Gifts of Age

Sarah learns she will conceive a child in her old age, and laughs.
Genesis 18:1-15

Do not lose heart.  Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our
inner nature is being renewed day by day.
II Corinthians 4:16-18

The other day Auntie Jeannie came to visit.  Jeannie’s not blood related, but Janet’s known her for about twenty years so as it happens with friends who become over time like family the girls know her as “Auntie” Jeannie.  Jeannie, who’s family is Chinese, recently lost her grandmother, the grandmother who was 100 years old, the grandmother Jeannie went to visit and care for everyday for the last eight years.

In preparation of her grandmother’s memorial service, Jeannie put together a video presentation that captured different stages of her grandmother’s life: there she is as a girl in China; there as a young mother with two young children; there surrounded by a gaggle of grandchildren; there in the care facility delighting in the birthday cake that honoured her 100 birthday.

What impressed me most about this video presentation was the way the family honoured this woman who was mother, grandmother and great-grandmother.  It seems from this family, anyway, that the Chinese still hold a place of respect for their elders.  Even though she was not able to walk or bathe or feed herself anymore; even though she could be demanding and grouchy, she was loved.  There she is in that picture laughing with a grandson, there and there and there she’s being embraced, there she regally sits in a place of honour in the photograph, front and center; but mostly the way the family intentionally gathered around her bed for holidays and celebrations communicated “this person is not forgotten; this person is important; this person holds a meaningful place in our family.”

Perhaps I was touched by that because our North American society venerates youth.  This comes as no surprise.  We celebrate the physical beauty of youth to the point that attractive, middle-aged people feel the need to have a tuck here and a shot of botox there as an attempt to ward-off the visible affects of aging.

We venerate athletes who, with the odd exception of curling (which itself is an odd exception in the world of sport), are usually considered “old” and almost at the age of retirement when they’re thirty. Many athletes peak between the ages of 22 and 28.  Yet for many in our society these young athletes are like gods who walk among us.

Our priority to the young is not limited to physical prowess or lithe and nubile bodies.  Our society also opens the gates to those who are technologically advanced.  And who has the advantage there?  The ones who went to university before personal computers were on the scene and Bill Gates was still working from his garage, or the ones who have been on computers since kindergarten?

Certainly, on this score the Christian culture stands in contrast to the dominant North American culture.  The church is a place where age has value: age has the possibility of offering gifts that cannot come from anything other than years of living: a certain wisdom from experience, a perspective that appreciates the long-view, a heart that has had time to be mellowed by loss, softened by disappointment, humbled by failure, strengthened by the recognition that we do survive, and enlarged by an empathy that reaches out to others with care.  For those who are open to it, age offers the gift of freedom, of no longer caring so much about what others think, of enjoying being who you are.  For those able to receive, age offers the gift of courage and the ability to trust.

These are the gifts that might come with age, when we have chosen to live well, have learned from at least a few of our important mistakes, have been humble enough to mature as we age.  Even in our senior years, the heart can still be productive.  Sarah laughed when she heard she would get pregnant, and sometimes we laugh at the thought that we in our age can still produce, can still create, can still bring to birth new ideas.

We could list now the people who are seniors and doing great work.  We could recall the more famous who are still creating at an elderly age: Dave Brubeck played his 14^th concert at the Montreal Jazz Festival this summer at the age of 91.  Senator Robert Byrd served for 51 years as the longest serving senator in US history; he was married for 69 years, and died while still serving in office at the age of 92.  We can still be productive well after the usual age of retirement.

But that’s not the gift of age I’d like to focus on today.  Today, the gift of age that I think is quite remarkable is not about productivity at all.  In fact, it’s a gift because it’s not at all concerned with accomplishment or achievement or activity or the ability to do.  This gift comes from the bare fact of being. An aged person like Jeannie’s grandmother is an individual prized not for what they can accomplish, but simply for their being in the world.

How does the old saying go?  “When I celebrated a birthday as a young child, people would be excited because I was one year older.  Then when I was a young adult, people would be excited to see what I would become.  Then when I had a birthday in my middle-age, people would congratulate me for all I had accomplished.  Now, into my eighth decade, people celebrate my birthday simply because they’re surprised I’m still in the world!  I don’t have to do anything but exist, and people are impressed.”

The gift of age reminds us that we are not what we have achieved.  At the heart of it, we are valued simply as one made in the image of God.  Rabbi Abraham Heschel captures it in that simple saying, “Just to be is a blessing; just to live is holy.”  I don’t think he was speaking to a group in a care facility when he said this, but he might have been.

The gift of age is to bring us into an awareness of this, our original blessing.

A.J. and all babies help us slow down and see this gift of being and the sheer wonder of the world.  Our seniors can help us as well.

I remember an afternoon when my mother-in-law and I went for a coffee at a near-by Starbucks.  She sat with her back to the door, so she didn’t initially see the mother and baby as they walked in.  The child had red hair and blue eyes like saucers.  I knew she would flip, so I smiled and nodded for her to look over her shoulder.  She turned to see this beautiful child carried in a baby bjorn and Sheila gasped as if she had just seen the queen herself.

She excused herself for a moment and approached the mother and child.  I don’t think Sheila even noticed the mum, who had a flash of pink in her hair, a tattoo on her upper arm and piercings that multiplied beyond the earlobe.  But I don’t think Sheila even noticed any of this as she briefly nodded a greeting to the mum and then set her eyes on this precious, gorgeous child.  All the baby saw was a grandmother beaming at him.  He recognized love when he saw it, so he beamed back at Sheila.  There they were, the two of them radiating joy in the middle of Starbucks.  Their light fell onto the mum, who joined the happy chorus and beamed at the two of them, like a holy trinity radiating peace and good will for all.

Later, in the hospital, when Sheila was discouraged and feeling like her life wasn’t worth a whole lot, I reminded her of that afternoon and the gift she gave that child, the mother, me, and anyone else who had the good fortune to catch this beatific moment.  Sheila was so present to the child, the child to her, all past and future collapsed into that exchange.

“Just to be is holy; just to live is a blessing.”

Equating value with productivity may be the hardest thing to get over:  it bores deep into our sense of self-worth.  Even someone who has attended church all her life can fall into despair when she no longer can care for others or be productive in any recognizable way.

Dear Sybil Fensom had trouble with this.  In her nineties, in the care facility, when she lived mostly in bed getting thinner and thinner it seemed by the day, kept alive only by the insistence of a strong heart, she wondered, “Why am I still here?  What in the world am I good for?”

Yet it was clear that her family still loved her, her friends still cared for her.  She had value because she was still in the world and her very presence meant something.  What was she good for?  She was good for others.

What are we good for?  As with any day of our life, we’re not the ones to judge our value.  We usually have no idea the many ways we are valued by others.  We have no idea how God is at work in our life in unseen ways, so that even if “our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day.”  I take great hope in that passage and remind myself of it every time I visit someone elderly and bedridden.

The great preacher and social activist, William Sloan Coffin, embodied the hope inherent in this scripture passage.  Two occasions come to mind:

The first was when he came as a guest preacher at the church I served in Berkeley.  As he was a close friend of the lead minister, Pat deJong, we benefitted from his visits, his preaching and teaching, his humour.  During one of his last visits, his feet badly swollen and aching, he rose out of his chair and slowly shuffled to the pulpit.  The congregation waited patiently, silently encouraging him forward with each painful step.  When at last he reached the pulpit he quipped: “It may take me a while to get here, but once I do, I’m a gazelle!”

The second memory I have of this passage and this man was at the second wedding of my colleague, who, again, was like a daughter to him.  As neither she nor her husband had any parents left on this earth, they asked a mentor to be present that day in the role of a beloved parent.  Bill Coffin was there as Pat’s parent, and when it came his turn to speak, he slowly rose, balanced carefully on a cane, his feet so swollen now he couldn’t wear shoes but instead wore slippers for padding.  These days his head shook a little from age, and pain was a constant companion.  But when he spoke, his voice was strong and clear and his words brilliant.  There, in his slippers and a shadow of his former, robust self, he concluded with the passage, “Even though our outer natures waste away, we are being inwardly renewed day by day.”  He said this with such conviction that he himself was an embodiment of the passage and in that moment we all believed.

We believed that there was something within us that doesn’t fade away with this mortal coil.  We believed that even while our physical being weakens, that flesh and bone is not all of who we are and that there is something within us, something unseen but more real than the passing day that not only abides the aging body, but even grows brighter as it turns toward God.  Perhaps this gift of age is exactly what Paul meant when he wrote to the Christians in Corinth,

So we do not lose heart.  Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner-nature is being renewed day by day.  For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.

Thanks be to God!

Saved by a Good Story

That same day Jesus went out of the house and sat beside the sea.  Such great crowds gathered around him that he got into a boat and sat there, while the whole crowd stood on the beach.  And he told them many things in parables, saying,
“Listen!  A sower went out to sow…”

The other day I was talking with Vi Davis before the UCW Strawberry Tea.  Vi was recollecting her love of Ireland, her homeland, and though she loves the people and the beauty of Vancouver, she’ll always have a special place in her heart for her home country.

As we were talking, I remembered a story about Irish immigrants during the potato famine about a hundred and fifty years ago.  Because so many people died on these ships, and so many of these poorly built ships were lost in the Atlantic, they became known as coffin ships.  Nevertheless, the potato blight in Ireland caused starvation and compelled people to leave their beloved home on dilapidated ships bound for Quebec City or New York.  As mothers waved good bye to their teenagers and young adults whom they would likely never see again, they sometimes would hold a large ball of wool.  Their son or daughter would hold the other end of the yarn from the edge of the ship, and as the ship pulled away the yarn would unravel.  The one on the ship would wind the yarn and as they did so, it would be pulled through the briny sea, leaving the salty fragrance of the Irish sea on the wool.  On the rough sail to the new land, the son or daughter would pass the long and lonely hours knitting a sweater with the wool, which would forever hold the feel and smell of their homeland.

My heart aches every time I think of that story, the anguish of families separating, the loneliness of those leaving the shores of their beloved homeland because they had no food, no money, few clothes.  It’s the kind of story that falls into the category of a “life-story.”  A life story, it seems to me, is a story about a certain place in a certain time with a certain people.  It’s a story of particularity: location, time and names matter.  Life-stories are the family stories told around the dinner table or on long walks; they’re about heritage, identity, heroism and adventure.

There’s the story of my uncle Denny who had gone to the bakery to get a cake for my brother’s 6th birthday.  We were all staying in my grandparent’s cabin in the Rocky Mountains, and my uncle needed to cross a stream to get home from the bakery.  The rocks in the stream were wet, smooth…and slippery.  As he splashed into the water, soaking himself completely, with the grace of an acrobat he somehow managed to keep the cake above the water.  Denny made it home soaking wet, but smiling, because the birthday cake had been saved.

In life-stories, place, time and names matter.

There’s the story of my aunt who was a pediatrician and medical missionary in the Congo, Africa.  Because of the hardships she endured, the nursing school she directed, the hospital she ran, and the medical visits she made to remote villages, she was recognized as a chief of a tribe.  The leopard skin she was given hung in our house for decades, reminding us of the work she did in the Congo and the respect the people had for her.

Life-stories remind us who we belong to, and who we are part of.  Stories teach about identity, purpose, and place.

A land can hold a life-story.  My friend Dan and I just returned from hiking around Glacier National Park in Montana.  That land holds a wonderful story in its grandeur and beauty, a story seen in rock formations and told by geologists who can read the landscape like a book.  It’s a story of thousands of years ago, long before global warming, when glaciers roamed North America like enormous buffalo herds that moved by inches, grazing on the rock and soil beneath them, carving immense valleys, ripping off the edge of a mountain and polishing it smooth again as the immense glacier crept by.

Even the land and sea have stories to tell.

There’s another kind of story.  We might call them “core-stories.”  Unlike life-stories, these stories don’t really care about details.  Who, what, when, where and why are not of ultimate importance, other than providing something to hang the story on like a hanger for a coat.

These stories are about our core identity.  They point to who we are beyond our name, our birthplace, or any identification number.  Life-stories root us, ground us, give us a face and a name.  Core-stories free us from all limitations of place or name.  Life-stories tell others “who I am.”  Core-stories remind us that that’s not all of who we are.  Life-stories are about the words.  Core-stories are about the silence underneath the words.
The Gathering Time story of the wolf and the lamb is an example of a core-story.  It’s not about a particular person at a particular time in a particular place.  It’s about all of us and points to the potential within us all.
When Jesus said, “you are the light of the world, you are the salt of the earth,” he was speaking to the core of who we are and the potential within us all.
Core-stories are found in every tradition.  Even Zen Buddhism, which focuses on the enlightenment that is beyond time, place and name, loves a good story.  Here’s one:
A crusty old samurai approached a Buddhist monk and said, “Tell me the difference between heaven and hell.”
The monk replied, “Why should I offer this pearl of wisdom to you?  You’re nothing but a filthy, stinking man who knows how to play swords but knows nothing about eternal truth.”
The samurai flew into a rage.  His face grew red with anger as he rose to his feet, drew his sword, and screamed, “You apologize, or you’re head will roll on the ground!”
To which the monk calmly replied, “That’s hell.”
The samurai lowered his arm, the insight penetrated to his heart.  Calmly, he returned to a seated position.
The monk said, “And that, my friend, is heaven.”

The names in the story don’t matter.  That the story is set in Japan is really secondary and could be any soldier and any monk in any country at any time.  But the story points to an essential human truth, reminding us who we are and that we can live in a state of hell, or we can choose heaven.
Another one from the Zen tradition:
Keichu,  the great Zen teacher of the Meiji era, was head of a large temple in Kyoto.  One day the governor of Kyoto called upon him for the first time.  His attendant presented the card of the governor, which read: Kitagaki, Governor of Kyoto.
“I have no business with such a fellow,” said Keichu to his attendant.  “Tell him to get out of here.”
The attendant carried the card back with apologies.
“That was my error,” said the governor, and with a pencil he scratched out the words Governor of Kyoto.  “Ask your teacher again.”
“Oh, is that Kitagaki?” exclaimed the teacher when he saw the card.  “I want to see that fellow.”
Life-stories give us an identity.  They’re important to us, often treasured by us.  Most often, the most meaningful part of a memorial service are when stories are told of the one who has died, stories that help us remember the essence of that person, stories that keep that person alive, in a way, in our heart, and stories that reinforce our sense of connection with family and friends.  Life-stories are precious.
Core-stories are equally critical.  To use a dramatic example, a person with a childhood of abuse, or a child who was deserted by his father, or a child who somehow suffered an awful trauma, does not want to be chained to that story for the rest of his or her life.  You can serve a meal at First United on the downtown eastside and every person who walks through those doors in search of a dinner and perhaps a word of kindness carries on their shoulders the burden of a story.  Everyone has their sad and broken story.  No doubt it’s a story that shapes a person’s identity, but an abusive mother or a dead-beat dad doesn’t need to be the end of the story, and core-stories open possibilities that go beyond both the best and the worst life-stories.
Jesus focused on core-stories.  The parables he told were often obscure.  He knew what Emily Dickenson suggests, “Tell all the truth but tell is slant.”  Jesus approached the blazing truth of God indirectly, remembering what Yahweh had told Moses, “No one can see my face and live.”  So the stories Jesus told often befuddled people.  They didn’t fit neatly into the compartments of their worldview.  Stories of prodigal sons being forgiven rather than punished, stories of the despised and untrustworthy Samaritans given pride of place and honour, stories of poor widows who set an example and tax collectors who are more virtuous than religious priests jar the mind.  They stop the brain dead in its mental tracks.  “What?  How can this be?  Does he know what he’s saying, this Jesus?”

“I have not come to abandon the law, but to fulfill it,” Jesus told those who were interested enough to hang around to listen.  I have not come to add more to your pile of life-stories, but to tell you a few core-stories that remind you who you are in this world and beyond, and who God is.

We tell stories of Jesus, and many of those stories have become life-stories.  The name, the place, the action and words of that person matter greatly to the story.  It is a particular story and in it people have for thousands of years found meaning, hope, inspiration, purpose, and identity.  But Jesus himself didn’t focus on the life-stories of time, place and name.  He proclaimed the kingdom of heaven on earth, and told core-stories that helped those with ears to hear how to allow that seed to grow.

Every Church around the world tells those stories because we all know it’s a good story to tell, and we are saved by stories.
Introduction to the Scripture

The scripture reading this morning is just one of hundreds that might have been selected and I’ll tell you why.  We’re nearing the end of a sermon series on the 5 marks of the Church, which began with the overarching theme: Remember who you are, and then turned to the marks of the Church as delineated by long-standing tradition.  The 5 marks are:

• Koinonia – community
• Diakonia – Hospitality/service
• Didache – teaching
• Kerygma – proclamation
• Leiturgia – worship

So anytime you’re wondering whether or not a group of people is

really a church, the Christian tradition says, “look for these characteristics.  If they have a genuine sense of community, if they offer hospitality and service, if they teach in such a way that people go deeply into their faith and have a clearer sense of God, if they proclaim the good news in their words and actions, if they wholeheartedly worship, then they’re a Church gathered in the name and Spirit of Christ.”
So today we’ll look at the 3rd and 4th marks of the Christian Church,

teaching and proclamation.  They really deserve their own sermon each and I feel I’m giving them short-shrift lumping them into one brief sermon but today I do this because they have one important thing in common: they both are grounded in story.
The Christian tradition begins and ends with stories.  In the gospels, we begin at Christmas with the story of Jesus’ birth, and end with mysterious appearances of the resurrected Christ.  The Bible begins and ends with stories: the story of creation before all time, and the end of an apocalyptic vision of a new heaven and a new earth.
So this morning, I had hundreds of stories I could have selected as the scripture reading for today.  Our book is filled with stories that most people heard told around camp fires or late at night or whispered in catacombs or told and retold on a dusty Roman road to Corinth or Ephasus or Phillipi.  Stories in the Hebrew Scriptures of how God has been present to the Israelites through thick and thin; stories in the New Testament that either Jesus told or were told about Jesus and then after him the disciples.
The scripture reading this morning is an example of how Jesus taught: by parables, aphorisms and stories.  He didn’t lecture on systematic theology.  He didn’t pull out a long list of new commandments to tell people what to do or what not to do.  Rather, he told stories of who God is and who we are and what the kingdom of God is like and who will be invited to share in that abundant feast.
So here’s an old story from Jesus and about Jesus.  Listen:
(Matthew 13:1-9)

If you are part of the music and worship team, please meet in the Lounge from 1:30 to 2:45.

There will be a Men’s Group Meeting in the Lounge at 6 – 8pm.

There is a Board Meeting at 7pm tonight in the Lounge.

What Is the Scent of Love?
(Part two in a sermon series on the 5 marks of the Church)
 

Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.
Romans 12:15

          Community is a rare thing.  You don’t bump into it everyday.  As much as we’re surrounded by people in this urban environment, mostly our day is filled with loose affiliations and casual associations.  Genuine community is harder to find.

            But when we do happen upon such a thing, life is deeply enriched.  An authentic community amplifies all that is good and delightful; celebrating with others augments joy.  Would you rather celebrate your birthday surrounded by friends or all on your own?  Would you rather welcome the New Year with an embrace and kiss with friends or sitting alone in your living room watching the ball drop in Times Square?  Whenever you see someone win the gold medal, score a goal in the World Cup, receive the Nobel Peace Prize, what do they do?  Go up to their room where they can be alone?  No!  They reach out and hug the person next to them.  When Sydney Crosby scored the winning goal

in overtime for Team Canada to give them the gold in Men’s Hockey, perfect strangers celebrated on Robson were hugging and high fiving.  Joy longs to be shared.

            It works the other way, too.  When life is harsh and we feel beat down, the circle of a caring community eases the burden.  One is less likely to be overcome by futility or to sink into the depths of despair.  It seems somehow that we’re carried along.  Communities give life.

            Paul describes some of the characteristics of an authentic community, that we are turned toward each other; that we rejoice and weep together.  This is what Church is meant to be: an authentic community of faith that is turned toward God, each other, and the world.

            In this regard, the early church community was absolutely radical.  Some left.  They just couldn’t stretch themselves that far.  It was too much to stomach, letting in all those Gentiles; allowing women to have a position of authority.  Others flooded into the church because there, for perhaps the first time in their life, they felt free.  Social expectations and prescribed definitions and constricting labels were broken down.  As Paul wrote, in the baptism of Christ, “there is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male or female, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”  (Galatians 3:28)

            For those of us raised in a western, post-enlightenment, feminist society that considers slavery an abomination, these words sound rather bland.  We pride ourselves in being open minded.  Women should have the right to an education, to positions of authority, and should receive equal pay for equal work.  Of course.  Jews and non-Jews should have equal treatment in our society.  That goes without saying.  What’s the big deal?

            But consider the context of 1^st century Palestine: Jews generally held themselves apart.  They considered Gentiles impure. They were not to eat with them or, if possible, do business with them.  And now Paul was openly dismantling a social structure that had been put in place for over a thousand years, taking it apart piece by piece.  Some of the early Jewish followers of Christ couldn’t stand it.  They left.  Others were drawn to the freedom of this community, and came.

            No slave or free?  Who would clean house?  Who would do all the hard labour?  It would destroy the economy!  No male or female?  C’mon, Paul.  In an age when women were the property of men, you’re going to sell the idea that there’s no difference between the two of them in the eyes of Christ?  Absurd.  Some people left.  Others flooded in, drawn to the buzz of a room filled with slaves and free, Jew and Greek, women and men all eating together in community.  Like the meal on the table, the aroma of freedom was too powerful to resist.

            “From now on,” Paul wrote, we regard no one from a human point of view…So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”  (II Cor. 5:16-17)  Very risky; very radical; very life-giving.

            People are drawn to genuine community the way you might be drawn to a wonderful fragrance.  Instinctively, we follow our nose.  The owners of concession stands at movie theaters are well aware of the tempting aroma of freshly made popcorn.   

            A cookie company bakes fresh cookies throughout the day so when you walk by their store the smell grabs you by the collar and pulls you inside.

            Real estate agents know the power of smell and have learned that fresh baked bread or cinnamon give people a warm feeling of home. 

            We’re drawn to community the way we’re drawn to a wonderful aroma, and that’s exactly why the early church thrived.  It grew not because the social and political environment was supportive: just the opposite.  It grew not because of a clear and rational doctrine: on the contrary, to the outsider, the Christian tradition can seem downright bizarre (“this is my body broken for you; this is my blood poured out for you..”)  It grew because they had discovered the secret of community. 

            Someone would be walking down a back alley in Corinth or Ephesus and would see a group of people sitting together talking about the strangest things – something about a man and a tree and an execution and an empty tomb.  What they were talking about made no sense to the onlooker.  But there was something about the way they spoke to one another, about the way they looked at one another, about the way they cried together, the way they laughed together, the way they touched one another that was strangely appealing.  It gave off what might be described as “the scent of love.” 

            The onlooker would turn to continue on his way, only to be pulled back like a bee drawn to the nectar of a flower.  They’d say, “I don’t have the slightest idea what these people are talking about, but whatever it is, I want to be part of it.”   (M. Scott Peck, A Different Drum, p.294, in reference to a book by Keith Miller, The Scent of Love, 1983).

            As a child, I remember this kind of thing happening all the time.  A group of us would have a great game of soccer or basketball going, and one or two guys would come over, “Can we play, too?”

            As a church, I’ve been on retreats or at services when people have hovered in the background, watching, gathered up the nerve to wander over and ask, “Can I join you?”

            We’re drawn to community the way we’re drawn to a wonderful aroma.  Perhaps a genuine community gives off the scent of love.

            When Colleen was only four, she was playing on the ground with her dolls, which she had neatly put in a circle, facing each other.  Janet came into the room vacuuming, and Colleen held up her hand, “Don’t ruin my set-up!”

            “Why, is it a class?”

            “No, it’s love.”

Colleen knew that love is turned toward each other, because we can’t love what we don’t see.  Her circle of dolls demonstrated that we can only care about what we have a relationship with.

            A genuine Christian community releases a scent of love; it’s a place of acceptance, challenge and growth.  The early church called this koinonia, which means “fellowship,” but is also translated as sharing, participation and contribution.  The root word of koinonia is koinos, which means “common.”  A community is bound by something they have in common. 

            Jon Miller’s rugby team can serve as an example of a community bound together by something in common.  Clearly, what this Rockridge High School team has in common is rugby.  That’s why they’re there; that’s what holds them in relationship.  Even if they’re very different people with very different interests and values and humour, they’re on that team because  they enjoy playing rugby.  That’s their koinos.

            Recently, the team won a big tournament.  To celebrate, all of the guys on the team agreed to get their hair cut.  That day.  By one of the players.  The haircuts were wild and zany.  It was both a test of their commitment (would they be seen in public with this new haircut?), and also a way of marking their connection with the team (“I’m wearing this haircut because I’m on the rugby team”).

            We’re all part of a multitude of communities, some more significant than others.  Our colleagues at work, our bridge club, our car pool, our family, our strata, the Kiwanis, Lions or Rotary club, the soccer team or our class at school all can be important communities in our life.

            The Christian expression of koinonia, however, points to the kind of community that is not man-made (human-made?).  Koinonia refers to a group of people in relationship that are held together by something quite intangible, something that goes beyond the particular make-up of individuals, something that the early church called “the body of Christ.”  (“Wherever two or three are gathered in my name, there I am also.”)

            A person of faith, and a community of faith, exhibited enthusiasm, which is an old, Greek word that literally means, “to be filled with the Spirit,” (en-Theo) or “to have the Spirit of God in us.”

            Who knew the depth of the word enthusiasm when in high school basketball games, the home crowd would stomp and clap and shout, “We’ve got the spirit, yes we do!  We’ve got the spirit, how about you?”  To which the visiting crowd was supposed to echo the chant and match the volume, “We’ve got the spirit, yes we do!  We’ve got the spirit, how about you?”  Back and forth it would go, each showing their spirit-filled enthusiasm for their team.

            The church community is meant to be filled with the Spirit.  Maybe we should stand on our roof and shout to our neighbours, the Baptists, the Unitarians, the Anglicans, the Catholics down the street, “We’ve got the spirit, yes we do!  We’ve got the spirit, how about you?”

            When we’re filled with the Spirit, enthused, all kinds of things can happen.  Lives get changed.  People’s hearts are touched.  Support and care, kindness and compassion flow into the world around us.  That’s the other part of the circle four-year-old Colleen built.  While she had all her dolls facing each other, because, we interpret, you can’t love what you don’t see, it is equally true to have the circle of dolls facing out, because the church isn’t about just facing each other and turning our backs on the world.  In that circle facing towards each other, we need to include the world.

            And the society in this part of the world longs for a sense of genuine community.  Well, we do and we don’t.  We long for community, yet we don’t want to commit to anything that might cramp our style.  We’re like the guy who wants to be in relationship, but can’t seem to make a commitment and has difficulty saying, “I love you.”  True story:

            A friend whispered in a passionate embrace, “I love you.”

            Her boyfriend whispered back, “Thanks.”

Thanks?  I’m no romantic genius, but somehow I don’t think that’s quite the response she was hoping for.  I love you…Thanks?

            People in North America are reluctant to make a commitment.  Already over-busy and far stretched, they want to keep the self unencumbered and free to roam.  Don’t get tied down.  Don’t impose or intrude or interrupt my ability to choose what I want when I want with whom I want.  “No, I don’t want to commit to a date on Friday, because something better might come up.  I’ll call you back Friday late afternoon and let you know then, OK?”

            And yet, people complain about the lack of community.  In our determination to keep the self unencumbered, we’ve lost connection.  In our focus on being unattached, our ability to develop deep relationships has withered on the vine.

            Yet there is a desire for connection, even if it’s a tenuous one.  Did you hear that when a major event like the World Cup or Expo or the Olympics are on, the host community experiences a temporary increase in happiness?  A sociologist figured out that suicide rates drop by 1,000 people in the course of a month.  Why?  Because lonely people feel connected and strangers have something to talk about.  Tongues are set loose on the bus and last night’s game is all the rage.  It doesn’t even matter, they found, if the host country wins or loses, it’s the sense of being part of something together that makes the difference. People have a basic need to belong and share a sense of identity.

            Yet giving a stranger a high-five on Robson is different than risking community.  We long to belong, yet we don’t want to commit.  And there lies the rub: you can’t have depth of community in a lasting way without commitment.  No community we belong to will fit our longings exactly.  And that’s probably good.  It’s part of the refining that happens when we get together with people who are different from us.  No one person can have their own way.  In community, we learn to think of others and to care about their needs.  In that way, even though our preferences are not always met, something more significant is nourished as we discover a connection that transcends all our differences.

St. David’s is going through a time of discernment as we consider different options for the future.  For some, just to hold these conversations is unsettling.  There will be differences of opinion and perspective.  However, it’s exactly in times like these that a community relies on the commitment of its members.  There is no koinonia without commitment.  There is no community without sustained participation.

            Those who were drawn to the early church risked everything: their reputation, their friends, their safety, even their lives.  What in the world would be worth all that risk?  What did this group hold in common, the koinos, that was more life-giving than the tried-and-true ways of the world? 

            Then as now, the genuine Christian community was filled with the Spirit.  And that Spirit informs behaviour toward each other so that it changes the way we speak to and look at each other, the way we touch and care for each other.  There was a particular scent in that community that lured others in, no matter the risk.  Some say it was the scent of love.  May we be drawn into and filled with that ancient fragrance even still. 

Amen.

Romans 12:1-8

Remember Who You Are
 
Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed
by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern
what is the will of God – what is good and acceptable and true.
Romans 12:2
 

Last week Janet had the privilege of attending the high school graduation ceremony at the Orpheum for the daughter of a very good friend.  Janet was present the day this child was born, has held her in her arms when she was an infant, watched her tumble through the room as a toddler with chubby legs and baggy diapers, watched her twirl in her dress at our wedding when she was just three, watched her grow and mature and become a fabulous young person.  Flash.  She’s learning to drive.  Flash.  She has her first job.  Flash.  She’s graduating from high school.

Aside from the swift current of time, Janet was also taken by the maturity of some of the students.  Later, in our kitchen after the ceremony, Janet commented on how some of the students just seemed to “know who they are.”  It was something beyond poise.   She said, “You could tell how they walked across the stage who had a good sense of themselves.”

One of my professors came from England and as a young boy, he reported that when he went out the door for a long day of play his mother would always say, “Remember who you are.”  It was a refrain she repeated even as he got older and went to a soccer game or a party or a trip away from home, “Allan, remember who you are.” 

When he was young, he thought she only meant, “remember your name and address in case you get lost.”  But as he grew, he came to the conclusion that she meant in all his exploring of this vast world, that he not get lost as did the Prodigal Son, but remember who he was, not just the son of a physician, but a child of God.

Last week we had a meeting after the service to discuss future directions for St. David’s.  It was a good meeting, I believe, offering the opportunity to share ideas and possibilities and priorities and preferences in a trusting and respectful environment.  St. David’s has been around now for 53 years, the United Church for 85, and as we all face a time of change and significant transition, I think it’s essential that we remember who we are.

You’re walking down the street one fine afternoon consumed in your

own thoughts when a friend greets you and asks what you’re thinking about.  Likely you’d respond that you were just pondering last week’s sermon and the implications for it in your life.  OK, maybe not, but since this is an entirely hypothetical situation, let’s just say that the conversation of church came up and you were asked right there in front of God and everybody, “What’s the United Church about?” how would you answer?  How would you describe this denomination that now has 85 years under its belt? 

            I think I might begin with the trinity.  Why not?  Today, anyway, I think I’d describe the United Church with the trinity of Todd, Martha and Maria.  Maria is a mother of two and appreciates how the United Church provides an environment where her children can interact with people of all different ages.  She says, “the children’s grandparents live in Montreal, so coming to church allows my kids to be embraced by wonderful people, some of whom are like adopted grandparents right here at home.”  Maria also appreciates how the United Church helps her children learn about the important stories of the Bible, but also encourages questions and wonder.

            Maria serves on the Pastoral Care Committee, and she’s always helping out visiting people in the hospital or taking a meal over to someone who needs some support.  Her caring presence has touched the lives of many, and she’s always ready to organize a dinner or social gathering at the church.  “Heck,” she says with a smile, “Christ can work with a party!”

Martha is the second person of this denominational trinity.  Martha is part of GoGo, an organization that supports grandmothers in Africa who, having lost their children to AIDS, raise their own grandchildren.  Martha can be seen cutting vegetables in the kitchen for the Out of the Cold dinners and organizes the Christmas Hampers and signs petitions for various causes.  She has a passion for social justice and is always looking for ways the church can work together in service to others.  Martha isn’t sure what to make of the resurrection and doesn’t believe in the Virgin Birth, but she’s very sure Jesus spent far more time with the poor and suffering than he did with the elite, and she thinks that’s where the church should be too.  “When we get to heaven,” Martha says, “we’re going to be asked one question: Did you get your hands dirty?” 

Martha’s curly hair is now grey and in her many years on this earth she’s come to know and love a wide variety of people: some are Christian, lots are not; some are heterosexual, others are not; some are conservative, some are not.  So she appreciates a denomination that reflects the diversity of her relational experience and is proud to be part of a church that was the  first denomination to ordain a woman (1937) and the first in Canada to approve the ordination of a gay or lesbian (1988).  She says about the United Church, “We’re highly imperfect, but in our stumbling way we do our best to shine some light in the dark places of the world.”

The third person in this denominational trinity is Todd.  Todd is in his forties, is divorced, balances a busy career and adjusting to a two-home family.  He has the kids for two weeks of the month and also tries to make time for his book group, which he’s part of at the church.  Todd is grateful for the denomination’s emphasis on an intellectually honest and open approach to a life of faith.  He participates in adult education events and tries to arrange his schedule for church retreats, because he feels these help him sink more deeply into his faith and simply help him be clear about what matters in life.  He appreciates the community in these study groups, and is grateful that people can have very different opinions and perspectives and beliefs, and still listen to each other with respect, and laugh.

He was impressed to learn that as far back as 1962 the United Church published what was then called “the New Curriculum,” which incorporated modern biblical scholarship with the curriculum for Sunday school.  He says, “People shouldn’t be shielded from what the scholars know, but with that awareness, wrestle the biblical text for meaning as Jacob wrestled with the angel.”

When it comes to the Bible, Todd believes we should rip the back cover right off as a sign that “God is still speaking.”  He’s fond of quoting Gracie Allen’s line, “Never put a period where God has put a comma,” and he believes the creating God is still creating, and the Word that was in the beginning is still speaking to us if we but stop and listen.

By now, of course, your friend who originally asked the question about your church has either left to catch the bus long ago, or the two of you have already walked into the Bakehouse for a cup of coffee and a muffin.  It may not be the most concise way to describe the denomination we celebrate today, but one could do worse than the trinity of Todd, Martha and Maria, because to introduce the United Church is to make a personal introduction.  Naturally, the church is only made up of people who are connected in one body – we call this the Body of Christ – but we have different passions and ways to serve and ways to embody the faith.  That’s why we need a trinity.  One won’t do when diversity is the norm, and one thing that seems to be true of the church and, for that matter, of all creation is that it is one diverse living being.

“Remember who you are,” Allan’s mother would call out as he was already half out the door.  Isn’t this the work of the church: to remind us who we are?  To hold this tender world so badly bruised and misused and help us all remember who we are?  It’s the work of prophets and sages and saints; it’s the work of a saviour who in his living and in his dying reminded us not only who he is but also who we are.

“Don’t let your minds be conformed to this world…” Paul wrote to the Romans.  I wonder if they, too, were filled with images of what they were supposed to be?  I wonder if they, too, needed to remember that true success may have nothing to do with power and prestige, and true wealth may have nothing at all to do with possessions?  I wonder if they, too, needed to be reminded that there’s more to a life than making sure your senses are satisfied.  I wonder if they, too, worried about things like keeping up appearances and faithfully following the mainstream?  Did they carry around all that stuff, too?  Perhaps that’s why Paul reminded them not to be conformed to the world, because they, like us, needed to be reminded who they are.

“Do not be conformed to the world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”  So this remembering business is also about renewing.  This sounds to me not at all like it’s about adding a bunch of new information, but that it’s about a transformation that comes from a well-spring deep within, perhaps where our nous, our mind, touches the edge of mystery, the hem of the divine, and in that proximity we find ourselves healed.

I don’t think this kind of renewal is all that rare.  There are different levels of intensity, of course, but I believe all of us have likely had experiences when the world appears in sudden clarity, as if someone just took a photograph of the moment and held it in front of you, suspended in time.  The moment might be beautiful, or not, but it has a sense of being complete in itself, whole, somehow. 

The Christian tradition calls these moments “grace-filled,” because we can’t manufacture them.  We can’t make them happen.  They come to us, like being surprised by a postcard in the mail from a good friend.  But we can notice them.  And when they do happen, we can give thanks. 

We can also practice coming near to that place where our nous touches the edge of mystery through worship and a dozen ways of praying.  We can practice by living authentically and mindfully.  We can put ourselves in the way of grace by forgiving others and replacing judgment with empathy and insight.  In all these ways, we’re like the humming bird more than the camel.  The camel can take a long drink and go for days and many miles without water.  The hummingbird zips to its source, drinks, zips, and sips some more.  Through worship, prayer and intentional living, we keep coming back to the edge of mystery, where we remember again what we lost, sip from it, and through grace the work of transformation renews our body and mind.

And every Sunday when the service ends with a blessing, it’s like a mother calling over your shoulder as you turn to go out the door, “Remember who you are.”

God bless you.  Amen.

Introduction to the Scripture

            On this 85^th anniversary of the United Church, I find myself drawn to a scripture reading that, in my mind, serves as a perfect analogy for the church: one body, with many members, each serving different functions, each valued for their own unique contribution.

            The purpose of the church is also clearly stated in both today’s reading and the reading for next week: the purpose is for transformation and service.  In this reading, Paul advises his small flock in Rome not to be conformed to the ways of the world, but to be transformed by the renewing of your minds so you can discern the will of God.

            Not conformed, but transformed by the renewing of your minds…

The English word “mind” translates the Greek term nous. If I were to ask you to point to your mind on your body, you’d likely point to the brain.  But not the Greeks.  They might just as likely point to the nose, as the etymology of nous can be traced back to the root meaning “to sniff,” which suggests a “way of acquiring knowledge” through the sense of smell.  We all know how a fragrance can unleash a flood of memories; the smell bread baking or clean mountain air connects with memories from my childhood, for example.  The connection between “knowing” and “smell” is perhaps why we “sniff out the truth” or why a detective, like a good bloodhound, might pick-up the scent of the criminal. 

In early Greek literature such as Homer, nous referred not to an intellectual organ (brain) but to a function which was defined as the ability to realize fully the true nature or essence of a thing and not be distracted by its surface appearance.  So we don’t judge a book by its cover or a person by their appearance.  Nous provided the ability to perceive a camouflaged enemy soldier hiding among the rocks.

But “the mind” discerns not only the real from the superficial in practical situations, but in Greek philosophy “nous” also discovers the ‘true’ character of reality, or, as one of my professors put it, “the really real.”  Thus the mind appears to be the link between human existence and divine presence.

We can’t see God directly, can’t hold God’s hand or find God sitting on the couch of our living room.  But in this passage, Paul speaks from his familiarity of Greek culture that what is incomprehensible to human senses is able to be perceived, or “sniffed out” by nous, the human mind.  Nous helps us perceive a camouflaged God hiding in the world.  This idea developed to include the significant connection between the mind and ethical behavior: to fully know the good is to do the good.

            The church provides a place where we can cultivate the renewing of our minds in order to discern the ways of God.

(Romans 12:1-8)

We’ll recognize the children and youth who have participated in Sunday school this year, heartily thank the Sunday school teachers who have given so generously of their time, energy and love, and express gratitude for Rev. Kerri Mesner, who has so ably led the children and youth program.

Join the St. David’s UCW for a Strawberry Tea on June 18th.

The Tea begins at 1:30 in the Lounge.  Tickets are only $5 each.