Albright Baccalaureate Sermon 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
To a Land Unknown
A sermon delivered at my alma mater, Albright College, upon my son's graduation in May 2013.
Albright Baccalaureate Sermon 2013
Albright Baccalaureate Sermon 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
How Young Is Too Young?
It’s a question I often get asked about Communion, both by parents who want to do the “right thing” relative to their children and the church’s rituals, and by others who grew up in congregations in which there are lots of “rules” about children participating in the Eucharist: they have to be a certain age, be baptized,
have spoken in tongues, or mastered one of several catechisms before receiving Communion. Most of these restrictions in Christendom reflect a desire that the child “understand” the sacraments prior to receiving them. If one is raised with these convictions, it can indeed be a little unsettling to land in a United Methodist Church, in which we regard the Sacraments as “Holy Mysteries,” incapable of being understood even by the most astute and credentialed theologian, and therefore available only by the Grace of God to both infants and adults.The directive in our Book of Worship says of Communion, “All who intend to lead a Christian life, together with their children, are invited to receive the bread and cup. We have no tradition of refusing any who present themselves desiring to receive” (page 29, emphasis mine). In other words, there is no velvet rope in front of the altar, restricting access to anyone. In United Methodist liturgical practice, barring children from the Lord’s Supper would be the equivalent of denying them a place at the family’s kitchen table at dinner time, a church supper, or a sibling's birthday party. Eastern Orthodox Christians, with whom we share a similar understanding of the Sacraments, put this conviction into practice by “spooning” the wine and bread into the mouths of infants, Clement of Alexandria (one of first Christian theologians) having called the Eucharist “milk from the breast of God.”
It’s very true that young kids don’t understand what the Lord’s Supper is all about. As they grow, it is the parent(s)’ and Church’s job to explain the sacraments in age appropriate ways, at least to the extent of our own understanding, which is admittedly meager. In the meantime, kids understand intuitively being included and being excluded, and the act of inviting them to the Table in all of their chaotic youthful energy is one way we can reflect the Jesus’ love for them.
Our Sacramental practice reflects our desire to be a Church of sticky fingers and sloppy kisses, in which no child (of any age) will ever bear the stigma of being unwelcomed or an outsider. That means we will have to staff our nursery and Sunday School faithfully, delight in the fidgety little body next to us, provide copious amounts of crayons and coloring books, and go out of our way to soothe the frazzled parent who could easily have stayed in bed on a Sunday morning, but chose instead to bring that little one to the house of the Lord to the delight of our Savior.
This Holy Mystery, our most recent statement on Communion, puts it this way: “the grace given through Holy Communion is offered to the entire church, including those who are unable to respond for themselves. Children are members of the covenant community and participants in the Lord’s Supper.” Thanks be to Jesus, our Savior, who invites to his table all who love him.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
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
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
Monday, April 2, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
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
> 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
Sunday, September 4, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
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.
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.
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