As the warmer winds of spring swirl through the Anchorage Bowl, I've been thinking about the Holy Spirit.
Most Lutheran churches don't say much about the Holy Spirit, or raise a suspicious eyebrow at those who would mention her movement.
Early Christians had fewer reservations. A walk through the book of Acts shows time after time how the Spirit shows up and invites early Christians into places they could not have imagined. The Spirit breaks the rules, blows down dividing walls and welcomes those deemed unwelcome-able.
Then sometime during the Enlightenment (this info courtesy of Pat Keifert, Luther Seminary) intellectuals became suspicious of the Spirit. She wasn't rational, couldn't be proven or tamed into submission. We're still in this post-Enlightenment attitude. We distrust this Spirit that we cannot understand.
Yet the Spirit keeps moving, breathing life into us, when we let her. What if we opened ourselves to the movement of the Holy Spirit? What if the Spirit has already given us all the gifts we need?
This summer at Central, we move to one worship service, 9:30 am. It's a good time -- the church is (usually) full and we move into a more relaxed worship setting. Before we worship, we'll host a Bible study of the book of Acts, starting at 8:15 am. Will you join us? I look forward to learning how the Spirit will lead you...and all of us at Central.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Easter Message
Easter's a season, you know. We hear about post-resurrection appearances in our lectionary readings and consider how we might, like the earliest Christians, go and tell the good news.
I'm still pondering some of the themes I talked about in my Easter sermon. So I'm posting it here, if you're interested.
-----------
Easter Sermon, Rev. Lisa A. Smith, April 12, 2009, Central Lutheran Church
Easter Joke: Ole died. So Lena went to the local paper to put a notice in the obituaries. The gentleman at the counter, after offering his condolences, asked Lena what she would like to say about Ole. Lena replied, “You just put ‘Ole died.’” The gentleman, perplexed, said, “That’s it? Just ‘Ole died.’” Surely, there must be something more you’d like to say about Ole. If it’s money you’re concerned about, the first five words are free. We must say something more.” Lena pondered for a few minutes and finally said, “O.K. You put, ‘Ole died. Boat for sale.’”
I had two choices for sermon texts this morning. I could have preached the Easter story from John’s gospel or the one we just heard from Mark. John’s version is the one where Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb, mistakes Jesus for a gardener, Jesus says her name, she rejoices and goes and tells everyone. And they lived happily ever after.
We like happy endings: like the happy ending of the final episode of “Friends” over the controversial-left-you-hanging end of “The Sopranos.” I know people who only go to movies with happy endings.
I considered that but then I thought about you. I saw your faces as I stared at the blank computer screen. Some of you are living some happy endings but most of you are struggling and waiting and see how it all turns out. Some of you are trying to get over some very unhappy endings. I thought about you and I thought about Mark’s gospel story that leaves us hanging: They went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.
Of what the women were most afraid? After all, they were standing in a cemetery (a good start) and the body of their friend had gone missing. If you showed up at Anchorage Memorial Gardens in the same situation, you’d be afraid too. Perhaps they were afraid because they just met a talking angel. Or maybe they were afraid because they had just been given a job to do (go and tell) and that seemed like more work than they were up to on a Sunday morning. After all, Sunday is a good day to sleep in, maybe do the crossword or get coffee.
Whatever those women feared, it had something to do with resurrection. It certainly wasn’t part of their plan. Even though Jesus in Mark’s gospel makes three clear passion predictions (I will suffer, die and be raised in three days) none of Jesus disciples really get it. They didn’t count on Jesus death so they didn’t count on a resurrection. Now the women make the best of what they think is all that’s left: they go to anoint the body.
The problem with Easter, aside from too many Peeps, is that it asks us to believe the fantastical: God brought his crucified Son back to life. The resurrection happened. It’s hard to believe something that we can’t prove. When we hear about resurrection, we too might react by being afraid. Or skeptical. Or indifferent.
One of my running buddies pulled me aside recently religion chat. He said he wasn’t sure if he believed in the divinity of Jesus anymore. He listed the broken places in his life: divorce, children in crisis and financial concerns. I didn’t say much, just listened. Later I kept thinking, gosh, if Jesus isn’t divine, if there wasn’t a resurrection, none of us have any hope. The question we can ask ourselves is this: what is God’s deepest desire for us -- despair or hope? And then how shall we live?
Online recently, I came across a blog by a woman living in Los Angeles. She blogged about getting a tattoo of a phoenix on her right arm (www.drybonesdance.typepad.com) The phoenix, as any good Harry Potter fan knows, is an ancient, mythical symbol of resurrection. After a time, the bird is said to burst and burn into flames, nest included. A new bird soon rises from the ashes.
The woman gets the tattoo because she says it symbolizes a re-birth in her own life and gives her hope for the future. She also notes she’s almost 40, a professional, listens to NPR and must be out of her mind.
When she gets home from the tattoo parlor, only then does she notice the date on the calendar: Ash Wednesday. She writes: “I don’t know if Jesus died on the cross for me or for anybody or if he just died. I don’t know if I am saved but I do know that I believe in death and resurrection. I believe that sometimes you have to live as if something is true before you are entirely sure about it.”
We have all been there. We have all, like the women in Mark’s story, stood in the cemetery, afraid and not entirely sure about it.
Yet we have heard the good news, the words spoken to the women at the tomb by the young man dressed in white: He has gone ahead of you, to Galilee, there you will find him, just as he told you. This is the good news: the resurrection means that Jesus is on the loose and has gone ahead of us. Galilee was the hometown of many of Jesus’ disciples and probably the place they fled after Jesus’ death. So the angel is saying, “Go home, Jesus is there!” And he’s waiting for you. And you will see him, just as he promised. If the angel wanted to be snarky, he would add: just as he promised in Mark 14:28, which you clearly haven’t read.
The good news is this: Jesus goes ahead of us. Not just to our homes in Anchorage or wherever, but Jesus goes ahead of us into the future. We need not fear the future in life or in death. Jesus goes ahead of us. He is waiting there for us. We will see him, just as he promised. This is what the resurrection means: he is with us, ahead of us, always.
One more thing about the woman with the phoenix tattoo. When she and her friend were looking at designs, the friend came upon the winner and said: “That’s cool. The phoenix is coming from the flames and it is the flames.” And in the picture I could see it was true. You could barely tell where the bird ends and the flames begin.
The woman also about how much it hurt to get the tattoo. Which I would say is the same thing about resurrection. You don’t get it without the crucifixion. The blogger writes: “Transformation doesn’t mean that the pain all goes away. Bad things happened. Bad things still do. Some things that are lost are never found again, and I will always have a few broken bits in my psyche. I have holes and scars, but those can be a part of me, and even made beautiful, until you can’t really tell the flames from the feathers.”
May we live in the hope of the resurrected Christ – loose in the world, ahead of us now, with us always. Amen.
I'm still pondering some of the themes I talked about in my Easter sermon. So I'm posting it here, if you're interested.
-----------
Easter Sermon, Rev. Lisa A. Smith, April 12, 2009, Central Lutheran Church
Easter Joke: Ole died. So Lena went to the local paper to put a notice in the obituaries. The gentleman at the counter, after offering his condolences, asked Lena what she would like to say about Ole. Lena replied, “You just put ‘Ole died.’” The gentleman, perplexed, said, “That’s it? Just ‘Ole died.’” Surely, there must be something more you’d like to say about Ole. If it’s money you’re concerned about, the first five words are free. We must say something more.” Lena pondered for a few minutes and finally said, “O.K. You put, ‘Ole died. Boat for sale.’”
I had two choices for sermon texts this morning. I could have preached the Easter story from John’s gospel or the one we just heard from Mark. John’s version is the one where Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb, mistakes Jesus for a gardener, Jesus says her name, she rejoices and goes and tells everyone. And they lived happily ever after.
We like happy endings: like the happy ending of the final episode of “Friends” over the controversial-left-you-hanging end of “The Sopranos.” I know people who only go to movies with happy endings.
I considered that but then I thought about you. I saw your faces as I stared at the blank computer screen. Some of you are living some happy endings but most of you are struggling and waiting and see how it all turns out. Some of you are trying to get over some very unhappy endings. I thought about you and I thought about Mark’s gospel story that leaves us hanging: They went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.
Of what the women were most afraid? After all, they were standing in a cemetery (a good start) and the body of their friend had gone missing. If you showed up at Anchorage Memorial Gardens in the same situation, you’d be afraid too. Perhaps they were afraid because they just met a talking angel. Or maybe they were afraid because they had just been given a job to do (go and tell) and that seemed like more work than they were up to on a Sunday morning. After all, Sunday is a good day to sleep in, maybe do the crossword or get coffee.
Whatever those women feared, it had something to do with resurrection. It certainly wasn’t part of their plan. Even though Jesus in Mark’s gospel makes three clear passion predictions (I will suffer, die and be raised in three days) none of Jesus disciples really get it. They didn’t count on Jesus death so they didn’t count on a resurrection. Now the women make the best of what they think is all that’s left: they go to anoint the body.
The problem with Easter, aside from too many Peeps, is that it asks us to believe the fantastical: God brought his crucified Son back to life. The resurrection happened. It’s hard to believe something that we can’t prove. When we hear about resurrection, we too might react by being afraid. Or skeptical. Or indifferent.
One of my running buddies pulled me aside recently religion chat. He said he wasn’t sure if he believed in the divinity of Jesus anymore. He listed the broken places in his life: divorce, children in crisis and financial concerns. I didn’t say much, just listened. Later I kept thinking, gosh, if Jesus isn’t divine, if there wasn’t a resurrection, none of us have any hope. The question we can ask ourselves is this: what is God’s deepest desire for us -- despair or hope? And then how shall we live?
Online recently, I came across a blog by a woman living in Los Angeles. She blogged about getting a tattoo of a phoenix on her right arm (www.drybonesdance.typepad.com) The phoenix, as any good Harry Potter fan knows, is an ancient, mythical symbol of resurrection. After a time, the bird is said to burst and burn into flames, nest included. A new bird soon rises from the ashes.
The woman gets the tattoo because she says it symbolizes a re-birth in her own life and gives her hope for the future. She also notes she’s almost 40, a professional, listens to NPR and must be out of her mind.
When she gets home from the tattoo parlor, only then does she notice the date on the calendar: Ash Wednesday. She writes: “I don’t know if Jesus died on the cross for me or for anybody or if he just died. I don’t know if I am saved but I do know that I believe in death and resurrection. I believe that sometimes you have to live as if something is true before you are entirely sure about it.”
We have all been there. We have all, like the women in Mark’s story, stood in the cemetery, afraid and not entirely sure about it.
Yet we have heard the good news, the words spoken to the women at the tomb by the young man dressed in white: He has gone ahead of you, to Galilee, there you will find him, just as he told you. This is the good news: the resurrection means that Jesus is on the loose and has gone ahead of us. Galilee was the hometown of many of Jesus’ disciples and probably the place they fled after Jesus’ death. So the angel is saying, “Go home, Jesus is there!” And he’s waiting for you. And you will see him, just as he promised. If the angel wanted to be snarky, he would add: just as he promised in Mark 14:28, which you clearly haven’t read.
The good news is this: Jesus goes ahead of us. Not just to our homes in Anchorage or wherever, but Jesus goes ahead of us into the future. We need not fear the future in life or in death. Jesus goes ahead of us. He is waiting there for us. We will see him, just as he promised. This is what the resurrection means: he is with us, ahead of us, always.
One more thing about the woman with the phoenix tattoo. When she and her friend were looking at designs, the friend came upon the winner and said: “That’s cool. The phoenix is coming from the flames and it is the flames.” And in the picture I could see it was true. You could barely tell where the bird ends and the flames begin.
The woman also about how much it hurt to get the tattoo. Which I would say is the same thing about resurrection. You don’t get it without the crucifixion. The blogger writes: “Transformation doesn’t mean that the pain all goes away. Bad things happened. Bad things still do. Some things that are lost are never found again, and I will always have a few broken bits in my psyche. I have holes and scars, but those can be a part of me, and even made beautiful, until you can’t really tell the flames from the feathers.”
May we live in the hope of the resurrected Christ – loose in the world, ahead of us now, with us always. Amen.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Good Friday- Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem
Lutherans of Anchorage hold a joint noon Good Friday service each year. This year, we did 8 stations of the cross. I did the reflection Jesus meeting the women of Jerusalem; it's copied below. Safe travels from Good Friday's night to Easter's morn.
“A great number of the people followed Jesus, and among them were women who were beating their breasts and wailing for him. But Jesus turned to them and said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” Luke 23:27-28
We don’t know much about these women, these daughters of Jerusalem. We don’t know if they were the standard, professional Jewish mourners at death or if they are genuinely grieving for Jesus.
Does it matter? Have you ever noticed those who weep at funerals and memorials? Often they barely knew the person who just died. They weep for other losses, for loved ones gone long ago, for broken hearts or in anticipatory grief of someone still living. They weep, they wail and they beat their breasts, just like these daughters of Jerusalem.
Jesus tells them not to weep for him but to weep for themselves. Jesus knew there were other reasons to weep. Historically, the city and temple of Jerusalem would fall in the year 70 AD. Jesus also could have reminded them of their situation in life. He could have added: “Weep for yourselves because the guys who wrote the Bible won’t bother with your names. Weep because you live in a world where your gender makes you less of a person. Weep for your children’s children, because two thousand years later, too many still die from war, disease, hunger, and neglect. Weep because there are still executions and sometimes we don’t know the guilty from the innocent.
New York Times foreign correspondent Dexter Filkins spent years covering Afghanistan and Iraq. He recently wrote a book entitled The Forever War. Here is an excerpt:
----------------------
The men with guns led the blindfolded man from the truck and walked him to midfield and sat him down in the dirt. His head and body were wrapped in a dull gray blanket, all of a piece. Seated there in the dirt at midfield at the Kabul Sports Stadium, he didn't look much like a man at all, more like a sack of flour. In that outfit, it was difficult even to tell which way he was facing. His name was Atiqullah, one of the Taliban said.
Atiqullah had been convicted of killing another man in an irrigation dispute, the Talibs said. An argument over water. He'd beaten his victim to death with an ax, or so they said. He was eighteen.
By this time a group had gathered behind me. It was the family of the murderer and the family of the victim. The families were close enough to touch. Sharia law allows for the possibility of mercy: Atiqullah's execution could be halted if the family of the victim so willed it.
"Please spare my son," Atiqullah's father, Abdul Modin, said. He was weeping. "Please spare my son."
"I am not ready to do that," the victim's father, Ahmad Noor, said, not weeping. "I am not ready to forgive him. He killed my son. He cut his throat. I do not forgive him."
The families were wearing olive clothes that looked like old blankets and their faces were lined and dry. The women were weeping. Everyone looked the same. I forgot who was who.
"Even if you gave me all the gold in the world," Noor said, "I would not accept it."
Then he turned to a young man next to him. “My son will do it,” he said.
One of the green hoods handed a Kalashnikov to the murder victim's brother. The crowd fell silent.
"In revenge there is life," the loudspeaker said.
The brother fired. Atiqullah lingered motionless for a second then collapsed in a heap under the gray blanket. I felt what I believed was a vibration from the stands. The brother stood over Atiqullah, aimed his AK-47 and fired again. The body lay still under the blanket.
--------------------
There are daughters of Jerusalem crying at every moment, somewhere in this world. They weep because we still keep thinking we can crucify the wrong sorts of people and that will be the end of it. They weep for the world that is and the world that should be and the long road between those places.
We weep for these reasons too.
Luke says the weeping, wailing women were following Jesus. Perhaps they still are.
“A great number of the people followed Jesus, and among them were women who were beating their breasts and wailing for him. But Jesus turned to them and said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” Luke 23:27-28
We don’t know much about these women, these daughters of Jerusalem. We don’t know if they were the standard, professional Jewish mourners at death or if they are genuinely grieving for Jesus.
Does it matter? Have you ever noticed those who weep at funerals and memorials? Often they barely knew the person who just died. They weep for other losses, for loved ones gone long ago, for broken hearts or in anticipatory grief of someone still living. They weep, they wail and they beat their breasts, just like these daughters of Jerusalem.
Jesus tells them not to weep for him but to weep for themselves. Jesus knew there were other reasons to weep. Historically, the city and temple of Jerusalem would fall in the year 70 AD. Jesus also could have reminded them of their situation in life. He could have added: “Weep for yourselves because the guys who wrote the Bible won’t bother with your names. Weep because you live in a world where your gender makes you less of a person. Weep for your children’s children, because two thousand years later, too many still die from war, disease, hunger, and neglect. Weep because there are still executions and sometimes we don’t know the guilty from the innocent.
New York Times foreign correspondent Dexter Filkins spent years covering Afghanistan and Iraq. He recently wrote a book entitled The Forever War. Here is an excerpt:
----------------------
The men with guns led the blindfolded man from the truck and walked him to midfield and sat him down in the dirt. His head and body were wrapped in a dull gray blanket, all of a piece. Seated there in the dirt at midfield at the Kabul Sports Stadium, he didn't look much like a man at all, more like a sack of flour. In that outfit, it was difficult even to tell which way he was facing. His name was Atiqullah, one of the Taliban said.
Atiqullah had been convicted of killing another man in an irrigation dispute, the Talibs said. An argument over water. He'd beaten his victim to death with an ax, or so they said. He was eighteen.
By this time a group had gathered behind me. It was the family of the murderer and the family of the victim. The families were close enough to touch. Sharia law allows for the possibility of mercy: Atiqullah's execution could be halted if the family of the victim so willed it.
"Please spare my son," Atiqullah's father, Abdul Modin, said. He was weeping. "Please spare my son."
"I am not ready to do that," the victim's father, Ahmad Noor, said, not weeping. "I am not ready to forgive him. He killed my son. He cut his throat. I do not forgive him."
The families were wearing olive clothes that looked like old blankets and their faces were lined and dry. The women were weeping. Everyone looked the same. I forgot who was who.
"Even if you gave me all the gold in the world," Noor said, "I would not accept it."
Then he turned to a young man next to him. “My son will do it,” he said.
One of the green hoods handed a Kalashnikov to the murder victim's brother. The crowd fell silent.
"In revenge there is life," the loudspeaker said.
The brother fired. Atiqullah lingered motionless for a second then collapsed in a heap under the gray blanket. I felt what I believed was a vibration from the stands. The brother stood over Atiqullah, aimed his AK-47 and fired again. The body lay still under the blanket.
--------------------
There are daughters of Jerusalem crying at every moment, somewhere in this world. They weep because we still keep thinking we can crucify the wrong sorts of people and that will be the end of it. They weep for the world that is and the world that should be and the long road between those places.
We weep for these reasons too.
Luke says the weeping, wailing women were following Jesus. Perhaps they still are.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Redemption
We find ourselves at the crossroads of Lent and Easter, the meeting place of suffering and rejoicing, the joining of death and life.
It's Holy Week.
It's also break up time in Alaska, the stores overflow with Easter candy and our economy keeps heading south.
In the midst of this, I heard the word "redemption" in a public radio broadcast today. I keep thinking about it. So here's the context. Perhaps in the story, there's a connection with our lives.
Private First Class David Sharrett, of Virginia's 101st Airborne Division, died in northern Iraq during a fire fight. His father, David Sharrett, senior, later discovered the whole truth: his son was accidentally shot and killed by a lieutenant from his own division. Even worse: after the gunfire, the lieutenant hopped on a chopper and left Sharrett behind. Since Sharrett wasn't wearing a locator beacon (the division leader didn't give the men time to put them on), he wasn't found until more than an hour later.
The army wasn't forthcoming on this portion of the story. Sharrett, a high school English teacher, had help from reporter and former student James Meek, who writes for the New York Daily News.
The story is compelling on its own. We remember how seconds matter, how the unexpected happens and how the fog of war turns the world upside down. We know that sometimes power doesn't speak the truth. We know people make mistakes.
What does Sharrett have to say about the lieutenant's behavior, now that some time has passed?
"I have compassion for him, I have compassion for his family," said David Sharrett, senior. "I want somewhere in the midst of all of this, for there to be redemption out of this."
What is redemption in this case? Perhaps it's that the elder Sharrett and reporter Meek found out the whole story. And now they can tell it. Sharrett said the reason for the research and publicity is to give his son a voice. Perhaps now he can rest in peace.
Where does this narrative meet our Holy Week world?
We know the resurrection redeems the horror of Jesus' crucifixion. It doesn't diminish the pain of Jesus' death but it makes something to rise from the ashes of tragedy.
It's a story, it's a narrative.
We are people of story, people of narrative. We need to keep telling our stories. Of course the Easter story, but perhaps our own stories of redemption too. There are other tales that need our voices. There are other powerful examples of ways God has redeemed a broken situation or person.
Perhaps this is our Holy Week invitation: tell the story of redemption.
It's Holy Week.
It's also break up time in Alaska, the stores overflow with Easter candy and our economy keeps heading south.
In the midst of this, I heard the word "redemption" in a public radio broadcast today. I keep thinking about it. So here's the context. Perhaps in the story, there's a connection with our lives.
Private First Class David Sharrett, of Virginia's 101st Airborne Division, died in northern Iraq during a fire fight. His father, David Sharrett, senior, later discovered the whole truth: his son was accidentally shot and killed by a lieutenant from his own division. Even worse: after the gunfire, the lieutenant hopped on a chopper and left Sharrett behind. Since Sharrett wasn't wearing a locator beacon (the division leader didn't give the men time to put them on), he wasn't found until more than an hour later.
The army wasn't forthcoming on this portion of the story. Sharrett, a high school English teacher, had help from reporter and former student James Meek, who writes for the New York Daily News.
The story is compelling on its own. We remember how seconds matter, how the unexpected happens and how the fog of war turns the world upside down. We know that sometimes power doesn't speak the truth. We know people make mistakes.
What does Sharrett have to say about the lieutenant's behavior, now that some time has passed?
"I have compassion for him, I have compassion for his family," said David Sharrett, senior. "I want somewhere in the midst of all of this, for there to be redemption out of this."
What is redemption in this case? Perhaps it's that the elder Sharrett and reporter Meek found out the whole story. And now they can tell it. Sharrett said the reason for the research and publicity is to give his son a voice. Perhaps now he can rest in peace.
Where does this narrative meet our Holy Week world?
We know the resurrection redeems the horror of Jesus' crucifixion. It doesn't diminish the pain of Jesus' death but it makes something to rise from the ashes of tragedy.
It's a story, it's a narrative.
We are people of story, people of narrative. We need to keep telling our stories. Of course the Easter story, but perhaps our own stories of redemption too. There are other tales that need our voices. There are other powerful examples of ways God has redeemed a broken situation or person.
Perhaps this is our Holy Week invitation: tell the story of redemption.
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