow, the branches are weak,
and it lasts only one season before it dies.
Small birds may sit in its branches to snack off of the seeds.
They may scratch under its branches and make nests on the ground in its shade.
But it’s certainly no cedar tree, that’s for sure.

Do you get the joke?
With a nod to Ezekiel that no one in his audience could miss,
Jesus turns the image of God’s realm on its head.


The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed. That’s it! That’s all!
It doesn’t look like much as a seed.
And the value of the bush it grows into isn’t judged by its sturdiness or its dominance.
Unlike Ezekiel’s analogy of the cedar,
For Jesus, God’s realm isn’t about predictable outcomes
or documented value or steady progress.
For Jesus, God’s realm is mysterious, and UNpredictable and full of surprises.

There are high school students graduating this year who have done everything right.
They have solid homes, good teachers, predictably bright futures.
They are the cedar trees.
But there are others graduating who are more mustard than cedar.
Their success was NOT guaranteed.
It’s a mystery for some why they’re walking across an auditorium stage at all
and not languishing in a prison cell or a pool hall somewhere.

In ninth grade, Cody Tipton of Erwin High School in Asheville, NC
was making money by selling the drug xanax to classmates.1
He certainly wasn’t studying algebra.
When he got busted he no doubt looked to his teachers and classmates
like nothing more than a noxious weed
Not a giant cedar, that’s for sure!
But something surprising and wholly unexpected happened to Cody.
Instead of getting into a cycle of revolving door prison sentences
Cody got a job at Bojangles and went back to school.
He’s been on the A/B honor roll ever since.

Giovanni McKnight lived without a father in a housing project in Miami.
That is, he lived there before losing even that and moving to a homeless shelter.
He was another insignificant speck, an anonymous child headed for disaster.
He bounced around to eight different schools before moving to Asheville
where he enrolled at Asheville High.
Again, against all the odds, a tiny seed was planted.
It was there somebody saw his athletic potential and got Giovanni on the track team.
He graduates this year with the school record in the 55 meter dash.

The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed, Jesus says,
and it grows into a bush, not a cedar.
There’s a term you’re probably familiar with – it’s a term of derision,
meant to insult and demean.
It’s the term, “Bush league.”
It comes from the beginnings of organized baseball,
when big city teams had fancy ball fields surrounded by high walls.
Small town fields, however, were defined not by walls but by bushes.
Big city teams looked down on them.
They were “bush league.”

In Jesus’ own words, the Kingdom of God is Bush League.
To a world more enamored with cedars, this Kingdom looks pretty pathetic.
To a world that likes things simple, predictable, easily managed,
this bush league realm makes no sense. It’s downright offensive.
In a Cedar kind of world we get what only what we deserve, no more and no less,
and it’s all about maintaining dominance at all costs.
In a cedar kind of world you fight to keep things the way they are,
otherwise the tree topples over and then where are you?

But in Jesus’ bush league view of God’s Kingdom
there is always mystery and possibility and irrational hope.
Always a chance for a tiny seed to take root,
nobody deserves much, but that doesn’t stop God’s extravagant giving.
In Jesus’ bush league view of God’s Kingdom,
The least becomes great and the great may not last
and patience is a virtue because things are always changing.
In the bush league, God is in charge and we are God’s partners,
but only because that’s the way God wants it and who are we to argue.

With what can we compare the Kingdom of God?
With what, indeed.

_______
1 Students Jump Hurdles to Graduate, The Asheville Citizen Times, June 12, 2009.

Pops Got Skills Romans 8:22-27, Acts 2:1-21

Some say that day of Pentecost recorded by Luke in The Acts of the Apostles
was the birthday of the Church.
I don’t buy it.
I think the birthday of the church was the day a human being first captured fire;
the first time some man or woman took a flame from a lightening strike
and used it to kindle a campfire
and invited others to gather around its heat and light.

Think of all that developed from that first campfire circle:
human imagination expressed through story and song,
governing councils that gave structure to civilization,
the first cooking classes!
That first fire circle became a focal point for life together
and life together is the heart of this entity we call “church.”

I admit, this is a pretty loose definition of “church,”
people gathered around a fire circle,
drawn there by a common need for light, for warmth, for community.
Pope Benedict surely wouldn’t accept it.
For him, church is strictly defined by apostolic succession –
the ability to trace ones origins back to the original apostles.

John Calvin, the chief reformer who laid the groundwork for Presbyterians,
also had his working definition of “church.”
He said that the church can be found “anywhere the word of God is faithfully preached
and the sacraments are rightly administered.”
That seems pretty simple until you realize that the words “faithfully” and “rightly”
leave a whole lot of room for interpretation
and a whole lot of room for internal bickering.

Go back to the very earliest churches.
They had at least one standard by which they identified a “church.”
In Paul’s letters a church is identified as any group where those gathered
acknowledge that Jesus is Lord.

Apostolic succession, word and sacraments, Jesus is Lord –
it’s not unreasonable to have some common standard
that serves to identify and set apart a group of believers;
some common trait to which we can point and say, “This is who we are,”
“This is what we mean when we say church.”

The impulse to organize is inborn in each of us.
The trouble is that part of our impulse to organize is our impulse to exclude;
an eagerness we have to draw lines and build walls,
the tendency to want to focus on who we are NOT
instead of who we ARE,
the tendency to forget that all any of us really want
is to satisfy that common hunger for light, for warmth, for community.

In chapter one of Luke’s account of the acts of the apostles
we find a very orderly process going on as the remaining eleven of Jesus’ twelve
choose a successor to replace Judas Iscariot, the betrayer.
but chapter two is anything but orderly.

Chapter two begins on the day of Pentecost, one of three annual festivals in Jerusalem. Pilgrims from all over the Middle East have come to Jerusalem to celebrate
the 50th day after the Passover and the consecration of the harvest.
It’s a tongue-tangling hodgepodge of nationalities in the city;
a regular United Nations summer camp,
and the disciples, stir crazy from waiting
for the outpouring of the Holy Spirit that Jesus had promised
are hanging out in some seedy hotel lounge drinking bad coffee and eating day old danishes.

Suddenly a breeze kicks up, scattering paper cups and napkins.
Matthew has to clamp down on his toupee to keep it from blowing off.
“Who turned the fan on,” Andrew shouts.
He has to shout because the roar of the wind is deafening
and the air is electrified making their hair stand on end.
Witnesses later would describe it
as though tongues of flame rested on each disciples head.
All they knew was that they saw light, and felt warmth, and experienced community.

They experienced community through the gift of sacred speech.
A crowd gathered and in that alphabet soup of nationalities represented
each reported being able to understand what the disciples were telling them –
stories of God’s deeds of power told in their own language
with a Galilean accent.

At some point the wind died down and the story-telling stopped
and, like you always do when something incredible happens,
you grab whoever’s closest and you begin comparing experiences.
Then you grab your cell phone and dial up whoever’s on your “Friends and Family” plan
and say, “You’ll never believe what just happened.”
And, sure enough, someone won’t believe it.
They’ll say something snide or catty like,
“Sounds like somebody’s been hittin’ the sauce a LITTLE early…”
Because, no matter what, some people just have to be skeptics.

That’s Peter’s cue.
Whatever you may have thought of Peter as the lights dimmed on the crucifixion
and he sat shivering in the dark, scared out of his wits
devastated by his triple denial of Jesus –
whatever you may have thought of THAT Peter,
you’ve got to realize that as Luke begins the story of Acts
the post-resurrection Peter is a changed man.
In fact, I would say that the rehabilitation of Peter in the gospel story
is one of the most powerful indicators of resurrection we have.

Peter emerges as the leader of the twelve
and on their behalf he addresses those gathered that day.
He begins his sermon with words from the prophet Joel,
words his audience is well familiar with.
“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,
and your sons and daughters shall prophesy,
and your young men shall see visions,
and your old men shall dream dreams.”

Peter may truly have believed that their experience marked
the beginning of an end that would come quickly,
an end that would come, in Joel’s words, with “blood, and fire, and smoky mist.”
In hindsight we understand that the gift of the Holy Spirit that day
was a sign, not of the end, but of the beginning of a new reality.

Until that point, the disciples couldn’t be sure
that Jesus’ life among them was not just an anomaly,
a holy blip on the radar screen that would last only as long
as they could, by their own efforts, keep his memory alive.
In other words, not very long.
Even their experience of the Resurrected Lord, as powerful as that was for them,
only had power for as long as they could keep it going.

But the gift of the Holy Spirit that day brought with it the assurance
that the toehold Jesus had gained for God’s realm on earth
was only the beginning of an everlasting shift of power.
Until then they could only hope that God was in control.
After that day, however, there was no question.
It’s not that the sun shown any brighter or people got nicer.
But with the Holy Spirit on the loose they could be assured
that no matter how menacing the forces of violence and fear and division loomed,
those forces were, in the end, no match
for the light, warmth, and community that are hallmarks of the Spirit.

I’ve mentioned this already, but please indulge me.
A couple of weeks ago I played a simple little pickup game of basketball
while visiting family in Louisville, KY.
Will and I were in a park shooting baskets when three high school-aged young men
came by and asked if they could shoot, too.
Then they asked if I wanted to play two-on-two.

I was reluctant to play because I had just been through physical therapy
to regain the full range of motion in my shoulders.
Up until then I hadn’t even been ABLE to play basketball for a long time.
I didn’t know if my body would still recognize the mental commands of basketball.
I was reluctant also because I realized I was older than the three of them put together -
them and their springy legs and flexible arms.

Thank goodness it was only a half-court game!
I was paired with the best of the three and I was happy for him to carry the offense.
As we played an African-American man in his late 30’s came up
leading two toddlers by the hands.
The three of them stopped to watch the four of us play.
When I would crouch in a defensive stance the father would yell,
“Uh oh! Pops is puttin’ on the defense!”
When I would jump for a rebound he would yell,
“Pops is goin’ up for that ball!”
And then once – once – when I took a pass, made a head fake,
and somehow, thank you JESUS, managed to lay the ball in the basket
without turning my ankle or breaking a hip,
the father of two yelled out, “Pop’s got skills!” “Pop’s got skills!”

It feels kind of silly talking about it now. But you have no idea how good that felt.
Or maybe you do. The sun shining. Sweat tricking down my back.
having somebody recognize my skills, “Pops” or no “Pops.”
That’s the gift of Pentecost, the gift of the Spirit doing its work.
When you’re happy to be alive in the company of fellow human beings;
feeling connected, with barriers of age and race broken down.
You know what Paul was talking about when he says that the whole creation
waits with eager anticipation,
GROANING in anticipation as we wait for adoption, for redemption,
for that time when it won’t be an occasional thing, a once-in-awhile kind of thing,
but a daily, hourly, moment by moment feeling
of Light. of Warmth. of Community. Church.

Like Trees Psalm 1, John 17:6-19

I’m thinking of a poem that, because of its simple rhyme and meter,
makes it a favorite target for parody and ridicule.
But even so, I would bet it’s one of the most well-known and even beloved poems
in the English language.
The title is “Trees,” and it was written by Joyce Kilmer back in the early 20th century.
I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.

It appears that the psalmist shares Kilmer’s reverence for trees,
using a tree in the very first psalm as a metaphor for a well-lived life.
Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or take the path that sinners tread,
or sit in the seat of scoffers.
But their delight is the law of the Lord,
and on his law they meditate day and night.
They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season
and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.

When I think of trees I think of what I learned about trees in high school biology -
how each tree is a living system of roots and trunk and limbs and leaves.
how water is absorbed by the roots and carried up by the xylem tissue to the leaves.
And how sunlight and water combine in the leaves in a process called photosynthesis
to create nutrients that the phloem tissue then carries back down to the roots.
I remember how vital trees are to a healthy environment,
absorbing carbon dioxide from the air and giving off oxygen for us to breathe.
I remember how the roots of trees check erosion
and how the fruit of trees serve as food
and when the leaves and fruit fall to the ground,
it all decomposes into more nutrients that keep the cycle going.

Trees have been central to Biblical storytelling all the way back to the Tree of Life
in the Genesis story of the Garden of Eden.
So, when the psalmist uses a tree as a metaphor for a life well-lived,
it is with deep reverence and clear intent.
And the well-lived life is not judged by some arbitrary standard,
but by the standards of the Torah, the law,
the guidelines for living that are the gift of a gracious, life-giving God.

It’s no accident that the first psalm in the psalmist’s collection
is a psalm in praise of the Torah, the law of God.
The ancient Hebrews saw God’s hand in the created order of things
and believed that God had made the world for the benefit of human kind.
The Torah, the law, was the blueprint God provided
for getting the most out of God’s good gift.


There’s nothing mysterious or complicated about it.
Align yourself with God’s pattern and you will bear fruit.
Ignore God’s pattern and you will wither and die.
Plant yourself beside the streams of God’s mercy and
nothing will be able to move you.
Go your own way and, like chaff, you will dry up and blow away.

I hope that you have had someone in your life
who has provided for you a living example of what the psalmist is talking about;
someone with deep roots and expansive branches.
Some of you come from farm families.
Farmers get it.
Farmers understand that a fruitful, satisfying life is not a quick or a casual proposition
but that it requires daily discipline and a long-term investment.
Maybe you grew up on a farm and have an image of a parent or a grandparent,
hands calloused, face creased, pulling on boots before dawn
to start a new day.
When you were young you may have thought them hopelessly out of step with the world,
but now you understand that they just measured their step
by a more ancient, eternal beat.

It’s not just farmers who get it.
Maybe you have a friend who has lived years with chronic illness,
or a family in these tough economic times
who have had the rug pulled out from under them.
These people have every reason to complain,
but instead they see their situation as a learning experience
and somehow, with God’s help, find the strength to carry on.
Often these are the very people in our lives
who seem most content and fulfilled,
those who have learned to value relationships
and see beauty in the small things.

The testimony of the psalmist is that there is a design to life.
There is a basic blueprint that gives our lives constancy and security;
a blueprint we ignore at our peril.
God’s law is given as our guide,
it is our standard.
But let’s face it, we have problems with the concept of God’s law.

For one thing, we have this idea that God’s Law is an Old Testament concept
and that God’s grace, shown to us in Jesus, makes the law obsolete.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Jesus himself said, “I have come not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it.”
The problem Jesus faced was that God’s chosen ones had turned things upside down.
They had begun to see the law as a fence instead of a ladder;
as a tedious list of all that is forbidden rather than as the joyful expression
of all that is good and honorable and sacred.
Jesus came to remind us that the law is not the pin that bursts our bubble
but the scaffolding that gives our lives their strength and form.

The other problem we have with the concept of God’s law
is the temptation we ourselves have to use God’s law as a bludgeon,
our own convenient weapon against those things that scare us.
For example, scared of my own personal impulses and appetites
I use the law to make everyone else’s life as sterile and colorless as my own.
Scared that God might love someone else more than me
I use the law to create a narrow definition of who God finds acceptable,
a definition that, not surprisingly, fits only me.

We have this habit of looking at God’s law only in terms of what it prohibits.
Instead we should focus on what it allows.
It allows us to be honest instead of deceitful.
It allows us to be merciful instead of domineering.
It allows us to show hospitality to the stranger
instead of building the fence even higher.
Most of all,
God’s law allows us to have a vision of ourselves that is fully integrated,
heart, body, mind and spirit.
Like a tree whose trunk is supported with deep roots and nourished by green leaves, God’s law guides us to the place where our actions match our words
and our commitment is steadfast
and our faith is unwavering.

Eugene Peterson, a pastor and Christian author,
gets at the heart of an integrated life intertwined in God’s law
in a book he wrote called, “A Long Obedience in the Same Direction”1
In his book, Peterson makes the distinction between religious “tourists” on the one hand
and Christian “disciples” on the other.
“Tourists,” he writes, “understand religion as a visit to an attractive site
when they have sufficient leisure time to make the trip.”
They don’t want mundane details, just the high points,
and they’ll try anything – until something else comes along.

But disciples understand that faith is a commitment,
an apprenticeship to the Master, Jesus Christ.
Discipleship is a life-long learning process,
not where we accumulate information about God,
but where we learn skills of faithfulness that under gird our daily practice.

In our gospel lesson this morning,
Jesus is preparing his disciples for his imminent departure.
He allows them to overhear his prayer on their behalf.
Above all, he prays that they will be transformed, or “sanctified,” by God’s Word,
transformed to the point that they are fully integrated, heart, body, mind and spirit;
transformed to the point that they will be able to plant themselves
by streams of God’s mercy and be steadfast in the face of all the temptations
to go for the quick fix, the easy score, or the safe bet.
He doesn’t say so in so many words,
but he’s encouraging them to be like trees,
like the trees both the psalmist and Joyce Kilmer write about.

Joyce Kilmer was not only a poet, but he was a man of deep Christian faith,
and one who, when the time came, stepped forward to serve his country in WW I.2
He was, by all accounts, universally love by those whom he led
and he was one of those soldiers who did what soldiers are told never to do.
He volunteered – volunteered for the most hazardous duty.
His last duty was to lead a scouting party in search of an enemy machine gun post.
He was killed while on that mission by a sniper’s bullet.
Kilmer was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre medal of valor by France
and buried in an American cemetery in France.

Just because you serve your country in the military
doesn’t mean you are any more integrated in your life
or willing to commit yourself for the long haul
or more obedient to God’s law.
Neither our armed forces nor our churches for that matter
will ever be free of people with ulterior and selfish motives.

But on this Memorial Day Sunday we do honor those women and men
who have exhibited integrity in their leadership,
courage in their service,
and strength in their commitment.
We give thanks that they have born their fruit in its season.

1Peterson, Eugene, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction: Discipleship in an Instant Society, Downer’s Grove, IL: Intervarsity Press, 2000.

2 Hillis, John. Joyce Kilmer: A Bio-Bibliography. Master of Science (Library Science) Thesis. Catholic University of America. (Washington, DC: 1962).

At the Corner of Opportunity and Need John 15:1-8, Acts 8:26-40

It’s Mother’s Day, so I want to give a nod to you mother’s out there
and also you mother-figures,
because, let’s face it, biological ties are sometimes a hindrance more than a help
and it’s those children who have a whole tapestry of positive relationships
with coaches and dance instructors and tutors and Sunday school teachers
who are able to be most resilient in the long run.

A child often chafes under the apparent impossibility of doing anything
that his mother doesn’t know about;
the old “eyes in the back of the head” phenomenon.
What children don’t fully understand is how intensely focused their mothers often are,
how totally immersed a mother can be in her child’s life.
Most of us are not aware of our own non-verbal body language –
the way we stand, the way we look when we’re nervous or feeling guilty.
But mothers could teach a graduate level course in body language
at least as it relates to their children.

We speak of a mother’s intuition,
but really that intuition is nothing more than the combination of motivation and passion:
the motivation to live up to the responsibility parenting requires
combined with a deep passion for her subject.
This combination of motivation and passion gives mothers a special insight,
a hypersensitivity,
a heightened awareness of where her opportunity as a parent
intersects with her child’s most pressing need.
Good mother’s often have that intuition, but not exclusively.
It’s not a quality found only in parents.
Take Philip for example.

There is a Philip listed among the original 12 disciples
but that Philip was from Bethsaida, a town on the shore of the sea of Galilee.
The Philip we meet in Acts is probably not that the same one.
The Philip in Acts is referred to as one of the Hellenists,
that is, a Jew, but a Jew who spoke Greek
as opposed to those who spoke Hebrew or Aramaic.
In other words, he was one of the Jews of the diaspora, an outsider, a mutt of sorts
who didn’t share the pure pedigree of a Palestinian Jew;
kind of like the difference between one who goes to the University of Virginia in Wise,
and one who actually lives his fourth year on Mr. Jefferson’s lawn
At any rate, maybe Philip was one of the crowd on the day of Pentecost
when God’s Holy Spririt was poured out on 3000 Jews
gathered in Jerusalem for the festival.
However it happened, he became a follower of Jesus of Nazareth.

In chapter six of Acts, we’re told that Philip was chosen by church leaders
along with fellow Hellenist Stephen
to attend to the needs of widows and the poor in the early church
He was present when Stephen was stoned to death by leaders of the synagogue
who were threatened by Stephen’s skill as a debater on behalf
of those who followed Jesus of Nazareth.
Stephen’s death unleashed a flurry of persecutions,
and Jerusalem got pretty hot for the followers of Jesus.
So Philip went north to Samaria where the scripture tells us he preached to crowds.
He did mighty works in Jesus’ name which brought great joy to the people.
Not bad for an outsider.

When Peter and John, two of the original twelve, came up from the Jerusalem church
to verify the fruits of Philip’s labor,
Luke tells us that the Holy Spirit took that opportunity
to send Philip in an entirely new direction.
As Luke tells it, an angel of the Lord appeared to Philip and said,
“Get up and go toward the south, to the road that goes from Jerusalem to Gaza.”
Luke adds “This is a wilderness road,” just to make sure we don’t miss the implication.
Throughout the history of salvation,
God has done God’s most dramatic work in the wilderness.

“Go South – take the wilderness road.”
Now tell me, if you didn’t already know the story,
how would you expect Philip to react to that directive?
If it was me I’d stall. I’d pretend I didn’t hear.
I’d turn up the TV and hold a newspaper in front of my face.
Samaria has been good to Philip.
He’s packed them in,
felt the power of God’s presence,
done mighty works in Jesus’ name
and now he’s supposed to risk his neck, not to mention his success,
to travel some lonely, dangerous road to Gaza?
In Samaria he’s been filling John Paul Jones Arena,
and now he’s supposed to pick up and go to Wyngina?

If it was me I’d act like the signal was breaking up,
“Call back later,” I’d say, “I didn’t really catch that….”
But, fortunately for the church and especially the good people of Ethiopia,
Philip took a different tack.

Having felt the power of God’s love in his own life,
having experienced the peace of Christ, the embrace of God’s grace,
Philip had a passion for reaching out to those who had not yet had that experience.
He had the motivation to tell others, especially outsiders,
the good news of God’s acceptance
revealed in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.
Like a mother watching over her child,
Philip was sensitive to the places where the opportunity to tell of God’s love
intersects with need to hear it
and when you have that kind sensitivity, you don’t have to wait very long
for such an intersection to occur.

Luke doesn’t give us a biographical sketch of the Ethiopian eunuch,
but, then, he tells us all we really need to know.
Being an Ethiopian, we assume the man was dark skinned.
Being a eunuch, we know that as a child someone set for him the course of his life
neutering him physically in order to make him fit to serve the queen
without being a threat to the Queen.
The main thing Luke seems to want us to know is that he was an outsider,
someone strange and exotic to the pedigreed Jews of Palestine.
In other words, just the kind of person to whom Philip could relate.

We tend to have this stereotype of Africa as a dark continent,
but tradition has it that there were Jews in Ethiopia dating back to Solomon’s reign
in the tenth century B.C.
originating from his liaison with the Queen of Sheba.
So here was a court official, probably a Jew, traveling in his fancy chariot,
headed back home to Ethiopia after worshipping in Jerusalem.
He’s reading from the prophet Isaiah, which is an important part of the story.

In the daily practice of Judaism eunuchs were seen as suspect.
they didn’t fit anyone’s definition of “normal.”
But in Isaiah we find a compassionate bit of pastoral care for eunuchs.
Isaiah writes that though they have no sons or daughters to carry on the family name,
God will give an everlasting name
to any eunuchs who “hold fast the covenant.”

In our bias against Africa we also tend to read this story
and marvel at the spiritual sensitivity and inclusiveness of Philip
reaching out to the Ethiopian.
What we fail to appreciate
is that the Ethiopian official was perhaps even more sensitive and inclusive.
The Ethiopian’s willingness to invite Philip into his chariot
was like US Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner
having his driver slow up on Pennsylvania Avenue to invite a hitchhiker aboard.
How do you do that
unless you also have a deep passion for God’s word
and a motivation to know all you can about your Creator?

The Ethiopian official hadn’t heard about the events in Jerusalem
surrounding the death and resurrection of Jesus,
but his openness to God’s Word made him a willing listener.
Philip had no seminary degree
but his gratitude for the holy embrace he, an outsider, had felt
made him a willing guide.
Each man traveled that wilderness road in a spirit of openness
with a willingness to have their agenda interrupted,
with a powerful thirst to know more what God had in store for their life.
Each of them found his strength in what John’s gospel calls
the willingness to “abide” in God like a branch abides in the vine.
We give thanks for mothers today,
especially for those who have the motivation to be responsible parents
and the deep passion to be intimately involved in their children’s lives.
We who have had this kind of mother sometimes take it for granted.
Those who haven’t have this kind of mother
may not fully understand what they’ve missed.

Being a good parent or being a faithful follower of Jesus
each requires a willingness to be invested in the process:
heart, body, mind and spirit.
It requires the understanding that we are in this together,
that God’s design requires no one to walk alone.
It requires the ability to trust, that with God’s help
no challenge is too great
and no encounter is too insignificant.

Being a good parent or being a faithful follower of Jesus
means waking each day with an openness to the possibilities God has in store.
It means being adventurous enough to take the wilderness road when the Spirit so moves
and cultivating not just a willingness, but an eagerness
to live your life in such a way that it’s no accident, not a fluke
when you look at the signs and suddenly find yourself
at the corner of opportunity and need.

The Death of the Hired Man John 10:11-18, 1 John 3:16-24

“I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep.”
The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,
He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside the still waters,
He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
the valley of the shadow,
the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil,
for you are with me.
I am the sheep – the sheep who has a good shepherd,
a good shepherd who lays down his life for me.

I’m not exactly a country boy, though I’ve adapted pretty well to country life
and my recent week in the large city of Odessa, Ukraine
helped clarify my natural inclinations to a slower pace of life.
I don’t know sheep.
I don’t know shepherds.
But I do know enough of you dog lovers and horse lovers
to imagine without difficulty
the possibility of one of you risking your own life
to protect the life of your beloved appaloosa or chocolate lab.
My life is precious to me
and when I read John’s metaphor of the good shepherd who loves his sheep
enough to give up his life for them
I can imagine the depth of care, the strength of connection,
the single-minded devotion that goes into such a relationship.

I read the tenth chapter of John and the question I always ask myself is,
“Could I do that? Could I lay down my life for someone?
is there any person, any cause so great
that I would put my own life at risk
for the sake of that person or that cause?”
That’s an important question to ask ourselves.
It’s a profound point to ponder, for sure.
But I don’t think that’s the question Jesus is raising here.

I don’t think Jesus wants to know if we ourselves
could serve as a stand-in for the good shepherd.
We HAVE a good shepherd
We only need one.

I think the question Jesus is asking is not, “Can you be a good shepherd, too?”
The question Jesus is asking is, “Can you be a good sheep?”
Jesus, the Good Shepherd, has already laid down his life for us.
The question for us is this: Will we receive his gift?
Will we relate to him as to one who has already made the first move
to be intimately connected with us?
Or will we treat him as simply a hired hand, a mercenary,
one who may have ulterior motives
and who should be taken with a giant grain of salt?

One of the side effects of living in a free-market economy
is that we tend to see every aspect of our lives, every relationship,
as an economic transaction.
Do you remember back in junior high how sometimes you chose your friends
based on the idea that hanging out with a popular person
would increase your own popularity?
Or maybe you weren’t quite that desperate
but at least do you remember choosing NOT to be some unpopular child’s friend
because others might think you equally inept or uncool?

Bill Clinton’s famous campaign slogan was “It’s the economy, stupid!”
and that’s so true – so true of every aspect of our lives.
We grow up in this culture with calculators clicking away in our brains
measuring value added against resources expended
assuming that no one does anything for anyone
without expecting something in return.
And God help the poor soul whose debts grow too large.
How can you possibly show your face in public
if it’s been over six months and you still haven’t had a dinner party at your house
to pay back those who have already invited you.

The truth is, we treat each other like hired hands,
like somebody on the payroll who can’t be expected to act out of grace
without asking something in return.
Every act of kindness toward me feels like a burden I’ve got to repay.
Every expression of generosity gets entered in a ledger somewhere.
We even relate to God this way.

In 1 John we read:
Beloved, if our hearts do not condemn us, we have boldness before God;
and we receive from him whatever we ask, because we obey his commandments
and do what pleases him.

To our consumer-oriented ears that sounds like a deal being struck,
a quid pro quo business arrangement.
If I obey God’s commandments and do what pleases God,
God has to give me whatever I ask for.
It’s the kind of deal you make with a hired hand,
and then monitor closely to make sure you get all you deserve.

But we are not God’s hired hands, nor is God ours.
From the beginning God has promised we will not get what we deserve,
and thank God for that!
1 John says, “We know love by this – that he laid down his life for us.”
There’s no way we deserve that.
It is God’s gift and it lifts us out of our free-market, consumer oriented frame of mind
into a whole new realm of grace.

If you enjoy the poetry of Robert Frost,
you know his poem, “The Death of the Hired Man.”
The poem centers on a conversation between Mary and her husband Warren,
about the hired man, Silas, who, like a bad penny keeps turning up.
One evening when Warren returns from town, Mary warns him that Silas has come back,
and in their conversation it becomes clear that Silas has proven unreliable,
one of those workers who promises big but has no follow through.
His one skill is knowing how to build a load of hay
but that’s a small consolation compared to the times he’s left them in the lurch.

As the conversation progresses, the hard edge of Warren’s frustration at Silas softens
and they reflect on the sadness of his life,
how he has “nothing to look back on in pride and noting to look forward to in hope.”
Is it Silas’ own fault that he has little to show for his life?
Maybe.
It does appear that he has squandered the days God gave him
always taking the easier path,
making promises,
but then forgetting those promises when something better came along.

Still, Mary and Warren come to the realization
that Silas’ past mistakes mean very little in the grand scheme things.
For good or for ill, his life is intertwined with theirs
and, in Mary’s words, he has come home to die.
Warren gently mocks her use of the word, “Home.”
What makes THEIR farm this hired man’s home?
She responds, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there,
they have to take you in.”
And she continues, “I should have called it something you somehow haven’t to deserve.”

At the end of the poem, Warren goes in to check on Silas
and discovers that the hired man has indeed died.
But the point of the poem is that the hired man had already died.
As Mary and Warren reflected together on the sum of Silas’ life
and realized that theirs was not longer the relationship of employer and employee
with all the burden of weighing obligations against performance,
the careful calculation of effort expended and rewards deserved.
Silas wasn’t their hired hand any longer. He was their brother. A Fellow traveler
a child of God in the human family.
The Good Shepherd lays down his life for his sheep.
Not as a hired hand, who runs away at the first sign of trouble,
because, let’s face it, there’s nothing in his job description about risking his life.

This morning we gather for communion signifying that God’s kingdom
is not a free-market economy where we get what we deserve.
Thank God.
There is a place for business deals, for contracts,
for employers and employees, but not here. Not here.
Here we celebrate the undeserved love of God
shown us in the care of the Good Shepherd.
What else can we do but resolve to be the best sheep we can be.

When He is Revealed Psalm 4, 1 John 3:1-3, 4:7-12

Back before Christmas, Linda Lowe of Inman, S. C. was hungry
so her boyfriend put a slice of cheese on a piece of bread and stuck it in the oven.
When he took it out, the cheese had melted and parts of it had browned
leaving a pattern in the cheese.
What Linda Lowe saw when she looked at the pattern in that cheese toast
was nothing less than the image of of Jesus.
Now, months later, Linda keeps the cheese toast in a Tupperware container by her bed
to remind her that Jesus is always with her.

In fact, Jesus’ face appears fairly frequently -
in food, in geological formations, even in water stains on concrete walls.
It seems there’s nowhere our Lord won’t go.
And that’s just the image of Jesus.
When we talk about the image of God, the possibilities grow even bigger.

In the account of God’s creation of the universe that we find in Genesis,
we read that God created human beings in God’s own image.
There were some knock-down, drag-out fights early on in the church
about what it really means to say human beings are made in God’s image,
and, to this day, we can’t say we’ve figured it ALL out.
But one thing we can be sure the biblical writer was trying to convey to us is this:
when we look at any one of our fellow human beings
there is something of God in each person.

In preparing to go to Ukraine, I decided that I wanted it to be more than just a vacation.
Since Ukraine had for so long been a part of the Soviet Union,
a nation I grew up viewing as “The Evil Empire”
and because I knew I would be seeing some of the darker elements of life in Odessa
through my friend Bob Gamble’s work with homeless children,
I decided to intentionally reflect upon how God became visible in the people I met.
I’d like to share with you some of my reflections.

The first person I met on my trip was my seatmate on the plane from Dulles to Paris.
His name was Poi and he was retired from the Corcoran Art Gallery in D.C.
Poi and I were instantly bonded together in our shared suffering
seated in a row next to an interior door that required our seats be narrower than the rest.
As we talked, however, I found out Poi was acquainted with a pain I couldn’t share.
He had come to the U.S. from Laos in the early 70’s, barely escaping with his life.
He still had family in Laos, he said, though he had not seen them in thirty years.
In Poi I perceived the image of a steadfast and enduring God
emanating through his resilience;
through his ability to go through loss and to thrive without apparent bitterness.

When I arrived at the airport in Kiev after many long hours of travel,
I saw the image of a self-giving God in the smiling face of my friend Bob Gamble
who had taken the overnight train eight hours from Odessa just to meet me there.
But it wasn’t just in Bob’s friendly welcome that I saw God’s image,
not just in his willingness to sacrifice his own schedule for my comfort.
I also saw God’s image in Bob in the way he reflected to me who I used to be.
My young, eager, hopeful self – the self I was when we first met thirty years ago.
We have a shared history together, Bob and I.
This reminded me of how God has chosen to have a shared history with us
stretching all the way back to Abraham and Sarah.
Any time you travel in a strange place where you don’t speak the language
and you don’t know your way around,
there are times when you are going to feel awkward, lost, disoriented
and maybe even afraid.
I stuck close to Bob while I was in Ukraine,
but he couldn’t watch over me every minute.
One instance stands out when I saw the clear image of my protector God
in the most unlikely person.

It was at the end of my first day in Ukraine.
Bob had met my plane that morning in Kiev
and that night we were scheduled to board the overnight train to Odessa.
At the appointed time we walked down the stairs to the dark platform
where the train waited to take us away.
We had trouble locating our train car, but finally found the one we wanted.
We noticed the nice smile of the attractive young blonde woman taking tickets,
we boarded the car, and put our bags in our berth.

I decided I needed to make another pit stop before we left Kiev,
so I left Bob, ran up the stairs into the station, and found the restroom.
I had some trouble then recognizing which stairs led back to our train,
but I found the stairs,
found the car, saw that the young blonde had been replaced by an older woman,
climbed aboard, went to my berth, and Bob wasn’t there.
I looked for my bags and my bags weren’t there.
I panicked.

I left the train car. I Checked the number which I thought I remembered,
noticed its location right by the steps, and then climbed back on board.
I went to our berth thinking maybe Harry Potter had played a wizard’s trick on me
and that by getting off the car and then getting back on I could break the spell.
But there were still strange Russian-speaking people in my place.
I’d been awake about thirty hours at this point. My heart was in my throat.
I left the train car again, and this time decided to walk down the platform.
Two cars down I saw God’s powerful, calming image.
What I saw was the attractive blonde woman, still smiling, still taking tickets.
It turns out I had taken the wrong stairs down from the station after all.
I climbed on the train car, went to our berth, and nearly collapsed in relief.

It was not hard to see God’s image in the people Bob works with
at an organization called The Way Home,
those who care for homeless children and do it with little pay.
There was Sergei, the founder, who’s always chasing grants.
Vitaly, the paralegal who helps children obtain identification papers,
Alla, the psychologist who is constantly in motion,
and Ann, Bob’s assistant, translator, and good friend.

I will say it was a little harder to see God’s image in the older women of Odessa
most all of whom it seemed had broad shoulders and perpetual frowns
and who would shove me aside as they got on or off the little busses.
It was harder to see God’s image in the many young men who wore all black,
with a fashionable day’s growth of black stubble on their chins
and black hair slicked straight back
striking a pose as they smoked their cigarettes in cafes and on street corners.

Oddly enough, I also found it difficult to see God’s image
in the black robed Orthodox priests -
those who stood outside the ancient churches in Kiev,
who wore black hats and had bushy black beards
and who strode about outside the ancient churches looking oh so somber.

But just because God’s image isn’t always clear in some people,
doesn’t mean it’s not there.
Take for example the boy sitting on the broken concrete wall in a vacant lot
who looked at first like he was blowing up a plastic grocery sack.
What he was doing was sniffing glue.
We saw him my first day out on what they call “Social Patrol”
which is when Bob and a couple of the Way Home staff
plus whatever visitors happen to want to ride along
pile in a van with a pot of soup, some bread and a first aid kit
and go out looking for children on the street.
There was Roma, all by himself, all filthy faced and lice infested, sniffing his glue.
Where do you find the image of God in that kind of scenario?

Bob called to him by name. He turned and looked with dull eyes,
suspicious, I’m sure, wondering what adult authority was going to hassle him this time.
But then he saw it was the Way Home crew and he broke into a big grin.
Bob asked if anyone else was around and Roma took us to the place he spends his days – a small stone structure that offers a roof and a bit of privacy.
Sitting in the structure was an older boy, Sasha.
When Sasha stood up he did it with an old pair of broken crutches.
It was then that we saw Sasha was missing a leg.

Sasha’s face is the face you see on your bulletin.
It’s a dirty face. There are lice in his hair as well.
His is a face that has been on the street for the four years since his mother died.
He’s about sixteen years old now. Never did know his father.
Three years ago he was pushed under one of the electric trams and lost his leg.
Do you see God’s image in Sahsa’s face?
If so, is it pity that makes you see God there?
Or is it something else?

In the first letter of John the author writes,
“Beloved, we are God’s children NOW.”
It’s as though, despite being created in the image of God, there was some doubt.
But then, as the gospel of John says, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
Jesus came on the scene and through his teaching, his example,
his death, and his resurrection fully revealed what before we could only guess at.
“God is love.”
Or, in language Sasha could understand, “Bog loobov.”
In any language, we see the image of God in Sasha’s dirt streaked face
when we understand this simple thing, “God is love,”
and in Jesus that love has been fully and completely expressed.
God’s image is already there in every person,
every stern faced, give-no-quarter older Ukrainian woman
every mask-wearing, image-conscious young Ukrainian man
every dirt-streaked, lice infested, glue sniffing child on the street.
God’s image is already there, but it is only revealed to us
when we look upon that person with love,
not our own love, which is so transient and fickle,
but with the love that Jesus has already shown to each of us.

Linda Lowe found out that Jesus can show up anyplace.
In a slice of cheese toast or even in a homeless teenager.
And I think Linda has it about right when she says
that the key is to remember Jesus is always near.
With her cheese toast on her bedside table and Jesus in her heart
I imagine Linda echoes the words of the psalmist every night,
“I will both lie down and sleep in peace.
For you alone, O Lord, make me lie down in safety.”
My only problem still is this.
How can we lie down in peace,
while some of God’s children are still homeless or hungry or in danger?
How can we rest until they, too, can lie down in safety?