Text:  Psalm 18:1-13, 46-50

Date:  June 28, 2015

Pleasant Street UMC, Waterville, ME

(c) Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

Movies of Maine:  Charlotte's Web

Psalm 18

To the leader. A Psalm of David the servant of the Lord, who addressed the words of this song to the Lord on the day when the Lord delivered him from the hand of all his enemies, and from the hand of Saul. He said:
I love you, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer,
   my God, my rock in whom I take refuge,
   my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
I call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised;
   so I shall be saved from my enemies. 

The cords of death encompassed me;
   the torrents of perdition assailed me;
the cords of Sheol entangled me;
   the snares of death confronted me. 

In my distress I called upon the Lord;
   to my God I cried for help.
From his temple he heard my voice,
   and my cry to him reached his ears. 

Then the earth reeled and rocked;
   the foundations also of the mountains trembled
   and quaked, because he was angry.
Smoke went up from his nostrils,
   and devouring fire from his mouth;
   glowing coals flamed forth from him.
He bowed the heavens, and came down;
   thick darkness was under his feet.
He rode on a cherub, and flew;
   he came swiftly upon the wings of the wind.
He made darkness his covering around him,
   his canopy thick clouds dark with water.
Out of the brightness before him
   there broke through his clouds
   hailstones and coals of fire.
The Lord also thundered in the heavens,
   and the Most High uttered his voice.
The Lord lives! Blessed be my rock,
   and exalted be the God of my salvation,
the God who gave me vengeance
   and subdued peoples under me;
who delivered me from my enemies;
   indeed, you exalted me above my adversaries;
   you delivered me from the violent. 

For this I will extol you, O Lord, among the nations,
   and sing praises to your name.
Great triumphs he gives to his king,
   and shows steadfast love to his anointed,
   to David and his descendants for ever.

So there I was, sitting with the Worship Team a month or so ago, describing this great idea for a summer preaching series.  You know, summer, when nothing happens in the secular world, and so the church is free to reflect on the peaceful, relaxed side of Christianity, in which we all go fishing with Jesus, hang out at the Pot Luck supper with Peter, and sit at the Lord's feet with Mary.  So why not take a look back at a few of the many movies that are set here in our home state, in search of some meaningful religious lessons close to home.  Don't worry, I said.  The tourists will love it, and the local folks too. 

Well, the last couple of weeks have not been the summer I predicted. 

·                    It began with the horrors of the shooting rampage through our sister church in Charleston, and the resulting calls for the banning of the Confederate Battle Flag,

·                    It continued with the reaffirmation that thousands of Mainers, and millions of Americans will continue to be able to afford their health insurance,

·                    And finally there was the predicted affirmation Friday by the US Supreme Court that the Same Sex marriages of our members, friends, family, and neighbors are now legal, not just here in Maine and like-minded states, but throughout the United States of America, wherever our beloved Constitution holds sway. 

And so with all this going on, both good and tragic, you can imagine that I began to cringe in fear a little when I tried to remember what sophisticated film I had chosen for this first Sunday of our series:  Charlotte's Web.  But I have realized before that when I reach out in faith and tell you what I'm actually going to preach about on a given Sunday, God--more often than not--doesn't let me down, even or especially if it has not been an ordinary week. 

So Charlotte's Web, set in Somerset County, Maine, written by E.B. White, but filmed, sadly, in Australia to accommodate a winter filming schedule when Maine looks a little too much like Maine.  If you look closely, you can see that the trees around the barn have been painted orange to stand in for a New England Autumn.  That is a lot of effort to go to in my opinion, to recreate the Pine Tree State, but so be it. 

Our hero is Wilbur, the runt of a very large litter of pigs, saved by young Fern from a quick & merciful death by her promise that she will raise him, and he will be the best pig ever.  To do away with him just because he is small, she argues, is "unfair, and unjust."  Her plan is difficult to put into motion, and her father tries to release her from her promise, but she curtly replies, "I didn't make my promise to you; I made it to Wilbur."  Eventually, a deal is worked out with the neighboring farmer, Homer.  As Wilbur is dropped into his new home, the narrator reflects that sometimes bringing two very ordinary things together like a pig and a barn results in an extraordinary miracle. 

Well, Wilbur is going to need a miracle, because as you know Spring pigs have only one purpose, to ensure the winter supply of ham, bacon, and chops.  When apprised of that reality, Wilbur responds incredulously, but humans love pigs!  No, his animal friends assure him, Humans love pork; there's a difference.  Just about then a familiar "fear not" is heard from the rafters.  It is the voice of Charlotte, an exceptional spider with an exceptional gift.  You will not be sacrificed for food, Wilbur, I promise, she says.  And like Fern, Charolotte NEVER breaks her promises. 

To me, this is the turning point of the film, that an apparently small and helpless creature undertakes with boldness to change the world in which she lives.  If in fact the slaughter is unfair and unjust, Charlotte will have none of it.  She has heard the cry of the innocent, and she will use her gifts to deliver him. 

Is it a complete and total surprise that Charlotte's actions echo the spirit of our lesson from the Psalms this morning?  Remember those words…

In my distress I called upon the Lord;
   to my God I cried for help.
From his temple he heard my voice,
   and my cry to him reached his ears. 

No, not a surprise, because Charlotte's Web, like every good book or movie, has a messianic figure at its heart, an agent of change to use the language of family system's theory.  And when a change agent is on the loose, anything can happen.  Like any good Messiah, Charlotte is there to provide deliverance from evil, or at least the smokehouse, but how?  Even she doesn't know.  That night, however, as she goes about her business of web weaving, the answer comes to her.  The web itself will bear her message and express her belief in Wilbur's inherent worth.  Diverting from her usual web, Charlotte prepares the words above Wilbur's head, "Some pig."  Now, when the web is noticed, no one wants to talk about the spider, they all want to talk about the pig.  That's also a good strategy for Messiah's, by the way, keep the spotlight where it belongs, not on oneself.  Remember all those mornings when Jesus slipped quietly away?  Yeah, that's his Charlotte moment.  Let them talk about the miracle rather than the miracle worker. 

Well, in the morning, there are the words, "Some pig," up above Wilbur's head.  And people begin to notice that he IS in fact, some pig.  You see, that's Charlotte's gift, to only use her web to tell the truth about Wilbur.  Well, the farmer's family does what anyone would do when they hear of a miracle.  They call their pastor, who by all appearances is a United Methodist.  And the Pastor, in good pastoral fashion, chooses to say nothing, but rather refers people to his upcoming sermon on the topic in a week or two.  Ironically, it's the town doctor, a man of science, who understands the problem with all this, that the web was a miracle long before Charlotte started using it to send messages.  It's a thing of beauty and symmetry, he says.  How did you not see it before?

Well, even the miracle web is not enough to hold people's attention, and Charlotte's work continues every few weeks.  Soon the web reveals new words:  Terrific, Radiant, and finally, Humble.  With such words above his head, Wilbur captures the imagination of his world, and is allowed to live to see Christmas, and many Christmases after that.  As all this winds to a close, and Charlotte's many babies fly away on the winds, the narrator reminds us that because Charlotte showed the specialness of this pig, the community itself felt special, and because of that they treated one another with more kindness and affection, and because they did that, an ordinary miracle had come to town.  Yeah, Charlotte! 

And so there is that inevitable question, So what?  So what, that a loveable children's book has been brought to life in our midst?  And yet, I can't help think that there is a lesson in all this, even on this week when so much has happened.  There's was an editorial cartoon that captured my imagination this week, in which a Confederate flag on a flag pole is being slowly lowered out of site, and then rising to take its place is a rainbow flag.  No words, no slogans, just a comment left by a user, "There it is." 

You see, banners matter, symbols have meaning, and words can in fact (to quote Charlotte), change the world.  Charlotte was Wilbur's savior, his redeemer, his deliverer.  And he was saved by her choice to place above him words that reflected his true nature:  Some Pig, Terrific, Radiant, Humble.  Society puts banners above all of us, of course.  Not all of them are so kind.  Imagine some other words that would convey other messages, "outsider", "dirty", "lazy", "scum", freeloader, less than human.  Those who raised the Confederate Flag over South Carolina reinforced the message that black citizens are less worthy than others, that they are a danger, that they need to be controlled if not exterminated.  It wasn't intended as harm to others, perhaps, but it gave permission to a young man steeped in hate, that perhaps even the most heinous of crimes would be  forgiven, if it asserted the God given rights of a supreme white race.  But imagine if the shooter that day had grown up seeing other words in the webs above his brothers and sisters?  Imagine if he saw words like devout, kindhearted, forgiving, generous.  Perhaps then he would have spared the lives in the church that night, and allowed his own experience to rule his heart, rather than the narrow opinions and bigotry of his elders. 

Charlotte delivers Wilbur by changing how others see him, as his true self rather than his society-given reputation as a beast to be slaughtered.  I know it's just a children's story, but its importance is clear.  Words matter.  It matters that so-called "gay marriage" can just be "marriage" now.  That those who live with the stigma of poverty will have some options when it comes to caring for their bodies.  It matters when words like worthless, imperfect, and less-than, infect even our Christian vocabulary as we sit in judgment over others, a role that God never intended for us.  Rather, we are to build one another up in love, to perceive and name the blessings of our fellow human beings to deliver them from the spiritual  smokehouses of death all around us. 

However this week's news has affected you, let us be reminded that we have incredible power to be Charlotte to one another, to make promises that we mean to keep, and then do everything in our power to keep them, even if it is a matter of life and death, and sometimes it will be.  May you be amazed at the ordinary miracles in your life, and may you be the miracle that another of God's children is praying for, longing for some word of approval, praise, or acknowledgement, even from one of the least of these God's creatures.  Amen.

We Are One...

While on vacation last month, my two younger kids talked us into something that they had dreamed of doing for several years, to climb Cadillac Mountain by the light of the moon, arriving at the summit in time to watch the sunrise.  It seemed an appropriate rite of passage, as my daughter was headed off to her Senior year of High School, and our younger son to his second year of college.  Because they would be together, and are collectively skilled in the ways of the woods, we agreed.  They left our camp at 1 in the morning after a few short hours of sleep, arriving at the trail head at 2 AM.  At 3:30 they called us as agreed to give an update on their progress, and had already reached the summit.  Lynn and I, less hardy adventurers, hopped in the car and drove to meet them.  Since the federal government paid to put a perfectly good road to the top of the mountain, I felt like it was my civic obligation to drive on it. 

The morning was everything one could hope.  Jupiter and Mars were dancing together in the Eastern sky.  The porcupine islands were dark shapes in the moonlit bay.  The distant lights of Bar Harbor were slowly going out as morning approached.  As our kids wrapped up in the blankets we brought, and we all found a place out of the chilly morning breeze, God put on an amazing show.  The earth that we call home, in its constant rotation, carried a mountain peak full of travelers at breakneck speeds towards the sun that gives us light, and life, and food, and warmth.  Gradually unfolding itself from chilly Atlantic waters, the sun rose up from behind the Schoodic peninsula.  Sending ahead of it a rainbow of colors:  deep blue, turquoise, mint green, pink and then the barest slice of orange, the sun transformed the landscape that stretched out below us, creating a golden path that united land and sea.  It was a truly miraculous moment. 

I don’t know what it was, but as the sun began to shed its light down on the cold and huddled group of people who looked for its arrival, something made me want to turn around and look at the dozens of people who were behind me, many of them perched on the paved walkway at the very top of the mountain.  Most had arrived after us, and I was surprised at how many folks were there, having gathered in the hushed predawn darkness.  The sun, touching human faces for the first time that day in our nation, transformed a hundred individuals into one kindred people.  They were Asian, African, Scandinavian, Hispanic, drawn from many different lands and places to this miraculous moment and place of transformation as the darkness of night was swallowed by the rosy light of day.  They were children and adults, the old and the lame, some in wheel chairs and using walkers.  Some had arrived in $ 30,000 vehicles with polished chrome grills.  Others had ridden well-worn shoe leather to the top, all of their earthly possessions in their packs and their hands.  But in the presence of that sunrise, there was no rich or poor, no conflicts or difference, no excess and no lack.  In that moment, in that place, each and every one had everything we needed to know we were alive, and loved, and cherished by the one who had created us.  We were one, huddled under the golden cloak of our creator who had claimed us as kinfolk, baptizing us in the light of God’s own creation. 

Yes, of course, the moment passed, as every moment does.  The orange light turned to yellow, the day brightened, the mountain pilgrims applauded and toasted the artist of the sunrise with thermoses of dwindling coffee.  The unity between us, glimpsed only for a moment, slipped away as quickly as it had come.  We got in our vehicles or hit the trail, moving back to the familiar and the sensible, laughing at our foolishness and longing to go back to bed.  But we carried with us // that moment, knowing it would be a part of us for the rest of our lives, a glimpse behind the curtain of reality that clouds our kinship, our unity, our common humanity.  The radio as we descended the twisting mountain highway sought to disentangle that cord of connection we had just experienced.  Brutality in the Middle East, racial tension in Missouri, homophobic violence in Uganda, hunger and homelessness on the rise in dozens of American cities.  We stopped for coffee and tea and blueberry muffins down in the town, and then hit the road for home.  The bad news on the radio had been turned into folk music, blessedly, and the poetry of one who had seen the truth we had experienced that morning washed over us like bathing in baptismal waters.  I remembered the artist and looked up the lyrics when I got home.  There is hunger, and violence, and tension, and prejudice in the world, but as a child of an inclusive God, I am grateful for these words by Pat Humphries, of Emma’s Revolution.

 We Are One

Smiling face, outstretched hand,

Through disputes small and grand

We will lay down our guns

We are one.

In the rage through the war

We have shared pain before

In our grief when it’s done

[we are one]

Where the earth touches sky

We are born, we all die

Where the clear waters run

[we are one]

When the light touches land

Over sea, over sand

When each day has begun

We are one

As the rock wears away

And the tide rolls and sways

By the moon, by the sun

[We are one]

In the birth of a child

Through the fierce and the mild

In our daughters and sons

[we are one]

…In our daughters and sons, we are one. 

We are one

We are one.

"Create In Me a Clean Heart, O God" A Sermon After a Fire In Our Parsonage

Text:  1 Samuel 16:1-13; Psalm 51:10-14

Date:  October 20, 2013

Green Strett UMC, Augusta, ME 

© Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., Preacher

1 Samuel 16:1-13

 ¹³Then Samuel took the horn of oil, and anointed him in the presence of his brothers; and the spirit of the Lord came mightily upon David from that day forward. 

Psalm 51:10-14

Create in me a clean heart, O God,
   and put a new and right spirit within me. 
¹¹ Do not cast me away from your presence,
   and do not take your holy spirit from me. 
¹² Restore to me the joy of your salvation,
   and sustain in me a willing spirit. 

Create in me a clean heart, O God.  And put a new and right spirit within me. 

They are the words of David, the same David who was anointed as a young child by the crusty old Prophet Samuel:  David, who received on his forehead the drops of oil that marked him as chosen by God, chosen to lead his people.  Like Samuel himself, David says yes to God as a young man, little knowing what that might mean or where that willingness to serve might take him.  Like Samuel himself, David utters those words “Here Am I”, and is lifted up from a simple and humble life as a shepherd to the royal courts of King Saul, who has proved a disappointment both to God and his people. 

I find it interesting that the Narrative Lectionary brings together the anointing of David with words from David’s Psalm 51, written by an older and wiser King, a King who has committed both adultery and murder.  His lust, combined with his unlimited power, has resulted in the rape of the wife of a military commander, and then the soldier’s murder when he refuses to return to his home to provide cover for a pregnancy which will soon be obvious to everyone. 

These things are not only crimes; they are sins, and David is confronted with the loss of his innocence through the seduction of power.  And when confronted with his sin, David’s heart breaks, and like so many sinners, before and since, David pours out a plea for God’s mercy from the depths of a broken heart. 

Create in me a clean heart, O God.  And put a new and right spirit within me.  It is a plea from the creature to the creator to be fixed, to be stripped down to the core and be built up again.  It is a plea that that which is soiled and ruined be made fresh, and new, and sweet.  I expect that most of us have been there, when it becomes painfully obvious that by our actions, or our failure to act, we have caused harm to our neighbors, our loved ones, or our world.  Having done so, our first reaction might be to make excuses, or to blame someone else, or to hide the evidence.  But Psalm 51 isn’t for those days, it’s for the day when those strategies stop working.  It is for the day when we realize how we have injured others, and how much in need of grace and forgiveness we truly are.  Psalm 51 is prayer we pray when we hit the bottom, when we are ensnared in our own filth, when we cannot help but own the wrong that we have done.  Then, and only then, can we know the true misery of David, who cries out from his own personal hell, Create in me a clean heart, O God.  And put a new and right spirit within me. 

And the heartbreak is that even as David prays his prayer, he fears that it is prayed in vain.  Sitting where he sits, knowing what he knows, he cannot imagine that his life can ever be fixed.  David’s language is that of basic sanitation and cleanliness:  create in me a clean heart, because the heart that I have is polluted, corrupted, filled with the worst kind of stuff, stuff that can never be returned to the way that it was before, to the way that you want it to be, God.

David’s contrast between dirty and clean is particularly poignant to me this week, as I have dealt with the aftermath of the fire in our home Tuesday night.  As I shared over the prayer chain, a dishwasher that had worked flawlessly for 10 years suddenly burst into flames on Tuesday after supper while my wife just happened to be standing in the kitchen, talking to her mom on the phone.  Though she stopped the dishwasher and used the fire extinguisher, the melted plastic spread to the floor, ignited the vinyl flooring, and the house began to fill with smoke.  Within minutes, my mom and wife and our pets were in the driveway, thank God, and the filth and corruption of smoke and soot had begun to spread throughout our home. 

We are so grateful for the Augusta Fire Department who arrived in time to save the home, and for the compassion of our neighbors who kept watch with us as our lives changed in front of our eyes.  Arriving home from the Finance Committee meeting, I was greeted by the sight of fire trucks surrounding the parsonage, and men with hoses walking in our front door.  It’s a kind of sick feeling in the stomach that I can still feel, even today while talking about it.

Over the next 24 hours, I began to be educated in lessons about fire and its aftermath.  The first is that even a small flame can do great damage.  The fire in our case never left the kitchen, thank God, but the petrochemicals which are the basis of so many of our household furnishings like flooring and fabrics are released by fire and take on a life of their own in a small space.  When we entered the home after 45 minutes or so, the entire ceiling of the downstairs was covered with a fine network of what looked like cob webs to me, but were in fact strings of charged particles of plastic which had floated in the smoke and joined up with one another to form long strings of oily residue.  The good news is that we don't need to decorate for Halloween this year.  We're already there!  The smoke and the soot went everywhere:  into cupboards, electronics, the coils of fluorescent light bulbs, the backs of closets, and the insides of our shoes.  Removing that soot will require days of effort by a team of people that—thankfully—have been down this path before, who have reassured us that they can deal with the worst of it.  In the meantime our home is toxic, from the moment one approaches the front door, one can smell the awful refuse that awaits one inside.  When I asked what we could do until the cleaners arrive, I was told, “nothing.”  “Everything you touch, everything you vacuum or sweep, everything you wipe with a cloth makes the problem worse.”  The best thing you can do is leave, and be patient, and let us do what we need to do. 

It’s the lesson of such a time that some dirt, and filth, and ash, and soot is so pervasive and overwhelming that it is beyond our ability to clean it up ourselves.  It takes an expert with the right tools and knowledge to make a difference, and our own efforts can indeed only make things worse.  It is similar to the hopeless situation that David found himself in before taking up his pen to write Psalm 51.  In the words of Dr Suess, “This mess is so big, and so deep, and so tall, we cannot clean it up; there is no way at all.”  All David can do is sit in the ashes of his own destruction and call for help, to plead with God, to beg with God for a clean heart, and a new soul.  He can no longer help himself.  It is beyond that now. 

Have you been there?  Are you there this morning?  Is the sin-sickness of your soul such that all you can do is call out to your maker to put things back together?  If so, then this is the place you want to be.  Ironically, it is only when we have lost the illusion of our own righteousness that we can accept with humility the righteousness that God has for us, a righteousness, based not on our worth, but upon our need; a grace that we don’t deserve, but that God offers anyway:  a grace that is worthy of Jesus, Jesus who came and preached the inclusive love of God so powerfully that he was murdered by a power structure that didn’t want to hear it, who couldn't stand to hear what he had to say, that God does indeed love all of us, even though are hearts be soiled, and our souls be mired in sin.  It is only such a God who can give us a clean heart, only such a God who can put a right spirit within us.

In the meantime, we need to be patient.  My family and I are trying hard to stay out of the house and let the insurance folks and cleaning experts do their thing.  Tuesday, a big truck will come and carry away all of our clothing and curtains to be cleaned.  At some point, when the investigators are done their work, the remnants of the dishwasher will be pulled out and disassembled on the lawn, deprived of its power to do more harm.  At some point the soot, and the grime, and the oily cobwebs will be dissolved into cleaning fluids, and sucked out of crevices, at some point the flooring, and wallpaper, and ceilings will be renewed, rehung, and painted.  And at some point, we will once again be able to call this amazing house you have provided for us, “home.” 

Is it possible that we could also be as patient when it comes to letting God do God’s work in our lives?  A clean heart, and a right spirit will mean changes in our lives that may be unwelcome.  We can’t accept the forgiveness of God, and then persist in the pathways that brought us to destruction in the first place.  Salvation, as Methodists understand it, is the beginning of a process, a lifelong process, by which we become less and less who we have been, and more and more who God wants us to be.  I wish I could say that it was a straight line from here to there, but it’s not.  There will be good days and bad days, times when we’re sweeping the filth out the door, and times when it’s blowing back in.  But with patience and persistence in being open to the remaking power of God, it is the witness of our scriptures and our elders that a clean heart, a new spirit is easily within God’s power to grant. 

Leonard Cohen’s dark song Hallelujah is at least in part about the struggles of David and the loss of his innocence before God.  Recalling the episode with Bathsheba, Cohen writes,

Your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

I’ve always found it interesting however, how the song ends, with a kind of restoration of David’s relationship with God.  It’s the verse that most versions of the song eliminate, but to my mind it’s the redemption of the brokenness.  The lyrics conclude,

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

          In the end, all that we bring to God is our broken Hallelujahs, our praises from mortal and corrupted hearts.  But in the end, that’s all that God needs, to clean out the crap, and fix us, body and soul.  You see, even though we’ve never been here before, God has, with countless generations of those who prayed with desperate hearts for a new beginning.  God knows how to get this done, and to help us be different, better, cleaner, and new.  Will we not open the doors this week, and allow the God of mercy to fix us, make us whole, and find the shine beneath the grime?  Will we not call for help, and invite in the expert who can give us the second chance that we long for, and restore our broken Hallelujahs?  Amen.  

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

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.

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.