Phil Kniss: In No Position to Help

March 27, 2011 -- Lent 3: Shaped by thirst

John 4:5-42

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Helping is a complicated thing

Well, on the one hand, it’s incredibly simple.

As simple as seeing a human need in the course of your day,

and if you’re in a position to help,

just reaching out to help, and going your way.

It’s as simple as the human impulse

to be decent and attentive to those around you.

There’s an insurance commercial that shows a whole sequence

of scenes of one person helping another,

while a third person notices, gets inspired,

and helps out someone else moments later,

and it keeps going on that way.

It’s one of those rare commercials

that inspire goodwill in the human spirit

even more than selling their product,

although they do that too.

Helping another person is something that is

simply decent, simply good, simply responsible, simply human.

It can also get very complicated,

if you are in a position to help.

I use that phrase, “in a position to help”

because so much of the helping that goes on in society

is determined almost exclusively by the position

of the helper and help-ee.

In fact, many are in the position of being a “professional helper,”

including me.

Before becoming a pastor, I was a social worker,

because I literally, wanted to help people.

I worked with older persons,

helping provide services to enable them to live at home.

I was able to help in those situations,

not just because it was a good, human thing to do,

but because I was put in a position to help.

I was given access to resources—

government funds were given to the non-profit agency I worked for.

The agency paid me a salary to do my job full-time;

provided a desk, phone, and office supplies;

reimbursed mileage traveling into remote rural areas;

even, upon my request, gave me the resources

to establish a branch office in a rural town

so I could be more accessible to those I was helping.

I was in a great position to help, and help I did.

Of course, my helping had parameters. The one being helped

had to be poor enough,

and had to be impaired enough.

and had to want help enough.

So while I was in this enviable “position to help”

it reinforced their un-enviable “position of need.”

Even I—a low-paid, 24-year-old, guy in jeans and a beat-up car,

working for a community non-profit—

I had the status, the resources, the training,

and the power to give and withhold help,

at my discretion.

And those getting the help just had to suck it up,

and permit the indignities involved

in having a guy with a clipboard

sitting in their living room or beside their bed,

asking them how much they made each month in social security,

and how much money was in their bank account,

and whether they could go to the bathroom by themselves.

In retrospect, I think I did a lot of people of lot of good,

through the social services I could put into motion.

My helping did, in fact, enable some people

to live longer and happier and safer in their own homes.

I’m proud of what I did.

But it was complicated by this factor

of what it means to be in a position to help.

My helping reinforced my position of power,

and it reinforced their position of powerlessness.

Actually, I was able to be a real friend to some of my clients.

I spent hours sometimes, listening to their life stories.

Sometimes they even asked about mine.

But neither of us ever completely lost sight of the fact

that I still had the position of power.

I could, at any time, determine that they no longer qualified

for the help I was sending their way.

This kind of helping is a lot more complicated,

than holding open the door at the post office

for someone tapping a white cane on the sidewalk.

Helping due to our position, happens all the time.

That’s not bad, that’s good.

But it’s also complicated.

It’s a good kind of helping that we, frankly, need a lot more of.

It’s the kind of helping that the church does 99% of the time—

whether it’s evangelistic mission work,

or international development,

or local community service.

And it’s precisely the kind of help we will be doing this next week,

as we open our church doors to host the HARTS shelter.

We are in an obvious, and enviable, position to help.

We have the compassionate people, the financial resources,

the food, the heated shelter, the showers, the beds.

We already have

pretty much everything our homeless neighbors need,

to live for a week in greater safety, security, and health.

So we have, I believe, a God-given responsibility to help.

And I am so grateful we have stepped up to the task,

and are doing it.

Kudos to Shirley, and Barbara, and the dozens and dozens

of volunteers who will be happily helping this week.

But because we are in this position, it’s complicated.

To meet certain regulations,

to meet a certain standard of human fairness,

to ensure that our people are reasonably protected,

and to keep from running out of the financial resources

we released for this act of helping,

we—and I say we, because HARTS is us—

we need to limit the number of homeless people we help.

Some get turned away.

There has been an emergency overflow shelter to take these,

but that option closes this Friday.

After that, we don’t know what’s going to happen

with the homeless for whom there is no room in the inn.

Those of us “in a position to help” are talking about it now.

But it’s complicated.

I could repeat my point with all kinds of examples

of the complicated nature of helping,

when we are in a position to help.

For instance,

helping Christian Baptist Church

in the Ninth Ward of New Orleans,

is pretty complicated.

There’s been some movement recently,

and we hope to keep moving forward.

And the emergency financial assistance we give

to People Helping People, or on occasion,

directly to the person in need.

When to say yes, when to say no, when to say,

“yes, but only if you do such-and-such.”

Tough questions.

And the money and resources we share with our sister churches

in the Global South.

Mennonite World Conference has a Global Sharing Fund,

in which we participate.

We have our program to help churches in developing countries

with the funds to finish constructing their church building.

Wonderful things to do.

But oh, the relationship dynamics that puts into motion!

How do we, in a position of

higher status and privilege and resources,

help without creating dependence,

or being too protective, or conditional, or stingy.

We must help, and we do, and it’s good.

But it’s complicated.

Because “positional helping”—to coin a phrase—

can never be pure and simple.

Help from top down is always, in some form or another,

exchanged for something else.

On rare occasions, it’s actual material or money

to be paid back at some future date.

More often, it’s the intangible benefits we get from helping—

the psychological benefit we gain from being charitable,

sometimes public recognition for our generosity,

sometimes it simply reinforces our position,

ensures that our respective roles—as helper and help-ee—

won’t ever get turned around.

Sometimes, happily,

the act of helping comes back to us in ways that enrich us,

we learn, simply by being with those who are suffering.

Our homeless guests through HARTS this week

will, in many ways, be our teachers.

We have a chance to learn from their lives.

Is that good? Of course! Obviously!

But is it complicated? Yes, that too.

Whenever we are called to help another,

it would be good to at least reflect on what this act of helping

is doing—for us, for the one we are helping,

and for our relationship with them.

We could at least consider how we might turn the tables sometimes,

and learn to be gracious recipients of help from others,

learn how to be needy.

And for that we turn to today’s amazing Gospel story

of Jesus and the Samaritan woman—from John chapter 4.

Jesus, we all know, was the consummate helper.

Everywhere he went, he helped.

Healed, fed, restored, forgave, delivered.

But in this story, it was Jesus who needed help.

He was hot, tired, and thirsty.

That fact alone is worth pondering.

We don’t often think of Jesus in terms of his

very real, very physical, and very human needs.

When Jesus and his disciples got into Samaria,

the disciples went on into the city to buy food.

Jesus stayed by the well.

Why?

Because he heard God telling him

he had some spiritual business to do

with a Samaritan woman who’d be coming along shortly?

That’s possible, I suppose.

But I think the reason was more earthy and human.

Jesus stayed by the well because he was exhausted.

John tells us in v. 6 that Jesus was “tired out by his journey.”

He was probably huffing and puffing, and a little wobbly on his feet.

So he said to his disciples,

“You go get the food. I can’t take another step.”

Not to be irreverent, Jesus may not have been in as good a shape

as his brawny fisherman-disciples from Galilee.

So he stayed by the well.

Alone. Hot. Tired.

And no bucket.

So when the Samaritan woman came along,

I doubt Jesus was thinking,

“Ah . . . an opportunity to teach a valuable spiritual lesson.”

He was thinking,

“Ah . . . someone with a bucket.”

Out of his pure physical need, he asked,

“Will you give me a drink?”

Simple, straightforward. “Will you give me a drink?”

Except, it wasn’t simple at all, and Jesus knew it.

Self-respecting Jews would never be caught in Samaria at all.

Samaritans were worse than heathens.

They were half-breed Jews gone bad.

Who didn’t follow the law of Moses.

Good Jews would have gone far out of their way

to avoid getting anywhere close to the spot

where Jesus purposely put himself.

Not only did Jesus and his disciples go directly through Samaria,

Jesus stopped at the only well near the city,

a place where he knew he would be bound to have

a personal encounter with someone from the town,

and that, most likely a woman.

Shameful, beyond belief, for any good Jewish man.

Jesus knew this

But . . . he needed help.

He was exhausted and needed water.

So here sits Jesus, the famed master healer,

who turns water into wine

and a lunch basket into a feast for thousands.

Here sits Jesus, the constant helper,

Jesus, the one with all the power of God at his disposal,

and he turns the position of helper and help-ee upside down.

With one little question,

he changes the whole social landscape.

Rather than offer help from a position of power,

he asked for help from someone

who was in no position to help . . . literally.

Sure, she has a bucket and was able.

But in every other way imaginable,

she was in no position to be the helper.

She was a despised Samaritan.

She was a woman in a male-dominated culture.

She was even on the outs with her own Samaritan townspeople.

She was in no position to so much as approach a man,

much less have a social interchange.

This was the woman,

to whom Jesus let his human vulnerability show.

He made no pretense.

Plain and simple, he needed her.

He asked her to be so kind as to reach out to him

and meet his need.

His act of vulnerability was so remarkable

that it stunned the Samaritan woman,

and it rendered Jesus’ disciples speechless.

They literally didn’t know what to say, John tells us, v. 27

Of course, we find out in the rest of the Gospels,

as Jesus’ story plays itself out,

that Jesus made it a regular practice

to shift the social landscape,

to take the expected order of things,

and turn them around, end-for-end.

“Blessed are those who mourn.”

“Love your enemies.”

“The first will be last and the last will be first.”

“Those who save their lives will lose it.”

The Master that washed the feet of his disciples.

The busy rabbi that paused mid-lesson to talk to children.

So there sat Jesus, allowing himself to be ministered to

by a Samaritan woman.

And here we sit,

wanting to help, but not wanting to risk too much,

needing to guard the realities of our position.

There is no easy answer here,

as to how we be truly Christ-like in our helping

and in our being helped.

But maybe the lesson to take from this story,

is that whether we’re the ones in need,

or whether others are in need,

that is not the time to act purely out of our position.

Rather, it’s the time to remember the Jesus way,

the upside-down kingdom of God way,

of not even noticing position,

but noticing the humanity we share.

Letting go of the need to protect our position

unleashes all kinds of possibilities.

In the story of Jesus and the woman,

when Jesus ignored position and allowed himself to be vulnerable,

he not only got his need met,

he then was able to help his helper in an even deeper way,

and in turn, to help the whole town.

_____________________

We have lots of thirsty people among us here today.

People longing for something they need,

but cannot access. No bucket.

I know that’s the case, because I’ve heard some of you say it.

I know it, because it’s my own story.

I thirst. Often. And repeatedly.

I know how hard it is to ask someone else for a drink.

It’s easier to make demands of God, or of others,

the way the Israelites demanded water from Moses,

in today’s Exodus reading.

It’s harder to do as Jesus did,

and put myself in a vulnerable position,

especially in front of those who usually look to me for help.

I know I’m not alone in this.

There are thirsty people here today,

who need a drink

but haven’t yet summoned the courage to say,

“Will you help me . . . and give me a drink?”

Much less, have they turned to a Samaritan,

to someone they least expect to be able to help.

So this morning, in just a symbolic way,

we’re going to practice asking for help.

If you are exhausted, or thirsty in any way,

and long to be refreshed by some cool water . . .

come and wait by the well,

represented here on the front table by these pitchers.

You’ll notice that the water at this well, like the one in Samaria,

is not very accessible. No cups to drink from.

Jesus took a risk when he sat by the well and waited.

You also will need to take a risk.

You’ll need to come to where the water is, and just wait,

not knowing who might help, or when.

Others will need to play the role of the Samaritan helper.

Maybe you see that someone is asking for water,

and you are willing to help.

So get a cup from the small table on either side,

and go to the one waiting,

pour water into the cup,

and offer it in Jesus’ name.

You don’t need to even know the person who’s waiting.

Jesus and the woman were strangers before they met at the well.

So let the help come from someone they least expect to help.

Children, youth,

this would be a great opportunity for you to step forward.

You might not think of yourselves as persons who can help adults,

and some adults may not think children are in a position to help.

Today, you can show them differently.

So I especially encourage children and youth,

or even young children with their parents,

to be free to take the cup and offer water to those who thirst.

Or any adults, of course, are welcome to help.

Especially if you think the person waiting

is not likely to expect you to be the one to help.

By serving them water you are giving them, symbolically,

the kind of experience Jesus had at the well.

All are welcome to come, while the rest of us sing.

No matter what the source of your thirst, come to the well.

Whenever you are ready.

If there several people waiting at the well,

and the one you went for has already been served,

give the water to someone else.

So here we sit at the community well today.

Come and be refreshed by the cool water of God’s spirit,

carried by God’s people.

While you are coming,

the rest of us will be singing the songs listed in the bulletin,

beginning with STJ 59, Come and fill our hearts with your love.

—Phil Kniss, March 27, 2011

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Phil Kniss: Born again...and again

March 20, 2011

Lent 2: John 3:1-17

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It’s relatively rare in our circles that we use the phrase “born again.”

I have preached about it before, but not here.

And I’ve been at Park View almost 15 years.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve preached a lot about salvation,

about God’s transforming work in our lives, and in the world,

about God’s desire to see us made whole, reconciled, redeemed,

about God’s invitation for us to yield ourselves to him, to repent,

and our need to respond to Christ, in faith—

individually and corporately.

Yes, I’ve preached often about salvation.

But preaching that specific phrase, “born again?” Not so much.

And hearing that phrase spoken among ourselves? Not so much.

Maybe that’s a good thing,

because those two words have taken on

a lot of different layers of meaning

that I think get pretty far from what Jesus meant in John 3.

The phrase “born again” has become well-used,

at least in many Christian circles.

So it’s a widely-recognized term in the Christian world,

and therefore, widely recognized in the larger culture

that’s observing the Christian world,

for better or for worse.

Democratic presidential candidate Jimmy Carter in 1976

was probably the first major politician who went public

that he was a born-again Christian.

Many others followed.

Super-star athletes, musicians, and actors, who at least at one time,

declared themselves “born again,”

include the likes of Johnny Cash, Donna Summer, Bob Dylan,

Herschel Walker, Kirk Cameron, Jane Fonda, Mr. T, and more.

I don’t know, and have no desire to judge,

the motivation behind these public declarations.

I would guess the motivation runs the whole gamut,

from those who sincerely wish

to present a positive witness for Christ,

to those who are opportunists,

using a label to position themselves with some constituency.

But the effect of all this publicity about being “born again”

is that these words have lost their original meaning.

They have been tarnished to the point

lots of Christians would like to get rid of them altogether.

Often, when public figures refer to themselves as born-again Christians,

they don’t use the phrase as a verb, the way Jesus used it.

They hyphenate it into a one-word adjective,

to modify the noun “Christian.”

So rather than describing

a profound and transformative spiritual process,

rather than speaking transparently about God’s saving work

and their life journey of learning to yield themselves

to the work and will of God,

they are instead giving themselves a label.

Labels are great, when the goal is to categorize people,

divide people into convenient groups.

Not so great, when the goal is to understand someone more deeply.

The label “born-again Christian” has become so weak

that it seems its only use is to put someone in a box.

People assume that a Christian is either a born-again Christian,

or some other kind of Christian,

in which it’s implied, they are not a Christian at all.

The result is that many Christians who have a more nuanced way

of talking about their salvation, and spiritual formation,

feel excluded by the use of “born again” language,

and so have decided to reject it.

_____________________

But I’m afraid . . . that when a metaphor gets overused and misused,

and we fix the problem

by ignoring the metaphor altogether,

we miss out on a potentially rich way

to think about and talk about our faith.

So my goal this morning is to at least get us to consider

resurrecting a worn-out phrase,

by putting new meaning into it.

Actually, what I mean, is putting the old, authentic meaning back into it.

This is an image—a metaphor—that Jesus used to describe a deep truth.

And Jesus doesn’t throw words around carelessly.

There is an enduring quality about

the images and symbols and parables Jesus used in his teaching.

For that reason alone, I think it’s worth the effort

to salvage this phrase, “born again.”

So what did Jesus mean by it?

I think the tendency is to think Jesus meant

God starts all over with us . . . from scratch.

We didn’t quite work out the first time around,

so back into the womb we go, so to speak,

and out we come as a new person that didn’t even exist before.

Our old selfish ways are ancient history,

and now there is a new me!

Our very substance has been transformed,

so no worries about sin and suffering again, praise the Lord!

I’m not so sure Jesus had this in mind

when he told Nicodemus he had to be born a second time.

Incidentally, the phrase Jesus used is sometimes translated

“born from above,” and sometimes “born again.”

Both are correct. Doesn’t matter.

In either case, Jesus’ metaphor is clearly about being born

in a new and different way,

as Jesus said, born of water and spirit.

But new birth doesn’t mean that God throws us out and starts over.

It means that God is doing a work of bringing forth new life in us,

the life for which God created us to begin with!

Being “born again, born of water and spirit” maybe is a little bit like

pouring water on a potted plant that’s wilted and drooping.

That infusion of water brings new life,

it stands up again,

and the natural life processes, like photosynthesis,

start up again,

and the plant is able to be what it was created to be.

When we allow the Spirit of God to enter our lives,

new life happens, rebirth happens,

not because we are suddenly a different life form,

not because we become someone we were not before,

but because the Spirit of God unleashes us,

enables us to be and to do

that which we were created to be and to do.

And when rebirth happens, it’s not a once and done thing.

Anymore than I can get away with watering a drooping plant

once and for all.

Being born again is a process of becoming more and more

a whole person of God.

It is a process of allowing God to work in us

and bring forth new life.

So we are born again . . . and again . . . and again.

_____________________

But make no mistake.

Being born is no picnic.

I don’t think any baby has ever had a good time being born.

Not that a baby has ever told us that, in so many words.

But we can assume the ride down the birth canal isn’t a joy ride.

It’s no easier getting reborn.

Rebirth means a reordering of our lives.

That’s not a joyride.

I’m guessing Nicodemus knew something

about how hard this road would be.

Even before Jesus gave Nicodemus those unsettling words

about being born again,

Even before Nicodemus came to Jesus with his questions,

I think he had an inkling that the answers he would get

were not going to be easy answers.

Nicodemus came to Jesus by night.

I suppose he thought it was safer that way.

There is a lot we don’t know about Nicodemus

and his motives for asking those questions.

But as a Pharisee, and as a leader of the Jews,

Nicodemus had a lot to protect.

If he had any intentions of keeping

his respected position in the community,

he had better be careful around Jesus.

So if he was going to go directly to this revolutionary rabble-rouser,

and ask some honest questions,

some respectful questions,

he had better be careful who was watching.

It was safer to go at night.

It was more secure. More comfortable.

More like a baby in the womb.

I doubt Nicodemus was ready

for that excruciating trip down the birth canal.

I’m sure he was fascinated with Jesus.

I suppose the idea of becoming a follower of Jesus

was a compelling idea to him.

If it wasn’t, he wouldn’t have gone to such great pains

to talk to Jesus, sneaking out in the night.

But Nicodemus had too much at stake

to become a disciple just yet.

Maybe sometime later, when the time was right.

He was curious, but not quite that curious.

Not quite curious enough to stake his entire life on it.

Jesus told him that one who is born of the spirit,

lives in the Spirit,

and the Spirit, Jesus said,

is like the wind that blows where it will,

and you can’t see where it coming from

or where it’s going.

I’m guessing Nicodemus needed a little more stability than the wind,

needed his life to be a little more predictable than that.

Maybe Nicodemus went home to think.

John 3 doesn’t tell us what he did.

Was Nicodemus ever born again?

We don’t know.

We do hear about Nicodemus two more times in John.

In John 7, the chief priests and Pharisees

are holding an emergency meeting,

making plans to arrest Jesus,

and Nicodemus speaks up.

He didn’t directly defend Jesus,

just brought up a legal technicality that was to Jesus’ benefit.

But even then,

he was accused of siding with Jesus.

Then after Jesus’ crucifixion,

Nicodemus joined Joseph of Arimathea

in embalming and burying Jesus’ body.

But we don’t know whether Nicodemus ever took the risk

of letting go of the securities of his position as a Pharisee,

of letting go of the securities of the womb,

and being reborn as a true and open disciple of Jesus.

Nicodemus may have lived the rest of his life

as a curious and sympathetic Pharisee,

but nothing more,

because he lacked the courage

to open himself to the possibility of rebirth.

He may not have had the will to submit himself to

the risk,

the trauma,

the vulnerabilities, and

the indignities

of birth.

And then enter into a new way of life,

Like many of us.

We too have areas of our lives

that lie hidden in the safety of the womb,

where God is trying to help us bring to birth new life.

We too have securities to which we are clinging,

securities that, as it turns out, are actually impediments.

They keep us from being reborn into the life we were made for.

Last week our daughter sent a video link to us in an email,

that she found meaningful.

It was a lecture by a social work researcher.

She had done an extensive study of people

she described as “whole-hearted” people,

persons who experience a measurably high level of joy

even in the face of serious challenges.

And she said the one common denominator she found,

in nearly all these people,

compared to those who were anxious and fearful,

was that these so-called “whole-hearted people”

all had a higher level of comfort with vulnerability.

They were willing to take risks,

to try new things and even lose in the trying.

That kind of hit home.

By nature, I’m more the Nicodemus type.

Hold back where it’s safe and secure.

But God is working on me,

and I’m trying to use the season of Lent

to give God the space to do that work.

I’m fairly certain I’m not unique.

Many, perhaps most, of us

could readily identify with Nicodemus.

But there’s good news, sisters and brothers,

in this rich birth metaphor Jesus chose to use.

Good news, if . . . we haven’t thrown out the metaphor.

See, babies are born into families . . . at least most of the time

When we are reborn, same thing.

We are born into families of faith,

into communities of the reborn.

We are not born in isolation.

The trauma of our rebirth

is met with the care and support of our sisters and brothers,

who want this new life to thrive,

and will do whatever it takes to see that it lives.

See, we are like midwives to each other

in the ongoing process of rebirth.

The church is both midwife, and family.

We help usher in this new life,

and then we live with it, within a family.

That’s what’s so beautiful about Jesus’ metaphor.

It’s a perfect description of the process of spiritual transformation.

I can’t give birth to myself.

I cannot single-handedly create the new life that’s growing within.

Nor can I single-handedly deliver it healthy into the world.

I need help.

I need the Spirit of God (spirit means breath, remember)

I need God’s breath of life,

blowing the life within me into existence.

Then I need a midwife to coach me and coax me

to allow this new life to see the light of day,

to let it thrive openly in the world.

And I need a family to help me live this new life,

as it continues to grow, and take on a particular form.

That’s a beautiful metaphor.

It rings true.

It sounds a lot like the way God has worked in my life.

I remember when I first consciously yielded my life to God.

And when I began to believe I’d been born again.

But in my experience,

that wasn’t a once and done kind of thing.

The struggle to unleash this new life

that God breathed into existence in me,

is a struggle that continues to this day.

There are still labor pains, you might say.

God is still at work bringing forth new life in me.

I still need midwives to accompany me.

I still need a family to welcome this new life,

and help shape it.

And I invite the rest of us

to also embrace this rich metaphor.

To open ourselves to the rebirth God has in mind for us,

whatever it may be in us, that straining to be born.

I invite us to yield ourselves to God’s work in us,

and to the work of our midwives,

and to the family anticipating this birth.

—Phil Kniss, March 20, 2011

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Phil Kniss: God’s competitors

March 13, 2011

Lent 1: Genesis 2:17-17: 3:1-7; Matthew 4:1-11

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Welcome to the empty season—

the season of empty stomachs, empty hearts and minds,

the season of fasting, sacrifice, confession,

the season of contemplation, examination, and deprivation,

the season we all know and love—Lent.

Welcome to the most un-American season of the church year.

Welcome, therefore, to perhaps,

one of the most spiritually important seasons of the year.

Emptiness is not something any of us naturally aspire to.

Especially not those of us shaped by a culture of self-indulgence.

Don’t know about you,

but I’ve often gone into Lent thinking something like . . .

Well, yes, Lent is a fast, a season for sacrifice.

But I don’t have to undergo any rigorous actual fast

to experience the spiritual benefit of Lent.

I just need to be more intentional

about prayer and spiritual contemplation

and work at a posture of submission to God.

That’s what Lent is really all about—

submitting my heart and mind to God.

Getting hung up on what I’m giving up for Lent—

sweets, chocolate, Facebook, whatever—

that’s not really the important thing.

And it’s not unusual for me to have talked myself right out

of needing to sacrifice anything tangible during Lent.

So, is this a problem, or not?

Am I missing something important during Lent,

if I don’t actually, physically, fast from something tangible?

even if I try to pray more and meditate more?

The reason I’m asking this question

is the worship series we just finished.

I just spent the last nine weeks

thinking about, reading about, and preaching about

how our practices shape our desires.

How our routine, physically-ordered actions, habits and practices

shape what we desire,

what we are strongly oriented toward—

emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

We applied this principle as we looked at the practices and rituals

of Christian worship,

but we also reminded ourselves, repeatedly,

that there are many other regular, daily, secular practices

in our lives that shape our desires,

and we need to examine those practices more,

and reflect on how they shape us.

So if I really believe what we just preached about for nine weeks,

I might have a pretty weak argument,

if I talk myself into saying Lent is really about my attitude

and spiritual posture of sacrifice,

and not so much about what I actually, literally give up,

in daily practice.

Ouch. Because until today, even though Lent began four days ago,

I hadn’t decided to “give up” anything.

Today I’m beginning a fast.

I’ll explain it in a bit.

_____________________

But first, let me say more about why it’s so important

that we learn to embrace Lent as a season of emptiness.

I’d sum it up this way:

“Only people who are empty can know the fullness of God.”

To experience the full measure of God’s presence and grace,

we need to empty ourselves.

In fact, I think that at the root of all sin,

is our failure to admit and to embrace,

a state of emptiness before God.

In a story Jesus told, two men were praying in the temple,

One man, a ruthless swindler, a tax collector, bowed low crying,

“God, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

and went home reconciled with God.

The other, a holy man, a good, righteous, thoroughly ethical man,

stood tall, and thanked God he wasn’t empty of all goodness

like that lying, cheating tax collector.

The holy man went home still full of sin, Jesus said.

I think this failure to embrace emptiness before God,

is what caused all the trouble in the garden of Eden.

We heard that story again this morning.

Adam and Eve were put in the garden to take care of it for God.

Their only job was to be God’s humble servants.

Dependent on God.

In themselves, empty.

But one day they were tempted by the serpent

to reject that emptiness.

The serpent said, “You can be like God.”

Boy, that sounded good.

Way better than being empty, depending on God for everything.

To “be like God.” That was the temptation.

And they bit on it, literally.

And their eyes were opened. They saw they were naked.

And that made them uncomfortable. Ashamed, even.

So they sewed together fig leaves to cover up,

to hide their vulnerability before God.

And human beings have been sewing fig leaves ever since.

Today we still stitch together fig leaves, in a manner of speaking,

and we cover up before God,

we hide our vulnerability,

we deny our emptiness and need.

And we therefore act in all kinds of sinful ways.

We orient our whole lives around ourselves.

Protecting. Guarding. Securing.

Looking after our own interests first.

With force, if necessary.

The sin of Adam and Eve, is still,

a perfect metaphor for the sin that continues

to shape our lives so deeply.

Lent is a season we so desperately need, spiritually.

It forces us to face up to this lie that we are self-sufficient.

Lent exposes us for what we really are.

Rebellious creatures—deeply loved by God,

but sorely in need of redemption.

Of forgiveness. Of grace.

The punishment for Adam and Eve, and for all humanity since,

was being sent out of garden into the wilderness.

A place where we don’t have everything it takes.

Where we lack what we need.

Where we have to look to God in a deep, vulnerable trust.

Sometimes, like the tax collector,

we embrace the empty wilderness,

we acknowledge our need,

And God restores and reconciles us.

Other times, like the holy man,

we stubbornly cling to the deception,

that we can do this alone, on our own strength and wisdom.

And we walk away still burdened.

Those two choices—

whether to embrace emptiness and need,

or to fight emptiness and assert the power to make things happen—

were precisely Jesus’ choices when he was tested in the wilderness.

Satan came to him at his point of desperation

and tempted him to choose the latter—

to take care of himself and his needs

and “just say no” to being empty and needy and dependent.

That was also Adam and Eve’s temptation—to “be like God,”

to reject their dependence on God.

They fell in the trap.

Jesus did not.

Jesus, with clarity of purpose,

having just been baptized by John in the Jordan,

and having heard, in a voice from heaven,

a profound reminder of who he was,

“This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased”—

Jesus was able, even in the wilderness,

to be clear about who he was and who he belonged to.

Like Adam and Eve, and like Jesus,

we are still tempted, by the Adversary, to skip the wilderness.

To avoid this empty place:

Where there is hunger, and no bread.

Where there is suffering, and no relief in sight.

Where there are questions, and no ready answers.

Our constant human temptation

is to take the place of God in this equation,

to take matters into our own hands,

to turn away from being God’s servant

and become God’s competitor, instead.

But in an amazing gesture of grace,

God invites us into fullness of life as God’s collaborators.

God invites us to lay down our puny agendas,

take up God’s cause in the world,

to participate with God in God’s mission,

and only by God’s grace and power,

to live in this world as God’s collaborators.

To do this requires that we empty ourselves, as Jesus did.

That is the struggle—

between accepting my emptiness and God’s grace,

or rejecting my emptiness and taking matters into my own hands.

When I reject emptiness,

I become God’s competitor.

I compete against the purposes of God.

When I live as if I have to prove my worth,

I compete against God,

who made me worthy and created me in God’s own image.

When I act out of anger or resentment for someone who did me wrong,

I compete against God,

who loves me no matter what I do,

and forgives me without hesitation, over and over.

When I grasp for power and control,

I compete against God,

who in the person of Christ,

emptied himself, even to the point of death on the cross.

When I grasp for security through wealth and possessions

I compete against God,

who revealed himself to us in Jesus,

who lived as a servant of all,

and refused to let the things of this world distract him.

Every time I yield to temptation,

and deny my emptiness, deny my need for redemption,

and seek instead to take control,

I shift from being God’s collaborator, to being God’s competitor.

This requires a constant, vigilant, awareness

of who I am in relation to God.

The world I live in

would have me believe I belong to myself.

That by a sheer act of my will,

and the power of positive thinking,

I can become the person I want to be.

But that’s not God’s story about me. That’s not God’s narrative.

God’s narrative is that God has an exclusive claim on me.

Sure, I’m always free to choose,

free to accept or reject God’s claim.

I’m always free to take my life in my own hands.

But that’s not the story God created me for.

God willed me into existence with love,

and that love keeps drawing me toward God.

All that I am, and all that I have,

is owed entirely to this lover-creator God.

That’s the posture we must learn to live into.

God as lover-creator-provider.

We as creature-servants in utter need of God’s grace.

When I reject that posture,

when I orient my life toward myself,

I become God’s competitor,

and I become a lost soul.

The season of Lent is the season we all need,

to wake up from the self-oriented stupor of our culture,

and to be reminded of our holy emptiness.

I say holy emptiness,

because it’s an emptiness that we

hold before a loving, redeeming God.

And God will fill it.

_____________________

Now, perhaps, moving from the sublime to the mundane,

and perhaps, even, slightly amusing.

I want to tell you about the fast I began today, 4 days late.

Most of you know about my love affair

with one of God’s great gifts in life—freshly-roasted coffee.

It’s one of my great pleasures in life—

getting green, unroasted fair-trade organic coffee beans,

then roasting them to perfection,

grinding them with a hand-grinder,

and brewing them with water we draw ourselves

from a local mountain spring.

I take serious pleasure in my coffee.

I’ve had persons, over the years, when Lent rolls around,

jokingly suggest that I should give up my coffee addiction for Lent.

I always brush it off,

because I really don’t have a physical addiction.

I’ve often gone 2 or 3 days without coffee,

for one reason or another,

and I don’t get headaches or withdrawal.

I don’t drink huge amounts of coffee every day.

Just one, good, tall, luscious insulated mug in the morning,

slowly sipped in the first few active hours of the day.

I drink coffee for the pure pleasure of it, not the caffeine boost.

So why give it up for Lent?

I’m not addicted. Nor, is it even a vice.

I can point to many scientific studies showing the health benefits

of regular, moderate coffee consumption.

Well, I began to think.

Maybe, precisely because it’s something that brings me such joy,

and that I put so much love and time and effort

into creating each morning,

coffee might be an ideal candidate for something to abstain from,

for the very purpose of inserting

some intentional emptiness into my daily life.

Because of the culture I live in,

this culture that craves fullness, that encourages hyper-activity,

that tries to create and control everything good,

rather than receive it as gift,

because of this culture and because of who I am,

I need some tangible reminder

that emptiness is not something to run from, but to embrace.

Isn’t that the whole purpose of a fast?

to be naked and vulnerable before God and self?

So if I abstain for this season

from this deeply embedded daily morning ritual,

every time I walk through the dining room,

past my custom coffee-making station,

it will be impossible not to remember why I’m doing this.

If I was giving up some vice, something bad for me anyway,

I might not look at it as opportunity to embrace emptiness.

I might just see it as a health move.

So now I commit myself, publicly,

to give up drinking coffee during Lent.

I’ll keep on roasting, sharing, and serving it to others in our home.

I’m not denying the essential goodness of coffee.

I’m just giving up something I do

that is meaningful and deeply enjoyable,

so that I actually insert into each day

a bonafide experience of emptiness,

as a reminder that for me to truly live the life I was made for,

requires that I empty myself daily before God.

And I invite all of you, if you have not done so already,

to also choose some way that you might during this season

incorporate some experience of emptiness into your daily life.

The fourth day of Lent is not too late to start.

One final thought,

in light of the complete emptiness and utter barrenness

forced onto the people of Japan in these last days,

giving up something so small and insignificant

as a morning cup of coffee

is nothing I can take any pride in.

It’s almost laughable, how puny my sacrifice.

Nevertheless,

it will provide a tangible reminder every day

both to embrace my own emptiness before God,

and to remember those who have emptiness forced upon them.

Let’s turn to hymnal #558.

I think the choice of this hymn was a God-thing.

Karen chose it the day before the earthquake and tsunami

struck Japan and the Pacific Rim.

But the text couldn’t be more fitting:

“When the storms of life are raging.”

Let’s sing it as a prayer for those in our world today

experiencing emptiness over which they had no choice,

as well as a prayer for ourselves

as we embrace the presence of God

in our own places of emptiness.

—Phil Kniss, March 13, 2011

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