Learning to Let the Wind Blow through You

Walking the country roads of western Kansas has taught me to appreciate the power of antiquated windmills. Perhaps I am fascinated by windmills because I, like Don Quixote, the eccentric “mad knight” in the musical Man of La Mancha, find myself tilting at the windmills (real and imagined) that seem to come my way more often than I would like them to. Life’s unexpected obstacles and challenges, particularly those which attempt to deceive and delude us into buying into the world’s values, are more than worthy adversaries. To complicate matters, each trial and tribulation comes armed with weapons crafted to diminish one’s inner resolve and will. And though I, and perhaps some of you, have been brought to my knees on more than one occasion by the sting of barbs unleashed by the powers that be, vicious assaults devilishly designed to crush the human spirit and to ostracize, I have somehow managed to weather life’s storms.

Perhaps I have been well served by remembering why the broken and battered windmills still tower over the prairie landscape. They have miraculously survived the onslaught of blizzards, thunderstorms, tornadoes, and never-ending wind gusts for a very practical reason — prairie windmills have learned to let the winds blow through them.

Joseph Marshall, author of The Lakota Way: Stories and Lessons for Living, writes: “Insults can hurt, but only if you let them. If you learn to let the wind blow through you, you will take away its power to blow you down. If you let the words pass through you, you will not feel them” (xi) Perhaps Marshall is right. Learning to let the storms of life blow through you is the key. Like the battered and beaten windmills that dot the Kansas plains still defiantly resisting the fiercest of storms, perhaps we, too, can summon the internal fortitude necessary to survive the storms of life if only we can learn to let the storms of life and winds of gossip and rumor mongering blow through us without latching onto our pride, anger, ego, or inflated sense of self-importance.  Yes, perhaps we, too, can stand defiantly in the face of life’s fiercest storms.

 

 

Country Roads: A Lenten Reflection

The sounds of spring and the cacophony of noises along the country roads that surround my spacious parsonage, much like the final days of Lent, herald the promise of new beginnings. They are harbingers of new life and activity following the dormancy of a long winter’s slumber. Abundant life even in what many of my city-slicker friends would describe as nothingness. To outsiders abandoned farm houses, unkempt pastures, decrepit barns, rusty farm equipment and creaky windmills can only mean one thing — remnants of a bygone era. Visible symbols of death and decay. Vestiges of a time long past; Mayberry memories of a golden age that is no more.

Yet, taking the time to walk the country roads of Ellis County, Kansas, and to explore the signs of spring has helped me to look beyond the appearance of things, to see what is from the perspective of what was and what could be. To see promise and a future in the midst of abandoned farmsteads, broken down vehicles, and what on the surface appears to be wide open empty spaces stretching for miles as far as the eye can see.

Perhaps my perspective has changed because I just spent the last 30-plus days journeying in the wilderness of Lent, a time of insight and growth that has helped me to appreciate that things are not often what they seem. A time of sojourning through the valley of the shadow of death, alone and in the company of fellow pilgrims. A time that has taught me to appreciate that in the midst of what appears to be an end — death — new life emerges.

And, while I have repeatedly resisted the urge to rush to the joy of the empty tomb of Easter morning, I have been pleasantly surprised to discover that making time for deepened self-reflection, ongoing spiritual renewal, and self-care has helped me to engage my surroundings with a fresh perspective. Making the intentional effort to journey the country roads of life, the places off the beaten path that afford us the chance to learn to see and engage our surroundings with new eyes, has helped me to bask in God’s marvelous work of creation. Walking the country roads of life creates opportunities for paying attention to the chorus of God’s creation, feeling the radiant power of the life-giving sun, leaning into the ever-present prairie winds, and getting pelted by much-needed rain drops. Walking the country roads of life is nature’s remedy for the soul. A time in the season of the church and my own life when I am learning to see with the eyes of my heart; to see what is behind the image of what appears to be. To appreciate God’s handiwork even in the midst of what appears not to be.  Thank goodness for country roads.

Prisoners of Hope

 Sermon: Jeremiah 31:31-34

During this, the 5^th Sunday of Lent, many of us may find it hard to remain in the valley of the shadow of death as we journey with Jesus to Golgotha, the place where he will die. A time when we literally find ourselves in the long shadow of the cross. And, try as we might, we can no longer deny, evade, or run from the reality of death.

The reality that Jesus will die, crucified on a tree of shame, for you, for me, and for the world.

The reality that we will die.

A dark and uncomfortable time when we struggle to be prisoners of hope. When I and perhaps you, struggle to trust in God’s promises of life, even in the face of death.

Although the prophet Jeremiah also struggled, he found the means to be a prisoner of hope, even as he anguished over the fate that awaited the people of Judah and as he reluctantly embraced the enormous burden of his prophetic calling, saying: “My anguish, my anguish! I writhe in pain! Oh, the walls of my heart! My heart is beating wildly; I cannot keep silent for I hear the sound of the trumpet, the alarm of war” (Jer. 4:19).

Jeremiah had good reason to cry out, he suffered dearly for proclaiming God’s word of warning, judgment, and impending devastation awaiting Jerusalem. Even worse, his prophetic warnings were drowned out and belittled by false prophets.

Yet, in the text that was read today we learn that Jeremiah’s dire warnings have been realized.

The enemy is at the gates.

The Temple will be destroyed and the people carried off into exile.

The people are losing hope.

Yet, it is precisely in this moment of darkness, when instead of gloating, Jeremiah reassures the people of God’s promises. He offers a proclamation of hope during a time when God’s chosen people suffer the consequences of their sins, for ignoring the Covenant God made with Moses (Exodus 34), for worshipping Ba’al and other false idols.

A bleak time when all appears lost. When a disobedient and rebellious people stare death in the face. When nothing the Israelites can do will fix things. Then, and only then, do we hear God’s promise of a new covenant.

A promise that emerges out of death.

A promise of a hopeful future spoken into a community that has been judged, found guilty, and sent into exile. A despondent community desperate to know that God has not forsaken or abandoned them in their time of need.

Like the people of ancient Israel, we too turn our backs on God’s Law time and time again. Justifying our actions with lies and rationalizations to weasel our way out of naming and claiming the sin in our own lives.

We, too, worship the idols of this world. False gods of money, positional power, and the grasping for more things – material goods that we naively believe will satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart.

And, when the rush of a buying more stuff subsides, what do we do? We buy something else – more toys, a car, a bike, a new set of clothes, jewelry, high tech gizmos and gadgets, clothes – anything that will fill the unmet ache of the human heart.

We know all too well the brokenness in our community and our world. The nightly newscasts constantly bombard us with doom and gloom:

Unending stories of violence, crime, and racial strife.

Economic uncertainty

More beheadings and terrorist threats.

Looming environmental catastrophes.

Yet, nothing we can do can fix the problem of our separation from God or the longing for fulfillment that we feel in our hearts. Only God can do that.

Today, in the midst of our brokenness, in the midst of the world’s brokenness, we hear God say,

“I will forget.”

“I will start over.”

“I will forgive.”

“I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God and they shall be my people … for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more” (Jer. 31:33-34).

Our God is a covenant God who journeys with us in the wilderness areas of our lives and our world. Though we turn our backs on God time and time again and blindly pursue the false gods of this world, though we rebel against God and do our best to become a god, God does not abandon you or me in our time of need.

Far from it. God intercedes and creates a New Covenant, an unbreakable covenant. God creates a new beginning. God writes God’s law on our hearts. God desires to be in relationship with you and me, flawed, fallible, and sinful creatures though we be. So much so, that God claims you and me as beloved sons and daughters in the waters of baptism. When faith clings to the water and the Word. When you are united in Christ, marked with the sign of the cross, and sealed with the power of the Holy Spirit — forever.

And while Jeremiah’s prophetic vision of God’s new covenant was addressed to the Israelites during the destruction of Jerusalem and the Babylonian captivity some 600 years before Jesus, God desires to be in relationship with sinful creatures so much that God sent the Son, Jesus.

To do what we cannot do. To reconcile the world to God through Jesus’ obedient love. God taking the initiative to be in relationship with you, with me, and with the world.

Jesus, the paschal lamb who gave his life so that you, and me, may live.

Jesus, who invites you now to the Lord’s Table. Where you receive the Body of Christ given for you and the Blood of Christ shed for you, “the New Covenant in my blood shed for you and for all people, for the forgiveness of sins.”

I tell you know, your sins are forgiven.

It is God’s initiative, in the atoning work of Jesus Christ, which creates in you and in me renewed hearts and right spirits. In the shadow of the cross, the crucified One proclaims: “Your sins are forgiven. I am your God and you are my people.”

A Stand of Pine Trees?

Wofhart Pannenberg, a prominent German theologian, once described congregations, the assembly of believers who gather for worship and to participate in God’s mission for the world, as outposts for mission. Given my own predisposition to view congregations as gathered communities, as people called, gathered and sent into the world by the Holy Spirit, I like to think of congregations in more organic terms. Given the life-giving nature ascribed to the Spirit of God in Nicene Creed, the “one” universal church could, in my opinion, also be more broadly reflected in God’s creation. Thus, I have come to appreciate and use the metaphor of a stand of pine trees when describing congregations. Why pine trees?

I learned about the nature of these wonderful created gifts of God a few years ago after Hurricane Isabella destroyed our home in Virginia. The most powerful part of the storm, the northeast quadrant of the hurricane’s outer wall passed directly over our community knocking down thousands of the mighty oak trees resplendent in their fall colors like brittle matchsticks; oak trees that also imploded our tiny home when Isabella’s mighty gusts felled the ancient oaks. Interestingly, however, none of the seemingly fragile Loblolly Pine trees in the woods adjacent to our home succumbed to the hurricane’s mighty power. How can that be? The pine trees managed to survive the hurricane’s wrath primarily for two reasons.  For one, the tall and slender Loblolly Pine towers over the forest canopy because it has learned to sway in the wind. Unlike the powerful and rigid oaks, resplendent in their strikingly beautiful fall foliage, which snapped under pressure, the swaying pine trees survived Isabella’s mighty gusts. The pine trees survived because they have also learned to support one another during storms and drought through an intricate shared root system. When droughts or mighty storms strike, the interlocking root systems of the stand of pine trees holds fast in solidarity, whether sharing precious resources or supporting one another in difficulty — supporting one another even as the trees around them fell to Isabella’s gusts.

In many ways, the community of faith is a lot like a stand of pine trees. As members of the body of Christ, the church on earth, we care for and support one another during difficult times, particularly when the world turns its back on us. Together, saints and sinner all, we participate in God’s mission for the world, reaching out in love and Christian witness to the broken, the lost, the despised, the hurting, and the dying in self-giving love; sharing resources and supporting one another during times of trial and tribulation. Reaching out to and embracing sisters and brothers in need and affirming their status as beloved children of God no matter their present circumstances or difficulties.

My penchant for using the metaphor of pine trees, albeit more organic and less recognizable than others (church as family, a gathered community, or outpost for mission) nonetheless conveys the image that complex church communities, united by a web of interconnected relationships, exist in and for all of God’s creation. Missio Dei, notes Thomas Shattauer, is “God’s own movement outward in relation to the world—in creation, and the covenant with Israel, and culminating in Jesus Christ and the community gathered in him” (Thomas H. Shattauer, Inside Out: Worship in an Age of Mission, 2). The congregation, irrespective of the metaphors one may employ to identify and describe their function, “is the visible locus of God’s reconciling mission toward the world.”   As such, the assembly is an activity that is, like the stand of pine trees capable of surviving even the most turbulent of storms, directed outward to the world, not inward into itself.  Ultimately, the evangelical missionary witness of the Christian proclamation is broadly inclusive, for “Jesus’ voice continually calls us out of our comfort zones and private enclaves and into public service and engagement with others in God’s world” (Nathan Frambach, “Currents in Theology and Mission,” 10).

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THEY Crucified Him!

Reflection — Mark 15:21-32 — Midweek Lenten Service 

On Ash Wednesday we began our Lenten journey with the sign of the cross and the words, “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

A stark reminder of our own mortality.

That, like it or not, you and I will die!

A reality that we try our best to run from, to deny, and to cheat.

Yet, during the season of Lent, a season in the church and a time in our own lives when the Spirit drives us into the wilderness to walk with Jesus to Golgotha, to Skull Hill, the place where he will be crucified, we are forced to confront that which we try so hard to avoid.

To confront the sin, shame, guilt, despair, and pain in our own lives.

To come face to face with the reality that “we are dust, and to dust we shall return.”

A time of self-examination, prayer, and repentance.

A time of doing the hard work of looking into the mirror and naming and claiming the inner demons and false idols of this world that do their best to separate us from the love of God and one another.

Addictions of every stripe and variety.

Our unending quest for money, status, position, and worldly power – often at the expense of others, especially the least, the last, and the lost.

Our infatuation with the me-first values of this world.

A worldly ethic that scorns the poor, the incarcerated, the mentally ill, and outsiders – sisters and brothers in Christ we all-too-easily distance ourselves from.

A worldly ethic the cross turns on its head.

The text that was read tonight from Mark’s Gospel should make us uncomfortable.

“And they crucified him.” (MK 15:24)

The deed is done.

“It was nine o’clock in the morning and they crucified him.” (MK 15:26)

No more evasions.

No more denials.

The One without sin is dying.

Beaten, tortured, humiliated, and stripped bare for all to see.

Crucified, on a cursed tree of shame. On an instrument of torture reserved for the worst sort of criminal: insurrectionists, traitors and enemies of the state.

A humiliating death meant to shame, to crush a rebel movement with a show of worldly power and might.

The indignity of it all.

Jesus was so weakened by the brutality of the beatings he took that a passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, was forced to take up Jesus’ cross, lest Jesus die before reaching Golgotha.

“And they crucified him” (MK 15:24).

Soldiers casting lots for his clothing.

Passer-bys and religious leaders mocking Jesus, saying: “Save yourself, and come down from the cross!”

Even the two bandits who were crucified next to Jesus, one his right and the other on his left, taunted him.

“And they crucified him” (MK 15:24).

For you, for me, for the world.

For the forgiveness of your sins, for the forgiveness of my sins.

Tonight we journey once again with Jesus to Golgotha.

To stand in the shadow of the cross.

            To see ourselves in the faces of the crowd.

Yelling, “Save yourself,” “Come down from that Cross.”

Wait a minute, some of you might be thinking, “I wasn’t there. I had nothing to do with this.”

“They crucified Jesus, not me!”

Really?

It’s easy to play the blame game, isn’t it?

We’re pretty good at it.

Pointing fingers, judging others, and gossiping – all in an effort to deflect responsibility.  To avoid naming and claiming the sin in our own lives by blaming “them,” “they,” and “those people.”  Scapegoats.

To do so; however, misses the point.

Jesus, the One without sin, willingly became the scapegoat to do what neither you nor I can do.  Save ourselves.

Jesus, crucified on a tree of shame.

Taking your sin, my sin, and the sin of the world to the cross.

In Jesus, God takes into God’s own life the entire human condition. Its brokenness, its mortality, and its estrangement from God.

It is our sin that Jesus bears on the cross.

For, the cross is God’s wisdom and power (1 Cor. 1:18).

God’s power over sin.

God’s power to defeat even death itself.

The power of God’s salvation.

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (MK 15:24).

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Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

Sermon John 3:14-21: Fourth Sunday of Lent, Year B

“Signs, signs, everywhere a sign. Blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind. Do this, don’t do that. Can’t you read the signs?”

These words, the chorus from a popular 1970 song by Five Man Electric Band still ring true today. Signs are everywhere.

SLOW Children Playing. Construction Ahead. Danger–Power Lines. Deer Crossing. Curve Ahead. STOP.

These signs alert us to potential hazards.

Others, the “signs of the times,” make us anxious, fearful, and uncomfortable. Signs alerting us to the dangers that threaten our communities, our nation, and our world.

Fluctuating oil prices. Plummeting wheat prices. Drought. Rumors of a global currency war. Unrest in the Middle East, the Korean peninsula, and the Ukraine. Nuclear proliferation.

Sadly, we tend to ignore the signs we don’t like to see. Signs of poverty and want in our communities. Friends and neighbors standing in line at the local food pantry. The tell-tale signs of abuse and neglect. Signs of addictions to drugs and alcohol.

Signs make us uncomfortable in a “live and let live” world. Worldly values that delude and deceive us into buying into the lie of a me-first ethic that says, ‘do unto to others before they do unto you.” Lies that prey upon our deep-seated feelings of inadequacy. That we are unlovable. That we deserve to suffer. Lies which feed upon our shame, our guilt, and our ever-present sin.

Although the signs of the world do their best to win our allegiance, the signs of the times do not have the last word.

Yet, in many ways, we are like Nicodemus. We, too, see the signs but we don’t understand what is happening. Heck, Nicodemus a religious leader, even sneaks out at night to ask Jesus about the the signs he sees but does not understand. And while Nicodemus acknowledges Jesus as “Rabbi” and as a teacher sent from God, he simply can’t, or won’t, see the signs for what they are. Mystified, he asks: “How can these things be?”

Today’s text from John’s Gospel enters into this conversation between Jesus and Nicodemus. One in which Jesus references a story about the Israelites’ wilderness experiences to predict his own passion and death.

Jesus declares, “And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life” (JN 3:14).

Although God delivered the chosen people from the hands of the Egyptians, the people complained against both Moses and God. The food was bad. The water was bad. Nothing satisfied them. Sound familiar?

As a result of the people’s disobedience, God sent poisonous serpents that bit and killed the Israelites (Num 21:6). After the people repented God instructed Moses to fashion a snake upon a pole and to lift it up so the people could see it and live. The instrument of death became a sign of God’s power and a promise of life.

In the same way, Jesus invites us to see the cursed tree upon which the Son of Man was “lifted up” for what it is.[1] In the world’s eyes, there is nothing glorious about the cross. The cross is a horrific instrument of torture used to execute traitors, rebels and the worst sort of criminals. There is nothing heroic about it.

It is shameful and embarrassing. The cross is the last place anyone would expect God to show up. Yet, the way things should be, is not the way of God. Just as Jesus overturned the money-changers’ table in the Temple, God’s wisdom confuses and confounds us time and time again.

Faith, notes Martin Luther, sees behind and beyond the brutality and ugliness of the crucifixion. Faith, worked in us by the Holy Spirit, sees the glory “hidden beneath its opposite.”[2] Faith enables us to see the cross for what it is, a sign of God’s love.

Because God loved the world, God sent the Son into the world “so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but have eternal life” (JN 3:16). Jesus became human, lived among us, and died, not to condemn the world, but to save it (JN 3:17).

In what to the world appears to be foolish, the cross,God shows God’s power and wisdom, not in power and might, but in weakness and brokenness. In God’s self-giving love in Jesus. In the One who emptied himself on the cross for you, for me, for the whole world. Jesus, the Messiah, who was unfairly tried, flogged, mocked, abandoned by those closest to him in his time of need, and crucified on a cursed tree of shame. For you. For me. For the whole world.

The Son of Man who was lifted up on the cross comes to you now, right here, right now. In this worship assembly – “a being saved community.”

The One lifted up on the cross comes to you now at the table where you receive the body of Christ given for you and the blood of Christ shed for you, for the forgiveness of your sins. Above all sin is “lifted up” the forgiving love of the crucified and risen One.[3]

Our Lenten journeys began on Ash Wednesday with the sign of the cross and the  words, “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”[4]

As we continue our wilderness journey to Golgotha, Let keep our gaze firmly focused on the cross, remembering: It is our sin that Jesus bears on a tree of shame. It is we who are crucified with him. For in Christ our sin, brokenness, and alienation has been, is being, and shall be overcome.[5]

In the cross, is God’s wisdom and power. The power over sin. The power to defeat death. The power of God’s salvation. God’s infinite love for you, for me, for the world!

“Behold the life-giving cross, on which was hung the Savior of the whole world.”[6]

Citations

[1] John 8:28 notes: “When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will realize that I am he.”

[2] Martin Luther cited in Douglas John Hall, The Cross in Our Context, 92-93.

[3] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship (1963), 17, 24-25.

[4] ELW, 254.

[5] The Cross in Our Context, 96.

[6] ELW, 264; Gail Ramshaw, Treasures Old and New, 122.

When, I Wonder, Will I Get My Hands Dirty?

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This Sunday preachers will have the opportunity to incarnate the heart of the Gospel proclamation (John 3:16-17), the reality that God so loved the world that God sent the Son, the eternal Word in whom and through whom all things were created, not to condemn the world, but to save it. Powerful words. Challenging words.

Trusting in the promise of God’s undeserved and unmerited grace, mercy, and love, reminds me that our value and worth comes not from who we are, or what we do. Our failures and sinful actions do not define us. The identity and worth of every member of the human family is rooted in the reality that we are beloved children of God. Though we, fallible and broken human beings, turn our backs on God time and time again, our God, a loving, merciful, and steadfast God, accompanies us during even the darkest depths of despair, fear, failure, and loss.

Given my own belief that all people are created in God’s image, I believe that Jesus suffered and died for all people, not just those that I happen to like or agree with. And, like it or not, we, the members of the body of Christ, the church on earth, share a collective responsibility to stand in solidarity with individuals who find themselves attacked by the powers and principalities of this world.

Where, many sojourners ask, can we turn for guidance? Our world appears to be coming apart at the seams. In my own search for meaning, I have found myself drawn to what Dietrich Bonhoeffer referred to as the “theology in the doing” (A Spoke in the Wheel, 143). Theology that never moves from the safety and security of ivory tower discussions or the cozy confines of church buildings does not work for me. Like Bonhoeffer, I believe, “The church is only the church when it exists for others” (A Spoke in the Wheel, 72).

Bonhoeffer’s advocacy of “theology in the doing” has also informed my understanding of Christian discipleship. This belief, rooted in my understanding of my own baptismal vocation, impels me to live my faith. For Bonhoeffer following Christ entailed participation in the activities of the Confessing Church, the international peace movement, ecumenical partnerships, and a commitment to stop to the evil being fomented by Adolf Hitler in Germany. Following Jesus’ example, Bonhoeffer’s renounced “all the other gods of the world” (A Spoke in the Wheel, 114). His radical obedience to Christ also gave Bonhoeffer the internal fortitude to resist the powers and principalities of injustice, even when he believed that his efforts would likely fail to achieve their objectives. “The confessor,” notes Renate Wind, “became a conspirator; instead of a halo he got dirty hands” (A Spoke in the Wheel, 143).

When, I wonder, will I get my hands dirty? Christian discipleship calls modern-day disciples to active engagement in the world. Like it or not, there are situations when being a follower of Jesus Christ necessitates action motivated by love of neighbor. “It is not the religious act that makes the Christian,” asserts Bonhoeffer, “but participation in the sufferings of God in secular life” (A Spoke in the Wheel, 167). I am also reminded of Bonhoeffer’s 1940 draft of a church confession of guilt that was never made: “The church was silent when she should have cried out…She has not raised her voice on behalf of the victims and has not found a way to hasten their aid. She is guilty of the deaths of the weakest and most defenseless brothers of Jesus Christ” (A Spoke in the Wheel, 126).

I, too, seek to do more than merely raise an awareness of societal problems. I want to disrupt the mechanisms that drive injustice and oppression. Yet, up until now I have been content to bandage the victims crushed under the wheels of oppression (A Spoke in the Wheel, 69). Regrettably, I have yet to take the next step of radical obedience to Christ’s example.

This troubles me. Our world is awash in conflict. Presently, I do so little to alleviate suffering, confront injustice, or speak out against the forces of oppression. When, I wonder will I ever be able to be all in? Am I willing to trade in a halo for a crown of thorns? Am I willing to get my hands dirty? To be honest, I don’t know the answer. I take comfort; however, in the knowledge that I do have skin in the game.

I also realize that it’s not about me. Working together with the other members of the body of Christ, each responding to our respective baptismal vocations, gives me cause for hope. Robert Kennedy believed that tiny ripples of justice, when joined by the collective power of other ripples, creates waves capable of tearing down even the most oppressive and unjust structures.

I also take comfort in the knowledge that the church, the recipient of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit which sustains and empowers it, exists as a sign and agent of the foretaste of the kingdom of God. Although we, the various members of the body of Christ, have a poor record in carrying out God’s mission, it is important to remember that God’s initiative is not dependent upon human activity. The universal church, the embodied presence of the resurrected and exalted Jesus Christ manifested through the power of the Spirit, witnesses to the presence and power of the resurrected Lord.  Fallible though it may be the church serves as God’s chosen instrument for transforming all of creation.

An Unexpected Gift

Shortly after arriving in Ellis to begin my pastoral internship at St. John Lutheran Church, I begrudgingly confessed, “I’m a city slicker.” The off-the-cuff quip, a blatant admission of my unfamiliarity with ministry in a rural setting, was intended as plea for patience, understanding, and a not-so-veiled request for help in learning how to jettison my own stereotypes in order to experience the unexpected gifts that were bound to come my way during the course of the internship year. At the time I could not have predicted the unexpected gift that would come my way as a result of my participation in the Ellis County Ministerial Alliance (ECMA); an ecumenical organization comprised of pastors and lay leaders committed to working together as partners in ministry on behalf of the residents of Ellis County.

For those individuals who have been intimately involved in the establishment and ongoing work of the ECMA this achievement may not seem like a big deal. But to a “city slicker” like me, one who has lived in several different communities, communities where religious turf wars are the norm, the mission and ministry of the ECMA deserves accolades, not only for the fruits of the labor that have been produced over the years, but also for the commitment and dedication of all those who have demonstrated a commitment to the residents of Ellis County and beyond. A group of women and men who set aside their own agendas, egos, and doctrinal turf wars for the betterment of the community and for the building up of the one church – Christ’s church. Indeed, the commitment and dedication of the pastors, lay leaders, and participating congregations has yielded much fruit over the years: ongoing support for the First Call for Help of Ellis County, the annual Festival of Faith, the community-wide Thanksgiving Dinner, the Art of Marriage Seminars, and the publication of ONE. In fact, the very act of coming together each month to share ideas and information, has, in the opinion of this “city-slicker” from Iowa, made tremendous strides toward repairing the fractures and divisions that have separated God’s beloved children for far too long; Christian unity and co-operation deserving of emulation and celebration.

Although I will return to Wartburg Seminary following the completion of my pastoral internship in Ellis, I will leave here thankful for the wonderful opportunity to participate in the mission and ministry of the ECMA. Without question, the experience has profoundly influenced my own personal commitment to ecumenical cooperation, the importance of community partnerships, and a willingness to “walk the talk” – to get out from behind the pulpit and to actively participate in God’s mission for the world. And for that, this “city slicker” owes a debt of gratitude to the ECMA and to the wonderful people of Ellis County.

Speak Lord, Your Servants are Listening

During this season of Lenten pilgrimages and heightened interest in spiritual practices, I find myself drawn to Barbara Brown Taylor’s wonderful little text, When God is Silent (Lanham, MD: Cowley Publications, 1998). Taylor, an Episcopal priest and college professor in rural Georgia, is the author of several books, including Learning to Walk in the Dark and An Altar in the World, both of which made the New York Times bestsellers list.

When God is Silent begins with a startling claim. There is, writes Taylor, “a famine in the land.” The famine, in a land of plenty, involves the seeming silence of God in a broken world desperate to communicate with God. Yet, in a world full of noise many of us, notes Taylor, have become hard of hearing. In a world full of too many words we struggle with silence. Perhaps the famine in the land is not such a bad thing. “When we run out of words,” notes Taylor, “then and perhaps only then can God be God … when we are prepared to surrender the very Word that brought us into being in hopes of hearing it spoken again—then, at last, we are ready to worship God” (39).

Instead of listening to God; however, many of us prefer to do the talking. We interrupt, we want to take control — to set the terms of the human-Divine encounter. So much so that we frequently punctuate our prayers with pleas, “Hear us, Lord” or “Lord hear our prayer” instead of turning the process on its head and asking, “Speak, Lord, for your servants are listening” (50). In Taylor’s opinion, we prefer to do the talking out of fear. An orientation driven by a deep-seated fear that God won’t talk to us. Or, perhaps even more frightening, that God will. “Either way,” notes Taylor, “staying preoccupied with our own words seems a safer bet than opening ourselves up to either God’s silence or God’s speech” (51).

During our Lenten journeys perhaps we might be well-served to pick up a copy of When God is Silent and to open ourselves up to the possibility that “silence is as much a sign as God’s presence as of God’s absence” (118). It would, in my opinion, be time well spent. Speak, Lord, for your servants are listening.

The Folly of the Cross?

Paul, one of the greatest evangelizers in history, hit the nail on the head. “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God” (1 Cor. 1:18). The cross, at least in the world’s eyes, is utter nonsense. How can individuals swept up in the pursuit of worldly idols and worldly values see the cross for what it is — the power of God?

Sadly, far too many of us have been blinded by a worldly ethic that promotes power over people and encourages the selfish grasping for “things and bling,” the toys we mistakenly believe will satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart; values that promote and reward the never-ending pursuit of selfish ambitions at the expense of others’ needs, particularly the least, the last, and the lost. In a world so caught up with the extrinsic trappings of power, authority, and success, I am amazed that any of us manage to see the cross for what it truly is.

Paul was right. By all worldly appearances, the cross is folly and foolishness. Dare I say madness? Yet, during our respective Lenten journeys with Jesus, a time in our lives when the Spirit drives into the wilderness to accompany Jesus to Golgotha, many of us find ways, however fleeting, to break free from the seductive allure of worldly values in order to see the cross with new eyes. To see Jesus’ tortured body hanging on the cross for what it is, the power of God. God’s victory over sin and evil. God’s victory over even death itself. Victory!

In our efforts to sanitize the cross of Jesus and clean it up and make it marketable, we have managed to distance ourselves from its offensiveness and folly. Today crosses are worn as necklaces, ear rings, and other personal adornments without a second thought. Crosses are embroidered on clothing and plastered on everything from purses to leather belts, to rhinestone-studded cell phone cases, to designer fingernails. Like it or not, many of us have been co-opted by the wisdom of the world. Think about it. The ugly sight of a mangled human body hanging on an instrument of torture and execution offends the world’s wisdom. Values that laud and reward glory, power, status, wealth and honor cannot see the cross for what it is. During Jesus’ time, crucifixion was a humiliating death reserved for the worst sort of criminals – traitors, rebels, and enemies of the state. There was nothing heroic about it. Crucifixion was shameful and embarrassing. The cross was something to be avoided at all costs. In fact, the cross is the last place anyone would expect God to show up.

Paul writes: “For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to those of us who are being saved it is the power of God” (1 Cor. 1:18). Foolishness in a world obsessed with the latest comings and goings of celebrities whose every movement can be tracked via reality television shows and our fascination with the lifestyles of the rich and famous, the popular, and the powerful. Yep, the cross is mere foolishness in a world that seeks to satisfy the needs of the false idols “Me, Myself, and I.” Foolishness that believes we can merit favor with God or that we can cheat death.

Paul was right. The powers that be, and those of us who bought into the lie, simply cannot or will not, see the cross of the crucified God for what it is. God’s power in Christ’s powerlessness. Yet, the way things should be, is not the way of God. Just as Jesus overturned the money-changers’ table in the Temple in Jerusalem, God’s wisdom confuses and confounds us time and time again. In what to the world appears to be foolish, the cross, God shows God’s power and God’s wisdom, not in power and might, but in weakness and brokenness. In God’s self-giving love in Jesus, in the One who emptied himself on the cross for the whole world. Yes, in the world’s eyes, God’s saving action on the cross is sheer foolishness, but in terms of the wisdom of God it is victory. In the cross, the last place the world human wisdom would expect to look, we encounter God’s victory over the forces that oppose God. In the cross, the hidden God reveals God’s infinite love for you, for me, and for the world. Victory!