Phil Kniss: Faith, fear, and fragility

February 28, 2010
Lent 2: Psalm 27; Luke 13:31-35

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We’re just starting the second decade of the new millennium.
People like to name decades after some dominant characteristic
of the time—Roaring ’20s, Decade of Decadence, etc.
If I were to name the decade we just finished a couple months ago,
I would call it the Decade of Fear.
People have always struggled with fears, to some extent.
But I think this past decade stands in a league of its own.
It began 10 years ago with Y2K:
we were afraid computers would bring the world crashing down.
People built underground bunkers
full of canned goods, water, and guns.
Then a year later, the 9-11 terrorist attacks changed us forever:
we literally embraced fear as the only way to survive.
Again, people reinforced and stocked their bunkers.
We were all urged to be suspicious and vigilant
and to be very afraid whenever our government
raised the official threat level from orange to red.
All through this decade
we discovered countless new ways to be afraid—
of people with bombs in their shoes or underwear,
of snipers,
of kidnappers,
of school shooters,
of H1-N1 virus,
of food bacteria.
The divisive politics in the last couple national elections
have elevated fear to new levels.
The more polarized we have become,
the more our weapon of choice is fear—for both ends of the pole.
People on the left have been taught to be afraid of
evangelical Christians,
anti-abortionists,
tea party protestors,
and Sarah Palin.
People on the right have been taught to be afraid of
environmentalists,
gays and lesbians,
socialists,
and Barack Obama.

We are encouraged by the media not only to be suspicious,
but to be downright afraid,
constantly on guard against the “enemy,”
who is clearly hell-bent on destroying us,
and destroying the life we cherish.

But I don’t blame big corporate media for all of this.
They produce what they know we want to hear.
Because if we don’t watch it, companies won’t sponsor it.
Thoughtful, rational sustained discussion of differing viewpoints,
doesn’t sell on cable TV.
If people who disagree, sit and respectfully listen to each other,
and ask questions to build understanding,
it doesn’t pull in the big money.
It’s just too boring for us, the American public.
We want people yelling at each other,
shaking their fists,
exaggerating,
misrepresenting,
and calling each other names.
We want talk show hosts who will find the most extreme case,
and then tell us that everyone on the other side
is just . . . like . . . that!
which is why we need to be afraid of them.

It is getting harder and harder, in the Age of Fear,
to find a source of news that informs, rather than inflames.
_____________________

Not all fear is a bad thing, of course.
When I face a situation where suddenly—
life and death hangs in the balance—
I, for one, am glad that God created in us a fear instinct.
It’s life-giving fear that seizes us
and makes us step back from the edge of a cliff,
or run away from a mad dog,
or take cover when bullets fly.
Thank God for that kind of fear.

But the fear I’m talking about, the fear of this age,
is a fear that drives us away from others.
It’s a fear that makes us take on a posture
of self-protection and isolation
instead of openness and hospitality.
That kind of fear is not life-giving.
It sucks life out of us.
It keeps us stuck in whatever feels safe and secure.
It prevents us from going where God is calling us.
It robs us of the full and abundant life God desires for us.

And it’s that kind of fear God warns us about in scripture.
Fears that paralyze, that hinder, that destroy,
are not the work of a good Creator,
they are from the Evil One.
These are the fears referred to when scripture says,
“Be not afraid.”
“Fear not, I am with you always.”
“Perfect love casts out all fear.”
“Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change.”
“With the Lord on my side I do not fear.”
And from today’s reading in Ps. 27.
“The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?”

If we allow fear to turn us away from where God is calling us,
then that fear is sin.
And we need to confess that fear.
And we need to be delivered of that fear.
A lot easier said than done,
but God does provide what we need to face our fears
and learn to live with them.

We heard about it this morning in Luke 13.
Jesus looked at the city of Jerusalem,
full of people that God dearly loved,
and the image that came to Jesus’ mind was a chicken—
a mother hen and her chicks.
Jesus said, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem . . .
How often have I desired to gather your children together
as a hen gathers her brood under her wings,
and you were not willing!”
I love to picture that in my mind.
I know chickens.
I didn’t grow up a chicken farm,
but we always had a backyard chicken coop when I was a kid.
I’ve seen, many times, how a mother hen acts
when she suddenly thinks it’s time
for her chicks to gather in under her wings.
She sounds the alarm in no uncertain terms,
and they come running.
And they don’t trickle in one at a time.
They come immediately, en masse.
And they all end up under the shelter of her wings,
all of them together in one place,
all of them under one set of mothering wings.

That’s an image to hold on to
as a way to live with our fears.

Baby chicks find strength being in community,
under the protection of the one that formed the community.
All baby chicks, by nature’s instinct, know who they are.
They are part of a brood . . . a flock . . .
who all belong to a particular mother.
That reality defines them. Completely.
Alone, they could never survive.

That’s why Jesus used the image of a hen and chicks.
That’s why the psalmist wrote poetry about
finding refuge under the shelter of God’s wings.

God doesn’t want us to be afraid.
God wants us to be chicken.
God wants us to run, together, en masse,
and seek shelter under God’s wings.

Now, don’t misunderstand.
Running under God’s wings is not escapism.
We’re not trying to avoid dealing with a real threat.
No, God wants us there because that is the place
where we can best confront our fears.
That’s the place where we know clearly and experience deeply
who we are and to whom we belong.
When we have a community of persons to be with
who trust in the same mothering God we trust in,
when we are in right relationship with that God,
and with each other,
then we have a strong basis on which
to face our fears with confidence,
individually and collectively.
We find that confidence with each other, under God’s wings.
Being “chicken” in that way, is nothing to be ashamed of.
It’s the biblical response to the fears we face.

It’s also the precise antidote we need
for the kind of fears our culture tries to instill in us.
Look at almost any example of fears from the last decade—
from the Y2K panic to the color-coded war on terrorism,
from over-reactive journalists to over-protective parents,
from H1N1 to E-Coli,
from Glenn Beck to Ed Shultz.
Fear-mongering is the stock-in-trade
of partisan politics,
of extreme activist groups on the right and left,
of most mainstream media outlets,
and of a lot of popular entertainment.

For certain groups, for certain powers-that-be,
it’s actually profitable, good for the bottom line,
if the general populace stays afraid much of the time.
It helps sell the protection they have to offer.

And the way to make sure people stay afraid,
is to keep them from doing what little chicks do—
keep them from coming together,
and drawing strength from their common identity.
So they try to convince you that you really are on your own,
that you are the only person you can trust,
that if you don’t take of yourself first,
nobody else is going to.
Why else do you think gun sales are up everywhere?
Why are lawmakers voting in recent weeks to make it even easier
to carry loaded guns on college campuses and restaurants?

Faith in Jesus Christ calls us to resist this mass cultural hysteria.
The response of faith,
is not a response of suspicion, separation, and human isolation.
The response of faith does not first protect my own self-interest.
The response of faith moves me toward the other.
And in so doing, moves me toward God.
The response of faith is a response of love.
That’s why we read in 1 John,
“There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear.”
Fear and love are incompatible. They are opposites.
Love draws us out of ourselves and toward the other.
Fear draws us into ourselves, and away from the other.
Love casts out fear.
And followers of Jesus are called to love.

So a gathering of Christians should be the last place on earth,
where people rally support for a cause
by instilling fear, and anxiety,
and creating distance between ourselves
and those who are different from us.
But I think we know all too well,
that’s not always the case.
The merchants of fear also operate in the church.
_____________________

We are called to be a people of peace,
a people secure in our identity in Jesus Christ,
a people who answer to a Lord who made a habit of saying,
Fear not. Peace be with you. I am with you always.

Of course, if we do find peace and security in Christ,
if we are freed from our fears,
that’s not a guarantee we escape injury
from that which threatens us.
Isaiah 43 says,
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.”
Not if. When.
God’s people will keep on passing through raging waters,
and fire, and storm, and earthquake.
And where is God in the storm?
Where was God when the earth shook
in Haiti, or in Chile yesterday?

Well, I can tell you God wasn’t sitting in a La-Z-Boy watching CNN.
God was right there under the rubble.
It might not make sense to us, but it’s the Gospel truth.
God suffers with us.
God shares our dark, cramped, and painful space of suffering.

God is with us . . . right in the middle of the place . . .
where our fears are most real, most intense.
We are invited to be “chicken” in the good way.
To find ourselves—and help each other find—
the shelter of God’s wings,
and gather under those wings together.
We are invited to come to a place
where we are holding on to that oft-repeated promise
that God is with us . . . always,
and are letting go of those persistent fears that bind us,
that pull us into ourselves and away from others,
that prevent us from living the life to which God called us.

I don’t know what kind of persistent fears trouble you.
I only know about mine.
As someone who has been a perfectionist from the day I was born,
and who now leads a fairly public kind of life,
I know I have to battle the fear of failure,
the fear of looking foolish or stupid in the eyes of others,
so I like to play it fairly safe.
I’m cautious.
Which is good sometimes,
but probably also keeps me from stepping into the unknown,
where God just might be calling me occasionally.

I don’t know your fears.
Many of us fear failure, or fear loss.
We fear illness and death.
We fear broken relationships.
We fear being alone.
We fear loss of control over our lives.
We fear for our emotional and mental well-being.
Perhaps the stress is so great,
we feel we are on the edge every day,
and live with a constant fear of falling off.
Maybe we fear economic catastrophe.
Maybe we fear a longtime relationship
with a spouse, or a dear friend,
is about to slip away forever.
Maybe we are facing a serious illness,
the potential end of our lives, or the life of someone we love.
And fear is paralyzing us.

We are invited to hold on, and let go.
To hold on to the promises of a God who longs to shelter us
as a mother hen with her chicks.
To hold on to the cross of Jesus Christ,
a symbol of the most profound suffering we can imagine,
that was transformed to a symbol of the glory of God.
And to let go of our fears—
fears that draw us into ourselves,
fears that keep us from stepping forward
into whatever scary place God is calling us,
a place where God is already there.

I invite us again,
as we are doing each Sunday during Lent,
to a time of confession, in both word and action.

In the narrow blue folders in your hymnal rack,
you will find small pieces of tissue paper.
If you want to participate in this act of confession,
simply name the fear with which you are struggling today.
You need only write a word or a few words if you wish.
Then begin the act of holding on, and letting go.
Hold on to Christ, and let go of your fears,
by approaching the cross,
this image of humiliation made into an image of glory,
a symbol of fear made into a symbol of love,
and come to this water bowl, representing God’s healing stream,
and release your fear, written on the tissue paper,
onto the surface of that water.
Let it be soaked up by that water, and softened,
and eventually, dissolved.

If it is physically difficult for you to make the walk forward,
be bold to ask someone else to carry your confession for you.

During this act of confession,
we will be singing together in the purple hymnal, Sing the Story,
number 63, “God, fill me now.”

Come whenever you are ready.

—Phil Kniss, February 28, 2010




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Phil Kniss: The other side of the mountain

February 21, 2010
Lent 1: Holding on...letting go
Luke 9:28-36, Luke 4:1-13

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We celebrate Lent because we have to.
We simply have to.
It’s a spiritual necessity.

If our aim is to journey toward wholeness, in Christ,
Lent is an essential part of that journey.
It’s a needed Sabbath rest on the road to wholeness.
A stop-off, to step back, survey the landscape, take stock.
To cease our striving, for a season.
To quit grasping.

Lent is not, as many people seem to think,
a 40-day season to give up an earthly pleasure,
like chocolate, or dessert, or television.
Nothing wrong with that, of course.
That’s a good discipline.
But we ought to be making good lifestyle choices
anytime of the year.
Giving up one vice or one luxury for 40 days
doesn’t even come close
to the heart of the matter, concerning Lent.

In the church calendar, the season of Lent begins, appropriately,
right after Transfiguration Sunday.
When we cancelled for snow Feb. 7, it threw us off one week,
because we decided to use that service the next week,
and just skip what would have been Transfiguration Sunday.
Not a big deal.
Transfiguration was never a huge thing for Mennonites.

But I’ve appreciated that at Park View,
we have often taken that Sunday once a year,
to retell that Gospel story of the three disciples
being overwhelmed by the glory of God
being struck almost senseless by this shining vision
of Jesus, Moses, and Elijah on top of the mountain,
and wanting somehow to make it permanent,
and build three houses for these three divine beings.
I’ve appreciated that at Park View we make it a point each year
to reflect on, and celebrate,
those times where we have, quite unexpectedly,
seen the glorious, luminous face of God,
where we have met the holy, the divine.

So, not wanting to be derailed by a little bit of snow (or a lot of snow),
I decided to have us read two Gospel stories today—
the Transfiguration story we missed last week,
and the story we usually look at on the first Sunday in Lent—
the story of Jesus’ temptations in the wilderness.

Somehow, it seems right to hold these two back-to-back,
whether a week apart, as usual,
or in the same service, as we’re doing today.
The bright, shining Mount of Transfiguration
and the stark, barren wilderness of Temptation,
are two faces of the same reality.
God is equally present in both,
but is encountered in very different ways.
One without the other, is a story . . . half-told.

On the Mount of Transfiguration
we get a gleaming clear vision of this close connection
between heaven and earth.
But in the wilderness of Lent,
we’re on the other side of this mountain.
Here we see the shadows of our humanity,
we muck around in our messy life at the foot of the mountain.

We might very well wish, like Peter did,
that we can hold on to these mountain-top visions of God’s glory,
that we are sometimes blessed with.
I imagine, to some degree, we can all identify with Peter’s bright idea
to build a shelter to house this divine glory.
For many centuries now,
churches have attempted to do exactly that—
institutionalize the divine,
make permanent and predictable the glory of God.

Lent is a season both for holding on . . . and letting go.
There are some things in life that are core
to who God called us to be,
and what God called us to do.
And there are some things in life—
even things that we strive after and cling to—
that are, at best, peripheral to God’s calling on our lives,
and might actually distract us from the life God intends.
Lent is a season to discern what is at the core,
and what distracts us from the core.
It’s a season to help us let go of those things we need to let go of,
and hold on to that which we need to hold on to.
That takes careful discernment,
and the support of a community of faith.

This act of letting go does not come naturally.
You know, it’s not only infants
who have a strong grasping instinct.
Long before a baby knows how to respond to other external stimuli
it knows how to grasp.
You just touch the palm of an infant,
and its fingers wrap tightly around,
refusing to let go.
Human beings may grow out of that physical instinct to grasp.
But our instinct to grasp in other ways, lasts our lifetime.

We do not by nature voluntarily let go
of what we think we need for happiness.
That is why Lent is a spiritual necessity.
That is why the church calendar asks us to set aside
today and the next five Sundays to celebrate this season.
Because we may not do it otherwise,
and it’s something we need to do.

It would be more to our liking
to give just a slight nod to Lent,
and then quickly move on to Easter,
to resurrection,
to joy and peace and victory.
But no. We need . . . to take . . . our time . . . with this season.
We need to slow down long enough
to gaze honestly into the shadows.
If we don’t, we cheapen the resurrection.
If we don’t go to the depths, we don’t get to the heights.
It’s as simple as this:
If we don’t do Lent, we sabotage Easter.

God’s wonderful grace and salvation and resurrection power
is all about God finding us in the middle
of our brokenness and sin and death,
in the middle of the wilderness,
and bringing us up into the light, into wholeness of life.

So these six Sundays of Lent are not just gloom and doom theology.
We won’t be beating ourselves down
with “what-a-worm-am-I” kind of thinking.
Yes, in our Ash Wednesday services last week
we did take time to remember that we are dust,
and to dust we shall return.
But we remember our sin and shadows and brokenness,
knowing that God’s grace is, and will be, sufficient for all our sins,
sufficient to transform us and bring us into the light.

You know, don’t you,
that the Sundays in Lent don’t count in the 40 days?
The days between Ash Wednesday and Easter add up to 40,
only if you skip the Sundays.
Each Sunday in Lent is a little feast in the middle of the fast.
We “break fast” on Sundays.
A spiritual breakfast so-to-speak.
In Lent, we rejoice when we come and worship each Sunday.
We give thanks. We praise.
But we praise in a minor key.
We’re a bit subdued
because we are more keenly aware
of the reality of sin and brokenness and shadows
that is part of life on the other side of the mountain.
_____________________

Today’s Gospel story of Jesus’ temptations in the wilderness
is the story of an arduous spiritual workout for Jesus.
It’s a story of Jesus deciding what to hold on to,
and what to let go of.

Jesus had just been baptized by John, in the Jordan River.
He has just been proclaimed, in public, by a voice from heaven
that he was the very Son of God, God’s own beloved.
Then, strangely, at the very moment Jesus should have been
most ready to engage in his mission,
when he should have had the greatest clarity,
on the heels of this public affirmation and recognition,
the Holy Spirit sent him into the middle of nowhere.

We usually read this short story in Luke 4, and we miss the impact.
It’s only 13 verses long, takes a minute to read.
But this was not a simple weekend in the Sinai,
with a pesky conversation with the devil thrown in.
Can we even imagine . . . what 40 days in the desert would be like?
The depth of suffering . . .
The excruciating physical and emotional and spiritual isolation. . .
The agony of being without anything—food, shelter, company.
I don’t think I could survive 40 days in my own house,
with a stocked refrigerator and air-conditioning—
if I was all alone,
if I could not leave it, or have anyone join me in it.

But Jesus was out there alone in the wilderness for 40 days,
sent there by the Holy Spirit,
met there by the devil.

As painful and full of suffering as it was,
it must have also been deeply clarifying for Jesus.

At his baptism he was named by his Father.
“You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
In the desert, that identity was tested.
The Deceiver was intent on
convincing Jesus to walk away from his true self,
away from that voice from heaven that named him.
The desert deceiver failed in that attempt.
And eventually gave up and left for another opportune time.

That’s what Jesus’ temptations were all about.
He was tempted to let go of his true self,
and grasp hold of a false identity.

When he was
tempted to use his power to turn stones into bread
and satisfy his intense hunger,
tempted with political power and influence,
tempted to attract attention and glory to himself,
the real underlying temptation—in all three of those—
was to hold on and let go of the wrong things.
To let go of his true identity,
to release himself from his heavenly call,
to forget who he belonged to,
and to grasp hold of the intoxicating power
of controlling his own destiny,
satisfying his own desires,
and using power over others to accomplish his agenda.

We who are called by Christ,
are in exactly that position.
We, too, are given a name by God.
God calls us his own children,
adopts us,
calls us into a new community.

And we are constantly tempted, like Jesus,
to let go of, and hold on to, the wrong things—
to let go of that which is true to who God created us to be,
and hold on to those things that distract and derail.

Lent is the season to refocus, rethink, repent,
to reorient ourselves God-ward.
It is the season for holding on
to those things which move us toward God,
and God’s kingdom.
And it is the season for letting go
of whatever may be in our lives,
that functions as a distraction.

Like I said,
it will require some careful discernment
to determine what you called to hold on to,
and let go of during this season of Lent.
We take Lent too lightly,
if we think we can just decide on a dime,
the day before Ash Wednesday,
what one substance or behavior
to fast from for 40 days . . .
and then assume that we’ve done the work of Lent.
No, Lent is a season for discerning.
It will take all 40 days, and maybe then some,
to listen for what God is telling us to hold on to,
and to let go of.
It will be more than one simple material thing.
I am confident of that.

Each Sunday that we gather in worship this season,
we will allow time in the service to at least start this work
of holding on . . . and letting go.
It will come in our weekly ritual of confession,
following the sermon.
It will be an act in which you get physically involved
in the holding and releasing.
And it will be, at the same time, both completely private,
and very public.

We will not be required . . . this morning, or ever . . .
to reveal to anyone else what we feel called to let go of.
It may be something clearly sinful we are confessing,
greed or anger that’s gone awry and hurt other people,
some act of violence, or infidelity, or deceit,
or some sexual addiction, or food addiction, or substance abuse.
It may be something that seems rather benign,
television habits, or use of the internet,
the way we eat, the way we treat our bodies.
It may be some toxic relationship that needs to be addressed,
some bitterness eating away at our spirit.
It may be a general self-absorption that’s getting us off-track.

I will shortly invite those who wish to participate
to a period of silent reflection and physical action.
After a short time of meditation,
we will physically express our holding on to Christ
by moving from our seats and approaching the cross.
And we will physically let go of something
God may be prompting us to let go of,
by literally casting it on the water,
letting it float away in God’s healing stream.

On the stand here near the cross is a vessel of clear water.
In the hymnal racks in front of you are the usual blue folders,
but inside you will find tiny slips of tissue paper.
If you want to participate,
take your pen or pencil (or borrow from someone nearby)
and write on one of those slips of paper
what God is prompting you to release.
And when you are ready,
approach the cross and release that slip of paper onto the water.
This is a very public demonstration of your will
to hold on to Christ and let go of what’s getting in the way.
But what you release into the water will not be seen by anyone.
What doesn’t dissolve,
will be taken out in one soggy clump and disposed of.
But after today,
this act of letting go will be strengthened
if you share it with someone,
and allow the body of which we are part,
to help us on this continuing journey
of holding on, and letting go.

After I lead in a prayer of confession,
there will be time to silently pray and write,
and then we will begin to sing from
Sing the Story #63 . . . God, fill me now.
Anytime during the music and singing,
just come and participate in this ritual as you wish.

Let us pray.
With all our heart and mind and strength, Lord,
we hold on to you,
to that which gives us life.
But we confess that we have also stubbornly held on
to things that distract us from the life you intend.
Give us the wisdom, and the strength,
to let go, to empty our hands before you.
And the confidence that in so doing,
you will fill us now . . . with you.

—Phil Kniss, February 21, 2010



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Barbara Moyer Lehman: Called to deeper places

February 14, 2010
Epiphany 6: Luke 5:1-11

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“Put out into deeper water and let down your nets.” This was the command from Jesus to Simon in Luke 5:4. This Simon was a common fisherman who chose to obey. This choice lead Simon to the abundance of deep waters, and provides a glimpse of the power of Jesus.

Pastor Barbara Moyer Lehman said that Jesus did not call Simon to something completely different. Rather, Jesus called Simon to a deeper understanding of what Simon was already doing.

What does it mean for us to step into deep waters in our families, friendships, or work place? Can we trust Jesus enough to leave the shallow places? What would this look like, and what are our fears?


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