Getting Honest about Disagreement

There's no telling whether the following Slaughter/Hamilton amendment will actually make it into the Book of Discipline or not today.  But they are meaningful and honest words that might give a drink of water to those who are in the desert and feeling parched.  Praying for our delegates this day.

Proposed Amendment by Substitution for

Calendar Item 513 (DCA page number 2367),

Petition Number 21032 (ADCA page number 270)

(May 3, 2012)

The following amendment would replace the proposed

amendment contained in the original petition:

Homosexuality continues to divide our society and

the church. All in the United Methodist Church affirm

that homosexual persons are people of sacred worth and

are welcome in our churches, but we disagree as a people

regarding whether homosexual practice is contrary

to the will of God.

The Bible is our primary text for discerning God's

will. We read and interpret it by the light of the Spirit's

witness, with the help of the thoughtful reflections of

Christians through the centuries, and assisted by our

understanding of history, culture and science.

The majority view through the history of the

church is that the scriptures teach that same-sex sexual

intimacy is contrary to the will of God. This view is

rooted in several passages from both the Old and New

Testament.

A significant minority of our church views the

scriptures that speak to same-sex intimacy as reflecting

the understanding, values, historical circumstances and

sexual ethics of the period in which the scriptures were

written, and therefore believe these passages do not reflect

the timeless will of God. They read the scriptures

related to same-sex intimacy in the same way that they

read the Bible's passages on polygamy, concubinage,

slavery and the role of women in the church.

United Methodists will continue to struggle with

this issue in the years ahead as a growing number of

young adults identify with what is today the minority

view. The majority view of the General Conference,

and thus the official position of the church, continues

to hold that same-sex intimacy is not God's will. We

recognize, however, that many faithful United

Methodists disagree with this view.

It is likely that this issue will continue to be a

source of conflict within the church. We have a choice:

We can divide, or we can commit to disagree with compassion,

grace, and love, while continuing to seek to understand

the concerns of the other. Given these

options, schism or respectful co-existence, we choose

the latter.

We commit to disagree with respect and love, we

commit to love all persons and, above all, we pledge to

seek God’s will. With regard to homosexuality, as with

so many other issues, United Methodists adopt the attitude

of JohnWesley who once said, "Though we cannot

think alike, may we not love alike? May we not be of one

heart, though we are not of one opinion? Without all doubt,

we may."

Submitted by Adam Hamilton and Mike Slaughter

Crumple, Swish, Two Points

Text: Mark 15:1-39
Date: April 1, 2012
Green Street UMC, Augusta, ME
Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.

And the curtain of the Temple was torn in two…. Torn in two. The commentaries have explanations for that odd event, of course. Those of you who have studied the OT in Disciple Bible Study and elsewhere, or who have watched Indiana Jones movies, know that in the center of the Second Jewish Temple was a room, the holy of holies (קֹדֶשׁ הַקֳּדָשִׁים). It was at the rear of the room into which only the priests were allowed access. And into the Holy of Holies, only the high priest was allowed to go, and he but once a year, on the Day of Atonement, to offer a yearly sacrifice before the Ark of the Covenant. So great was the holiness of this room that a rope would be tied around the high priest’s waist, lest he be struck dead by being in the presence of God, and need to be pulled out by those unworthy to enter to retrieve him.

The Holy of Holies was a means of providing for the people’s need of holiness. It was a way of making the very presence of God available to the people of Israel through an intermediary. But then Jesus came. And Jesus loved so many people without regard to the opinions of the religious authorities of his time, that Jesus was put to death. And upon the moment of his death upon that cross, “the curtain of the temple was torn in two.” It has a symbolic meaning, of course, that access to God will no longer be through intermediaries, that the holiness of God is not kept in a back room someplace, but is present through faith in the person of Emmanuel, God with us. But the tearing of the curtain, it seems to me, is also symbolic of the fracture of time which occurs when humanity puts to death the one who perfectly embodies God’s universal love.

It is our belief as Christians that that day changes everything. Christ dies, is murdered, executed, and after that death something new begins to happen.

There is, across from where our family computer is in our kitchen, a trash can, about 10 feet away. And on most days, while sitting at the computer, I crumple up and throw papers toward that trash can, and most of the time they go in. In fact, some of my bank shots off of the pantry doors are amazing, usually when no one is around to be impressed by them. Sometimes I’m throwing away junk mail, sometimes old information that isn’t needed any longer, and sometimes I am throwing away paper on which plans have been written. You see, I’m a great one for planning things out on paper. Later this month we’re going to go looking at colleges with Patrick, and there is a white sheet of paper on my desk with days, and destinations, and numbers of miles in between. There’s a list of bulletins that needs to be written for this week, and what day Darby needs to receive them. There are lists of important dates for the three different schools our kids attend, with yellow highlighter marking what days we’re supposed to pick them up or drop them off. These slips of paper are our plans, our expectations, and even our dreams for how life will be in days to come. And sooner or later life comes calling, and one or more of those pieces of paper have to be crumpled into a ball and sent flying through the air. Crumple. Swish. Two points.

• A few years back I was privileged to be asked to serve as a sponsor to another pastor who was being ordained at annual conference. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, but when the day came I was flat on my back in the hospital with a mystery infection. Crumple. Swish. Two points.

• I once met with a military couple to plan the perfect wedding. They both had gotten leave the same week from separate bases to gather at their home church and tie the knot. Invitations were sent out, gifts were wrapped, the dress was fluffed and the dress uniform was pressed. Their wedding date? September 15, 2001, four days after the attacks on New York and Washington. Crumple. Swish. Two points.

Yes, we make our plans, we decide how things are going to be, we even write it all down on paper. But then God, or fate, or simply life steps in and everything can change.

I’m sure that the first Holy Week was like that for Jesus and his disciples. Palm Sunday was an amazing moment. The cheering crowds were an affirmation of all that Jesus had done and preached and taught from day one. “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.”

What happened between Sunday and Friday to turn their lives around in such a horrible and decisive way is something that we can’t completely understand, anymore than Peter, Andrew, James, and John could, and they were there living it moment by moment. One minute Jesus couldn’t have been more popular. A short time later his life’s blood was draining from his body, and he was closing his eyes in death. Crumple. Swish. Two points. Whatever earthly plans he and his disciples might have had for the future were so much paper in the rubbish bin. He was dying, the story was ending, cruelty and evil and death had won, as they had won so many times before.

Last Thursday afternoon, I went to St. Francis Catholic Church in Winthrop to donate blood. While I’ve never had the physical gifts that the world values highly: an athletic build, long wavy hair, or six pack abs, I do have one thing that everyone eventually wants: O-negative blood. So they parked me on a portable cot, stuck the needle in, and left me to contemplate the crucifix on the wall of the Knights of Columbus Hall. Protestant crosses, as you know, tend to be empty, reminders of resurrection, but the gift of the Catholic Church to Christendom is to never let us forget that Jesus bled on Good Friday, that he did not die in a theoretical, metaphorical way, but with nails hammered into his wrists and ankles, wounds that would have killed Jesus with infection were he not already drowning in his own fluids, feebly pushing his body up against the wood and the nails in a futile attempt to force air into his collapsing lungs. Yes, Jesus bled on Good Friday.

Raising my head up, I looked around and counted a dozen men and women slowly squeezing a bit of PVC pipe in one hand or the other, coaxing the blood out of their veins and into the plastic collection bag. It occurred to me that if someone from another place and time were to wander into that room at the moment, they would be horrified to see twelve people shedding their life’s blood. The visitors would assume that they had stumbled into a tragic moment in the life of Kennebec County. But what they would not see, of course, is the result of that shedding of blood. They would not be there when a surgical nurse reaches for a dark red bag and uses it to infuse life back into a body, pale and cold, or to recharge tired veins filled with chemotherapy drugs or toasted with radiation.

So it is, perhaps, with the cross. Jesus bleeds and dies on the cross because he refuses to place limits on the love of God, to artificially constrain, in accordance with human standards, with whom he associates. And so Jesus dies not simply for the righteous, but for sinners, suffering with the victims of religious bigots and bullies, rather than standing self-righteously with their oppressors. He was not the Messiah they expected, not even the one whom they wanted. But he was God’s Messiah, and so was the undoing of all human expectations and pretensions, all human plans, no matter how beautifully calligraphied or documented. Crumple. Swish. Two points.

Our visitors from another place and time would look at the cross and see suffering, the suffering that is inevitable when love and goodness confront power and corruption. But they would not see that such a death was the undoing of death itself. That the God who cared enough to die with those who suffer, would not allow such suffering to go unchallenged and unquestioned. Last week in West Virginia I had the privilege of serving in mission with 19 outstanding Christians who went to work and share with the people of one of our nation’s poorest states. It’s a trip we’ll be hearing about over the next several weeks. One day on that trip, one of our members hammered his thumb while putting a nail into a wall. Twenty minutes later, because he is an enthusiastic worker, he did it again. Blood was shed in West Virginia. And tetanus shots were given in West Virginia. But it was shed for a good and righteous and holy cause. It was shed in service and obedience to the one who laid down his life for those same men and women, living in the trailers and bearing in their bodies the pain of harvesting the coal that provided for their families.

We may have many items written on the mental or physical piece of paper where we make our life’s plans for ourselves and others. And while many of those plans may come to be, many of them, in fact, will not. Whether through misfortune, malice, bad luck, illness, death, or disaster, not all of our dreams and schemes will come true. Crumple. Swish. Two points.

But God is doing a new thing, brothers and sisters. Every time that the world says no, every time that the world says not yet, every time that the world says it isn’t possible, know that God is doing a new thing. Blood in plastic bags becomes life to those who suffer, surgeons are operating on hearts the size of grapes and giving infants a new lease on life, and Jesus is holding out his hands to a hurting world, and gathering us sinners from the dark places, and inviting us here to this meal, to this improbable, impossible meal, a meal to which we would not be invited, but for the grace of God. And so today we place in our backpacks, the crumpled bits of paper that represent the plans that we made that will never be. And we offer them to God, confident that that even on this day when we hear the nails and endure our Lord’s suffering, God is doing….a new thing. Amen.

A Response to Bob Emrich

On 1/28/12, Bob Emrich wrote:

> Dear Pastor,
>
> As I am sure you are aware, Michael Gray, of the Old Orchard Beach United
> Methodist Church , has recently been prominently featured by Equality Maine
> and other groups advocating a change in Maine law that would change the
> definition of marriage to include "same-sex" couples. The implication and
> impression given is that this is now the position of the United Methodist
> Church Conference.
>
> My understanding is that the position of the United Method Church is still
> in accord with the Book of Discipline which states: "We affirm the sanctity
> of the marriage covenant that is expressed in love, mutual support, personal
> commitment, and shared fidelity between a man and a woman. We believe that
> God's blessing rests upon such marriage, whether or not there are children
> of the union. We reject social norms that assume different standards for
> women than for men in marriage. We support laws in civil society that define
> marriage as the union of one man and one woman. Page 161 Book of Discipline
> for the United Methodist Church. "
>
> Am I mistaken in my understanding? If not, as a minister in the United
> Methodist Church, would you be willing to help publically clarify this
> important matter?
>
> Thank you,
>
> Pastor Bob Emrich
> Emmanuel Bible Church
> Plymouth, ME
>
>


From: Thom Blackstone
Date: Sat, 28 Jan 2012 13:38:22 -0500
Subject: Re: clarification
To: Bob Emrich

Dear Pastor Emrich,

Thank you for your note. You have correctly quoted the 2008 United
Methodist Book of Discipline. This is a passage taken from our
"Social Principles." I don't know how familiar you are with our
church polity. The Discipline as a whole is rewritten every four
years at our General Conference. The next General Conference is being
held this April. As you might expect, the issue of homosexuality is
vigorously debated every four years, including the passage you cited.
Because our denomination has been growing rapidly in numerous African
countries and in So. Korea where traditional views of human sexuality
are only beginning to change, our Disciplinary statements have remained
mostly consistent on this question since 1972 when homosexuality was
first described as "incompatible with Christian teaching."

As United Methodists, we live in a covenant relationship in which diverse points
of view are allowed to exist side by side, as we all seek to live into
God's ultimate truth. While there are official church positions on a
number of issues within our "Social Principles," it is not a violation
of church law to hold differing points of view and to express those
views publicly. Nor is it a violation of church law to advocate for
changes to our Book of Discipline. Our Social Principles merely
reflect the discernment of the majority of the delegates present and
voting at each quadrennial gathering. They are not a theological "purity test"
for our clergy or lay persons, and often do not represent the views of
millions of faithful United Methodists. This isn't to say that our
Social Principles are not important, but that they represent an
ongoing and unfinished conversation between the Scriptures and the
world, in a Wesleyan context.

As United Methodists, we recognize that our official social teaching
has often gone astray from God's will. At times in our history, we
have tolerated the holding of slaves, and
quoted Scripture while we did it. We once segregated persons of color
into a separate ecclesiastical structure known as the Central
Conference, denying them full inclusion in the life of the church. We
once banned women from the pulpit and withheld ordination from sisters
whom God had clearly called to ordained ministry. Now it is becoming
increasingly clear to many United Methodists that we have
illegitimately condemned our homosexual brothers and sisters for
seeking to live, and serve, and love, and marry, and raise children in
accordance with
their God-given sexual orientation. As someone who has followed this
conversation for 30 years, it is clear to me that our Social
Principles will eventually and inevitably be revised to reflect the
meaning of God's
Word in light of modern, scientific understandings of homosexuality.

I have read Pastor Gray's statement, and his journey from a
conservative stance on this issue to an openness towards same sex
marriage is very typical of many of our members and clergy. It is
entirely appropriate that he would share the story of his journey of
faith in a public context, in which "the public" often assumes that there
is only one monolithic Christian view of homosexuality and the
Scripture passages which address it. This is a topic which my church
has often discussed, and I have parishioners on both sides of this
issue. None of them would ever assume, however, that one of our pastors
should, or could, agree with every official social teaching issued by our
General Conference. Such an assumption would strike at the heart of
our rich and creative dialogue around our treasured Scriptures and
what God is saying to us through them.

I am curious why a Baptist pastor would write an unsolicited letter to
another pastor's colleagues in another denomination questioning that
pastor's integrity in sharing God's liberating Word as he feels led. I
had understood that the Maine Christian Civic League had made some
strides over the last two years in shifting its focus towards
religious work that Christian men and women of all denominations can
cooperate on: releasing Mainers from the demons of gambling and
addiction, alleviating hunger and homelessness, and advocating on behalf
of the poor. I would urge you to return to that important work, and
would remind you that this
referendum will have NO impact on any religious organization in
Maine that chooses not to celebrate or recognize the marriages of
lesbian and gay persons. There are so many worthy causes to which your
organization might devote its time and resources. Undermining the
effort to secure the blessings of marriage and family to gay couples
and their children is surely not the will of our loving Savior.

Grace & peace,

Pastor Thom Blackstone
Augusta

When the Lights Go Out

Text: Exodus 12:1-14
Date: September 4, 2011
Green Street UMC, Augusta, ME
© Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

So Shawn, an Irishman, meets his friend Paddy on the way to church. “You’re looking sad this morning, Paddy,” says Shawn. “What’s troubling you so?”
“Well, I’ve been to a funeral,” says Paddy.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” answers Shawn. “A friend of yours?”
“Oh, yes, a fine friend,” says Paddy. “A loving husband, a devoted father, but an atheist.”
“An Atheist. Is that why you’re so sad?” asked Shawn.
“Yes,” Paddy answers. “I looked down at him in his casket, dressed in his finest jacket, shirt, and tie, and I thought to my self, ‘Poor Seamus, all dressed up and no where to go.”

Well, I’m happy to leave the eternal destiny of Seamus to his creator, but his predicament begs the question for all who do profess a belief in God, are we expecting to go anywhere? I was entering family birthdays into Google calendar the other day, and with each addition I was given several options:

Is this a recurring event? Yes
How often will this event occur? Yearly
For how many years will this event reoccur or will it reoccur forever?

That’s the question, isn’t it? I’d like to think that I’ll be having a birthday 20 years from now, but I’m pretty sure 100 years from now is pretty optimistic. Although I did read an article from a reliable source last month that suggested that the first human beings to reach the age of 150 have almost certainly already been born. So be nice to the kids in the nursery; they may be around for a while.

All dressed up and no place to go. Maybe you saw the cartoon of the three angels in heaven, one sitting on a cloud with a laptop computer close at hand, weeping profusely. “What’s wrong with him?” asked one of the angels. The other answered, “No Internet access.” The point is that heaven is going be a dreadfully boring place if we don’t live now like we expect to be living then. Do we really expect to live eternally checking our Facebook page, watching Soap Operas, and looking for good buys on Ebay? We had a reminder of our technology dependence last week as power went out across the region, and then came back slowly, for some not until Friday or Saturday. And as I saw folks later in the week or as they got back on-line, some reported that they had had the worst time of their lives, while others--even with all the difficulties--described the experience as life-changing. Tracy Cochran, who’s a blogger on Word Press, wrote about how the dynamics of her family and community life began to change.

“For days,” she writes, “I collected sticks in the yard to burn as kindling in the wood stove, and hauled buckets of water into the house to flush the toilet and wash the dishes. It was strange, being so cut off in one sense yet feeling so intimately connected with life and with the way much of the rest of the world lives. Instantly, I was aware of how precious clean water is, and how much I usually waste. Suddenly, I became aware that a house grows dark and cold at night without someone to build a fire and tend it. I became the fire builder, the keeper of the hearth. Anthony, my daughter Alex’s boyfriend from England, cooked food on the cast iron stove. We all learned how long it takes to cook over a fire—hours! And yet this was the center of the evening, the light and warmth from the fire, the promise of warm food, the common talk of how it was coming along, and then stories we told as we ate. We all learned what is elemental and crucial, and that these basic things can be hard work, yet there is something inherently good and right about it. All beings deserve to eat and be warm and safe, and being mindfully engaged in this work can bring wisdom about life. ....

“As the third day dawned to no hot coffee or tea (unless I got up and built a fire and waited for three hours), it began to feel like an ordeal. Alex was sick with a bad cold, our water supply was almost exhausted–and I discovered that those little moments of good humor—that impulse to forget ourselves and help someone else are as crucial as fire. On the third night, as I was struggling to light a fire with damp kindling, the neighbors came by with big pales of fresh water: “We wanted to give you the gift of being able to flush the toilet,” they said.

“...I...marveled at the way this common humanity–this pulling together–just arose spontaneously. We innately know we can’t go it alone. We neighbors who rarely have the chance to stop and talk stood outside together laughing and talking (for hours). We even looked up at the stars that we commented were so clear without ambient lights....” (http://parabolatracy.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/irene-lessons/)

I don’t want to romanticize life without technology. The memories of last week are too fresh for that. But it is clear that something emerges when the lights go out that is closer to our heavenly life than our typical everyday existence. We appreciate the value of our relationships, we marvel at natural wonders that we’re inclined to ignore, we appreciate the simplicity of warm food, adequate portions, and shared responsibility.

I read these words with today’s Scripture lesson close at hand. Moses is told to prepare the people for Passover, that wonderful yet terrible night when the angel of death will smite the first born of their oppressors. In order to preserve their families from this terrible fate, the Hebrews are asked to distinguish themselves from the society in which they live by gathering for a meal, a Passover meal. They are to roast a lamb and to find someone to share it with (Passover is a community event and doesn’t come in single serving containers). They are told to dress as those who expect to be delivered from slavery by morning--shoes on their feet, staff in their hand. There are to be no leftovers, because surely tomorrow morning we will be free.

Likewise, we are called to gather here this morning for this meal set before us. It is the foretaste of the heavenly life that will envelope us when we run out of birthdays. It is communal, and lived in real time, when we are gathered together. It can’t be shared electronically or experienced historically, it can only be eaten now, here, and together. It is more powerful than the darkness which will surround us tonight when the sun goes down, it is more powerful than the hunger as we wait for fire to warm our food; this altar is the hearth around which we gather so that our story may be told to those who haven’t heard it, as well as those who have, but who don’t mind hearing it again. This altar has been here for mere decades, but it is also ancient. It has been the gathering place of our ancestors since Jesus first broke bread upon it and said to his friends, “This is my body, broken for you.” Indeed, it is the same table upon which a roasted lamb was placed, as mothers told their children, “Eat all of it, because tomorrow we will know freedom.”

All dressed up, and someplace to go. Have your staff in your hand, and your shoes on your feet this morning, for this world is not our home. Amen.

Sermon for Homecoming Sunday

Text: Romans 8:26-39
Date: July 24, 2011 (Homecoming)
© Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher
Green Street UMC, Augusta, ME

Homecoming. What a wonderful word, and a wonderful day. To see faces that we haven’t seen in a long time, to feel once again the power of place in our spiritual journey, to experience in a small, miniscule way what it must be like to arrive at our heavenly home, whether five minutes from now or a century. Homecoming.
I’ve had a number of Homecoming experiences this year. In part due to my Dad’s illness, I’ve become nostalgic for places that I have left behind, places that he and I have shared. We lived for five years in Marlborough, Connecticut, outside of Hartford when I was seven or eight years old, and I diverted on a journey last fall to go see my old house, and school, and church. It all seemed so small, and the distances so much shorter than I remembered. My school was gone completely, swallowed up by an expansion project now 20 years old. But as I drove slowly from school to my old home on Chapman Road memories came flooding back: the house where we used to trick or treat twice and the owner would pretend not to remember. The backyard studio where I took music lessons, now become a tool shed. The store where I bought sour apple chewing gum on the Fourth of July one year, just before the parade started. The Library where I read every Hardy Boys book ever printed. The Little League field where I sweated and prayed that the ball wouldn’t be hit to me, or if it was that I wouldn’t do anything stupid like get hit in the face with it. The house of a friend, whose father worked for Hostess; the pantry in the home had a magical Twinkie box that never ever hit bottom. I had to stop myself from ringing the illuminated doorbell and asking for a Yodel or Drake’s cake. Strangely enough one of my good friends from my Pennsylvania college now lives two doors down from this home in the tangle of relationships that we weave over a life time.
My old home was different. The deck was now a sunroom, the shingles painted rather than weathered. But the old apple trees out back were still there, along with an ancient grape arbor that was old when we lived there 40 years ago, the remnant of a farm long since subdivided. The church continues to thrive, now nearly in its 200th year; I know that because I was there for their sesquicentennial celebration in the early 70s, and my mom had to explain that it meant 150 years. There is still a wrought iron boot scraper at the front door of the church, beckoning those with mud on their shoes to nonetheless enter the house of God, fresh from the fields and the morning milking. The dairy farms have long since gone, of course, but the boot scraper remains; it used to fascinate me as a kid; I’d forgotten that. I went around to the back door, which was locked, but recalled the Sunday we left my brother at Church. I don’t know how, but we went tearing back to get him and there he stood with the pastor at the kitchen door waiting for us, secure in the knowledge that we’d be back. No one greeted me on this little trip down memory lane. After 40 years, most everyone I know there has moved on or would be unrecognizable to me, and I to them. Do they know that the kid in the back row of the Sunday School class who asked all those pesky questions wound up in the ministry? Probably not. We have, to use the usual term, “lost touch.”
Probably while I’ve been speaking the last few minutes, you’ve taken your own nostalgic trip, to that home that you left behind, the church where you grew up, the school, or job, or place of natural beauty that you’d love to visit just one more time. If so, perhaps you learned—as I did on my detour that day—that while places may hold a fascination for us or remind us of old times, it’s the people that we miss. We go home to where we are remembered because we don’t want to loose touch, to re-establish touch, to share a handshake or a hug or a story of long ago, to reinsert ourselves into the story of a place and a people that we miss.

Paul, in the eighth chapter of Romans, reminds us that there is no touch in our life that is ever completely lost. “Who can separate us from the love of Christ?” he asks. “Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No….” I love it when Paul answers his own questions; it saves so much time. “For I am convinced,” he writes, “that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
When I lead Young Adventurer’s Camp at Mechuwana, my co-dean Todd shares a story by Max Lucado with the kids, a story of the Wemmicks, a puppet people who are strangely similar to some non-puppet people that you might encounter from time to time. The Wemmicks often find themselves in some self-inflicted turmoil or another, but their most profound problems are usually solved by a visit to Eli, the master craftsman who fashioned the puppets long before they could remember. “Return to the workshop,” they are told, return to your Maker, and all will be well.” And it is. I watch the kids while Todd reads, and at some point, usually about half way through, most of them get it. I don’t explain that Eli is Hebrew for “My God.” That would ruin it. And for those who don’t get it right away, there’s that moment in the middle of the night when the brain puts the pieces together. “I know who Eli is,” a girl said to me the next morning a few weeks back. “Should we keep it a secret?” I asked. “Of course not,” she answered. “I’ve already told five people!” “Good girl,” I answered. “Good girl.”
I love Homecoming. I love seeing familiar faces and welcoming strangers home for the first time. I love the food that is brought from homes and shared, reminding us that we are one family who are gathered in the house of the Lord, the home that always waits for our return, patiently, persistently, without judgment. But most of all, I love what Homecoming has to teach us, that the master crafter waits for us as well, waits for us in the door of the workshop where we were fashioned with our odd noses, bald heads, creaking joints, or shocking red hair. It is inevitable that we will leave places and people behind as we make the journey of life. Time or distance or both will see to it. We can always go back, but it’s never quite the same. God’s workshop, however, isn’t like that. God has traveled with us on every moment of the journey, from our newborn cries, to the many homes of our childhood, adolescence and adulthood, and even through and beyond death itself. God is the constant presence in our life, who knows us completely—the good and the bad, the public and the private, the recent and the ancient. But still God stands in the doorway, arms outstretched, eyes trained on the horizon, breathing slow and shallow, desperate to see that familiar face appear over the hill, a child of God come home. Amen.

A National Day of Prayer

Did we even know that it was there until someone suggested we might lose it? It’s like that with a lot of things, I suppose. It’s the little things we take for granted in life, and the more routine they are, the less we appreciate them. Family dinners, summer cookouts, good health, an undisturbed night’s sleep, for example. But then life or law or circumstances or the passage of time take such things from us, and we wish that we had treasured them more when we had them.
I suspect it is that way for at least some of us with the National Day of Prayer on May 6 (the first Thursday in May). I have gone to the community prayer breakfast on that day at the Armory, a tradition that both Republican and Democratic Presidents have encouraged since before I was born. Perhaps because a government task force organized it, there didn’t seem to be a need to shoe horn yet another event into the church’s calendar. But then US District Court Judge Barbara Crabb on April 15 ruled (over the objections of the White House) that the National Day of Prayer (practiced in this nation since 1775 and made “official” in 1957) was in violation of the establishment clause of the First Amendment to the US Constitution. In Judge Crabb’s words,
It bears emphasizing that a conclusion that the establishment clause prohibits the government from endorsing a religious exercise is not a judgment on the value of prayer or the millions of Americans who believe in its power. No one can doubt the important role that prayer plays in the spiritual life of a believer. In the best of times, people may pray as a way of expressing joy and thanks; during times of grief, many find that prayer provides comfort. Others may pray to give praise, seek forgiveness, ask for guidance or find the truth. And perhaps it is not too much to say that since the beginning of th[e] history [of humans] many people have devoutly believed that 'More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.'" Engel v. Vitale, 370 U.S. 421, 433 (1962). However, recognizing the importance of prayer to many people does not mean that the government may enact a statute in support of it, any more than the government may encourage citizens to fast during the month of Ramadan, attend a synagogue, purify themselves in a sweat lodge or practice rune magic. In fact, it is because the nature of prayer is so personal and can have such a powerful effect on a community that the government may not use its authority to try to influence an individual's decision whether and when to pray.
Intellectually, I understand what her Honor is saying, that there is a real danger in allowing our secular government to set the religious agenda of the nation (one of the reasons that our ancestors wound up here in the first place). But spiritually I’m troubled, troubled at the loss of a single day when all of the nation’s denominations and faiths would unite their hearts in prayer to the Creator of us all. The government never told us how or what to pray, only that doing so—each in our own tradition—could be a great blessing to our nation. The President’s proclamation last year put it this way, “…Let us also use this day to come together in a moment of peace and goodwill. Our world grows smaller by the day, and our varied beliefs can bring us together to feed the hungry and comfort the afflicted; to make peace where there is strife; and to lift up those who have fallen on hard times. As we observe this day of prayer, we remember the one law that binds all great religions together: the Golden Rule, and its call to love one another; to understand one another; and to treat with dignity and respect those with whom we share a brief moment on this Earth.” Those are good and important words, and they will live on even if a nationally sanctioned day of prayer does not.
I would urge us not to surrender the spirit of the National Day of Prayer to the scrap heap of history. If indeed the Constitution requires elected officials to put this work down, then let the many people of faith take it up again, exercising their freedom as sons and daughters of God to bring the welfare of our national and global communities before the ever-watchful eyes of our maker. With or without a proclamation, the work of prayer belongs to all of us, and so I would invite each of us to set aside time for prayer on Thursday, May 6, to lift up to God our nation, its leaders, its poor, and its foundations of freedom and justice. Politically, we are all very diverse, but the faith that unites us is stronger than the momentary events of history. Let us unite our hearts on that day, and pray for God’s guidance and wisdom in these times.
Your fellow traveler,
Thom

Text: I Corinthians 9:19-23
Date: September 20, 2009
Green Street UMC, Augusta, ME
©Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

“I have become all things to all…”

Though I am free and belong to no one, I make myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible. To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law (though I myself am not under the law), so as to win those under the law. To those not having the law I became like one not having the law (though I am not free from God's law but am under Christ's law), so as to win those not having the law. To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all … so that by all possible means I might save some. I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings. (I Corinthians 9:19-23, NIV)

I’ve always been fascinated by the Civil War. I don’t romanticize it, at least I hope I don’t. But it was such a defining moment in our nation’s history, that I find it hard to look away when a documentary or film comes my way, reminding me of that troubled period in our nation’s history. My Great great great grandfather Jim Blackstone fought with the 20th Maine at Gettysburg, or so the family legend goes, and my grandfather said that he could still remember Grandpa Jim’s sword hanging over the family fireplace when he was a child. That tale and others made my first trip to Little Round Top at Gettysburg a moving, emotional experience. How many of Grandpa Jim’s friends and neighbors had died on that very spot? Had he ever gone back there to remember, or was it too painful to recall? I’ll never know.

I was reminded of that experience by watching the 2003 film Gods and Generals last week. It’s not the most amazing film you’ve ever seen, a bit dry in places, but there is Joshua Chamberlain striding across one battlefield after another, and for people who live in this city in this state, well, it’s just something you ought to see. When I’m teaching on the Portland campus of the seminary, I teach in the Joshua Chamberlain Room, and there his picture is, staring down at me for three hours every week. It is an intimidating experience. I always imagine him thinking as I walk out of the classroom, “For this I saved the Union?”

Civil War. It is probably the most horrendous kind of war, because it turns family members, fellow citizens, and those who share a common heritage, into blood enemies. One of the most memorable scenes in Gods and Generals, the film I mentioned, involves the battle at Fredericksburg. At one point in the battle a regiment of Union soldiers made up of recent Irish immigrants finds they are attacking a similar regiment from Georgia in a large open field. Brother against brother, fighting for a country that is not yet even their own. Later that night as the wounded and dead are tended to, one of the town’s Irish American residents recalls how Fredericksburg 20 years before had sent corn grown in that very field to relieve an Irish famine. “I can’t help but wonder,” she remarks, “did we save the lives of boys on both sides, just so that they could come here to kill one another?”

It was against the backdrop of watching Gods and Generals that I later that night turned on the news. And the clashing words of partisan opponents that I heard troubled me, troubled me because these were my fellow citizens, filled with such anger for their fellow citizens, and I began to understand how the Civil War could have come to be.

I don’t mean to suggest that we should start stocking up on canned goods and cannon balls, but I don’t think anyone under the age of 50 will object if I say this is one of the most painful periods of national disagreement in my memory. Perhaps, then, it is a fair question to ask of the Gospel this morning, what is the role of the church when the forces of social and political strife bring such emotions to the very door of our church, our sanctuary, our holy place? Indeed, what does God ask of us when such issues sit the pews between us, hovering spoken or unspoken as we sing our hymns, pass the peace, confess our sins, listen to God’s word, hear the sermon, make our offerings to God, gather at the table, pray for our neighbors, and receive God’s benediction?

Has the Gospel traveled such ground before, we might ask. And the answer of course, is “absolutely.” Perhaps the greatest benefit of Bible Study is to discover that there is very little that we experience in life that earlier generations haven’t already weathered by the grace of God. Notable exceptions include trying to get children’s toys out of their packages, foods that explode in the microwave, and telephone menu options. Those particular plagues are unique to this day and time. Most everything else has already happened to somebody.

The big questions in today’s world are really not all that perplexing compared to struggles that the early church experienced in its earliest days. The role of women and slaves, the divine and human nature of Christ, the nature of the Trinity, and the importance of the Old Testament. These don’t sound like agenda breakers at the next church council meeting, but in fact the blood of Christians has been shed by fellow Christians over every single one of them. But perhaps the single most divisive controversy in the NT is the struggle between Christians of Jewish heritage and Christians of Gentile heritage. I’m sure you’re familiar with it, but in case you’re not, put yourself back in Jerusalem on Pentecost when the Holy Spirit falls on people of many languages, and persons of diverse cultures begin to speak in languages that are understood by all. And suddenly Jewish disciples of a Jewish Jesus begin to realize that God’s plans for this new religious community are immense. And it is not long before Christians who speak Greek and Latin, who are not circumcised, who eat pork roast on Sunday, and who dress in togas start showing up at the fellowship suppers. And you guessed it, pretty soon there are romances in the youth group, and Miriams start making eyes at boys named Tiberius and Julius and before you know it there is a full blown clash of cultures going on. It’s why Paul is such a controversial figure in the New Testament. He is a good Jewish-Christian preaching, very successfully I might add, to Gentiles. And out there among the great unclean, Paul is taking offerings and sending them to the mother church in Jerusalem, where the traditionalists have to decide whether or not to cash the check.

I know all of this sounds like a silly dispute to us, but for first-century Christians it was a full-blown crisis. Page after page of the New Testament is dedicated to resolving it, resolving it in a way that heals community, and allows brothers and sisters to experience the unity of Christ. In Rome, it was easier since the Jewish and Gentile Christians could form separate congregations, but in small towns and villages it was heartbreaking. Every time a church supper came up, separate tables would be available for kosher and non-kosher families. Every baptism raised the question of whether the convert should first be circumcised as the law requires. (those of you considering membership at Green Street by the way will be relieved to know we have resolved that particular issue!). There were questions of intermarriage between the two groups, and the status of their children, and the nagging problem of “what do we do when the relatives come to visit?” These were not happy days; these were not easy days to be a Christian.

Then along came Paul, this hot-tempered, disagreeable, brilliant man who could argue from sunrise to sunset for a radical rejection of Jewish purity codes among the new Gentile Christian communities. This argument shaped everything that he was. He was passionate that the new converts were free to eat whatever they wanted without criticism from the hardliners, and he made that argument from one end of Asia Minor to the very heart of Rome.

But then, in today’s passage, a strange thing happens. The Spirit of God gets hold of Paul by the heartstrings and reminds him that being right isn’t the only thing, that to be incorporated in the Body of Christ is to be in a relationship of service to others, and some of those others were people whose dress, habits, language, surnames, food, or politics totally disgust, confuse, or enrage him. Paul thinks long and hard about that insight, and the result is this passage in First Corinthians, in which Paul unbelievably says that he is willing to set aside being right, for the sake of being loving; that he will eat a kosher meal, against all of his principles of dietary freedom, if it means he has the chance to tell his dinner partner about the incredible love of God. It doesn’t mean he’s given anything up; he can still go grab a BLT on the way home and not feel ashamed, and if someone asks his opinion, he’ll surely give it to them. He’s really good at that. But when it comes down to it, Paul—as he writes in I Corinthians—will do whatever he can, whatever he has to do, to share the Gospel. He will attach the greatest value to being in fellowship with a brother or sister, even if he or she disagrees with his most passionate views on the controversies of the day.

Now I want you to understand that this is not necessarily an easy sermon for me to preach. Like Paul and maybe like some of you, I often have strong opinions and a desire to share them, and I do. But we are asked by this scripture to remember that the brother or sister who disagrees with us on some issue or another is equally a beloved child of God, as well as a person trying to please God according to what he or she thinks God wants him or her to do. And the takeaway from this scripture passage is that we need to figure out how to live and minister in harmony with those who disagree with us, because the reality is that there are always going to be areas of disagreement in every community, and club, and church that we’re ever going to be a part of, unless of course we go start our own churches, slap our names on the door, and hope nobody comes.

I go through all this, this morning, because the secular world isn’t ever going to teach us this lesson, and because you are a congregation that is articulate, smart, passionate, and diverse. I don’t say those things to butter you up, but as a pastoral diagnosis. That is in fact who you are. And in this season of secular and political debate some of those passions are going to come into church and sit among us, particularly for the next seven weeks or so. That doesn’t trouble me. Christians are supposed to be passionate about justice and righteousness, just as God is. But on November 4, which I’m pretty sure is the day after election day, on that day when inevitably there will be winners and losers, on all kinds of issues, the nation is going to look around and ask itself, ‘How can we live like this? How can we be one nation under God and yet be so divided?”

On a day like that, it would feel so good to have the citizens of Kennebec County, Maine look around and say, “Hey, look at Green Street Church over there. I’ve never seen such a diverse collection of folks in my life, but through all this they kept feeding the poor, and giving thanks to God, and praying for the sick, and gathering around that communion table, where no one has power over anyone else, and every one of them is there as a guest of God. And when they go home at night, some of them watch Fox News, and some MSNBC, and some Public television, and some the Home shopping network. But when they are together as a church, there’s something about them that is more important than any of that. I wonder what it is.” And one will turn to another and say, with a sound of urgency in her voice, “Let’s / go / find / out.”

I would like us to be that church. The church that gets through times such as this, not by shushing the important conversations, as some churches no doubt will, but by ending every heart-to-heart sharing of convictions with the words, “I love you, brother; I love you, sister. You drive me nuts. But I love you.”
That’s important for us as we go about planning, and funding, and implementing the ministry of Jesus Christ in this place. But it is even more important to our neighbors, those who might well assume from the secular media that there is no future for America other than one long, constant, bitter, drawn out argument. As they go looking for better answers than that, I hope and pray and expect that we have a huge helping of God’s generous and inclusive spirit to share with them, not because we are of one mind about anything, but precisely because we are not: we who are so different from one another, and yet united in one ministry by our Savior, Jesus, the Christ. Amen.