Be Honest (or Sincere), Be Brief…

Acts 4:32-35 – the 2nd Sunday of Easter – for April 15, 2012

“There was not a needy person among them…” (Acts 4:34)

When facing an audience, I’ve often begun with a reliable Franklin Delano Roosevelt quip on the speaker’s role: Be honest, be brief, be seated.

Though unable to recall the first time I used FDR’s blunt commentary, it served two purposes. It usually produced laughter, helping audiences relax. His quote also underscored my goals as a speaker. While brevity had little to do my typical Sunday sermon (sad, but true), if I introduced another speaker or prepared listeners for a workshop, I’d happily reference and follow FDR’s advice.

FDR, standing "tall," with a little help...(photo from Roosevelt library at http://www.fdrlibrary.marist.edu/)

Not long ago, I learned I’d been misquoting the 32nd President of the United States for years. The more accurate version is: “be sincere, be brief and be seated.”

Oops.

There’s also this—which I didn’t know as a kid studying U.S. history when John F. Kennedy wasn’t history, but the current president, and we admired his famous ”Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,’”—but FDR couldn’t stand on his own. To be honest or sincere, the polio-stricken Roosevelt often remained in his chair. If he stood, metal braces and/or aides literally propped him up. As an adult, I learned FDR spoke, if not a lie, at least a personal irony. Be sincere, be brief . . . and always be seated? But until the final decades of the 20th century, the media perpetuated the American myth of invulnerability by rarely depicting FDR (or other Presidents) as mere mortals. If FDR couldn’t stand tall on his own, most pictures or articles made it appear he could.

There’s also this . . . it’s likely President Kennedy or his speech writers weren’t original with, ”Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Some have suggested he cribbed from a prep school teacher. Or perhaps not. Perhaps JFK’s statement is uniquely and singularly his and we should simply be grateful for it. On the other hand, and there’s always another hand, I mention our 35th president for ulterior reasons. For me—a Baby Boomer—Kennedy was the “knight in shining armor,” along with being a young husband and doting father. But oh, the passage of years and scrutiny, from scholars to hack journalists, exposed the prurient truth of the one-time commander of PT 109: JFK likely was a drug addict (battling debilitating pain) and womanizer (joining the likes of FDR and millions of other husbands in high places who strayed).

If I’m muddled about sincerity vs. honesty, I’m probably also not doing such a bang-up job on brevity with this wandering essay. But, as J.R.R. Tolkien said, “Not all who wander are lost.” How I love that sentiment! Alas, I’ve often misquoted the venerable Tolkien. Once, when using the “wander” words to help explain why I’d left the stability of church ministry to foolishly try to become a published writer, a more knowledgeable (and snarkier) acquaintance pointed out that Tolkien wrote . . . “Not all those who wander are lost.” Continue reading

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The Staggering Mystery

John 20:1-18 – Easter Sunday – for April 8, 2012

“The Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb…” (John 20:3)

Is there anything I could write about Easter to inspire, irk, deflate or deepen your faith? I doubt it.

Shrink-wrapped and ready for Easter...

You probably know what you’d answer if asked about the importance of Easter . . . and you’re the only one who’d know if what you said aloud is different from what you believed in your heart of hearts.

Easter is fact first, faith second. No, reverse the order.

It’s about the empty tomb. Or not.

Or this . . . aren’t we glad, when Peter eased into the tomb, that he spotted the “linen wrapping” used for Jesus’ body? But Peter’s discovery only occurred in John’s Gospel and therefore the added bonus of forensic evidence seems as flimsy as cheap muslin. How could John—the final Gospel written, the Johnny-come-lately account of Jesus’ life—have a disciple witness the burial garment and Matthew, Mark and Luke are silent, or “blind?” Without the fickle fabric, I wonder* if we’d have the centuries-long Shroud of Turin controversy? If John didn’t become part of the New Testament (and most gospels written in the early centuries of Christendom weren’t included), the folks embracing/rejecting claims about Turin’s (in)famous shroud wouldn’t have any Easter “material” to stitch together or tear apart.

Or this . . . isn’t it odd the word itself—Easter—has so little to do with Jesus the Christ’s resurrection? Convenient Wikipedia posits about the word’s etymology this way:

The modern English term “Easter” is the direct continuation of Old English Ēastre, whose role as a goddess is attested solely by Bede in the 8th century.[2] Ēostre is the Northumbrian form, while Ēastre is more common West Saxon.[3]

Huh? As a preacher, shouldn’t I fear a random layperson, some guy or gal who’s quietly occupied the pew all year long, abruptly rising before the sermon begins and asking—nay, demanding—an explanation for how Christianity’s holiest day got linked to a Northumbrian goddess? Whew! . . . it likely won’t happen. Most folks are too polite. Thank God. Continue reading

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Untying the Colt

Mark 11:1-11 – Palm Sunday – for April 1, 2012

“When they were approaching Jerusalem, at Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives…” (Mark 11:1)

We call it Palm Sunday now.

Palm Sunday, then or now...

But back then, on a Sunday two millennia ago, what kind of day dawned? The Jewish Sabbath had ended after Saturday’s sun set across first century Palestine. Was Sunday a day where coolness lingered in the morning, providing a brief respite from the day’s inevitable heat? Or—as women stirred to make the first trip to hoist cooking water from the wells or men grumbled while trudging toward a field to capture wandering sheep—did sweat already slick cheeks before the mean-spirited sun cleared the horizon?

*      *      *

A Roman Centurion gazed at the empty desert sky, wondering what Rome really looked like. He’d never been there.

The blacksmith stoked his fire. An order for nails today. Thick ones. Long ones. Damn Romans and their damn demands.

A Jerusalem shopkeeper squatted to shit, thinking he should raise his prices because the demand would be so great as the crowds increased around Passover.

Across town, having just comforted his crying child while his wife breast-fed their newest, a carpenter knew he’d have to leave soon. He’d ordered extra supplies to build more festival booths. Did he really have enough wood? Or too much?

Pilate awoke from another restless night. Barely shifting, for he didn’t want to disturb his wife, he glanced at her. Just enough light to trace the contours of her round face. Were her eyelids fluttering? Was she dreaming her awful dreams again? She was plagued by them, and invariably shared her nocturnal dis-ease with him. Pilate’s throat felt parched; too much wine last night . . . or not enough. How he hated this forgotten garbage dump of the Empire.

The high priest, guilt like a sword pricking his heart, paused in the courtyard’s gray shadows. His eager eyes followed two women carrying caged birds for a temple sacrifice. Yesterday the younger one, now near enough to hear the rustle of her garments as they strolled by, had gazed at him longer than was acceptable. He should’ve chastised her or turned away. But he hadn’t. Couldn’t. Like then, he kept watching. The priest grimaced while he adjusted the phylactery he’d tied too tightly on his arm. The woman looked in his direction. Could she see him?

A mother kneaded bread in the darkness of a back room. Extra loaves were required today. Because of Passover, more family would crowd into her cramped space. She didn’t know if the bloated, noisy festival pleased God, but it brought her children home. That pleased her.

As flat morning light filtered through a shuttered window, a whore finally claimed her bed for herself.

Children scampered in the streets, dirt-streaked before their first meal.

A dog, thin ribs exposed like a fence, gnawed at a discarded bone . . .

 

. . . At Bethphage and Bethany, near the Mount of Olives, the Nazarene slowed his ground-consuming gait and then, abruptly, stopped. I expected he’d say something to Simon Peter, who’d matched him stride for stride, or perhaps to John, a half step behind. But he gazed at me. And the disciple beside me. Continue reading

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With a Whisper or a Shout

Jeremiah 31:31-34; Psalm 51:1-12 – The 5th Sunday of Lent  - for March 25, 2012

“Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.” (Psalm 51:10)

Why doesn’t God answer my prayers?

Why doesn’t God heal my friend?

Why does God seem distant, absent or capricious?

This week I read the stunning words of the Old Testament prophet: Jeremiah claimed the Lord 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.” Alleluia! The God who bequeathed the rock hard tablets of law to Moses preferred to touch the vulnerable heart of the human creation, and will forever forgive them of their sins. How compassionate! Soon after I read the tender words of the Psalms . . . “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.” Alleluia! The ancient psalmist gifted, from generation to generation, the joy of trusting God’s saving grace. How compassionate!

Then, why do we so often feel abandoned? Why has a person won the lottery, or had their sick child made whole and happy, or married the perfect soul mate while another experienced financial struggle, illness and fractured relationships?

Why is God distant? Absent! Capricious!

In the same week I read Jeremiah’s stunning declaration and the Psalmist’s tender requests, I met with Cathy*, the director of a local hospice’s Center for Grief & Healing. I volunteer at this hospice and needed information about one of their programs. Once my “business” was finished, Cathy asked a question. She knows I’m a pastor and sought my feedback about a struggle she sometimes experiences with grieving clients.

It’s easy to guess what she asked. I’ve already posed the questions alongside thoughts about God writing laws on the heart and placing a “new and right spirit” into humans.

Not always, but too often, Cathy counsels clients angry with God or church or both. They’ve read scripture or heard sermons that promised God would hear their anguished requests. Heal my child. Mend my broken soul. Ease my spouse’s suffering. And yet nothing changed . . . the child died, their soul splintered further, pain wracked and wrecked a loving partner to the bitter end.

They sit in Cathy’s office and, with a whisper or a shout, wonder, “Why is God _______?” Distant? Absent? Capricious?

“How can I help them answer that?” Cathy asked. Continue reading

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Wounds, Seen And Unseen

Numbers 21:4-9 – 4th Sunday of Lent – for March 18, 2012

“…And the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a poisonous serpent, and set it on a pole; and everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live…” (Numbers 21:8)

I’ve never been snake bit.

I’ve seen snakes. And I’m not counting the zoo sightings. I’m talking about while riding a bike along a path, hiking a trail through a jumble of rocks and a few times around the neighborhood. Yep . . . seen ‘em, nearly walked on ‘em and have gladly avoided snakes short and long, still and slithering.

I’m not afraid of the creepy, crawlies like (in a fictional way) Indiana Jones was. No ophidiophobia for me.

The wandering Israelites were justifiably ophidiophobic since, so said the Bible, God unleashed a mess of “serpents among the people” (Numbers 21:6). Why did the Lord God Almighty do this dastardly divine deed? Simple…the get-out-of-Egypt-for-free sojourners complained, whined and grumbled! (Ha! And people wonder why there are atheists when they read about God as the original “snake handler?!”)

Here, we could engage in a dialogical tussle about God as a mean-spirited punisher vs. a compassionate creator. Hey, I don’t want to believe in a God who unleashes snakes! I don’t want to believe in selective punishment for certain sinners. I don’t want to believe in a God who initiates pain and misery and death. I’m less than lukewarm about a God who—so said the Bible—had his favorite human chum Moses concoct a snake-bite cure based on an odd symbolic serpent wrapped around a bronze pole.

Look at the serpent of bronze and live, the writer of Numbers exhorted. Blech! No thanks!

And yet I do have wounds. I don’t think a vengeful God punished me, but some scars were certainly caused by my foolishness.

There’s the faded line under an eye where a swing struck my face . . . I shouldn’t have been chasing my sister around the playground. Bam, the swing clunked me!

There’s the odd wrinkle on my left middle finger because a doctor repaired my crushed digit with stitches . . . I shouldn’t have been so lackadaisical with the equipment at a job during a college summer. Bam, an iron bar sucker-punched me!

My left leg sports pairs of weird “dimples,” wounds if you will, where metal pins once held broken bones together . . . I shouldn’t have slid down that snowy mountain slope without noticing the rock outcroppings. Bam, I careened into an unforgiving slab of granite!

I’ll bet you have scars with stories you’re proud to share or ashamed to ever mention. Though I’ve seen Steven Spielberg’s Jaws numerous times, I always enjoy one particular scene. Sure, I’ll jump when the shark first appears. And lines like You’re gonna need a bigger boat and That’s some bad hat, Harry merit repeating. For me, though, the scar “contest” between Robert Shaw’s Sam Quint and Richard Drefuss’ Matt Hooper is best of all. Back and forth they banter, exposing old scars, one-upping the other guy with tragic tales. Scars are memories. Scars are missing bits of flesh that flesh out the worst and best of life. If you can show your scar, you’re still alive. You survived. If you’re no longer whole, at least you’re not in a hole in the ground.

You can’t see my worst scars. Most are healed. But a few I pick at, never allowing them to properly mend. Continue reading

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