Phil Kniss: An embodied truth

May 29, 2011 - Easter 6: Orphaned and adopted

Acts 17:22-31; John 14:15-21

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In less than five months,

2011 has turned out to be a stunningly catastrophic year.

Now, I assure you this sermon will be, as all sermons should be,

a proclamation of the Gospel, a telling of the Good News.

But let me get the bad news out on the table, first thing.

An incomprehensible 15,000 people killed in Japan,

from earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear disaster.

Thousands killed in the Libyan civil war,

and uprisings throughout the Middle East.

Over 800 dead in Nigeria due to inter-religious violence,

as we heard from our brother two weeks ago.

Thousands killed in terrorist attacks around the world.

Several hundred died in commercial airline crashes.

Hundreds dead in flooding in Australia,

earthquakes in New Zealand and Burma.

And now, in our country, disastrous flooding and tornadoes.

In an average full year, there are 28 deadly tornadoes in the U.S.

and 40 people die from them.

So far in 2011, we’ve had more 50 deadly tornadoes,

and 520 people died.

Tens of thousands in our country alone,

have lost their homes and possessions in one disaster or another.

It boggles our minds.

It shakes our faith.

People of strong Christian faith—

people who believe that there is a God

whose nature is love,

and who is active in our world—

are having their faith sorely tried.

They are wrestling mightily with God.

Some of those wrestlers are among us this morning,

because of personal tragedy and suffering and grief

in these last five months, and at this very moment.

_____________________

In a world like this, in a year like 2011,

it really is not surprising that some Christians cope

by focusing on a coming rapture.

It’s no surprise that Christians literally all over the world,

especially Christians in desperately poor situations,

or in oppressive environments, under hostile regimes,

became fixed on the hope that on May 21 Christ would come,

and rapture the righteous

and judge the evil.

I am sad for them, in their sadness.

This is not new.

That many Christians consider it good news

to proclaim the end of the world.

That some Christians try to instill either hope . . . or fear . . .

by announcing that Christ is coming soon

to take the faithful away from this terrible place,

and to a completely different and beautiful place.

We do live in a world that strikes fear in many Christians.

Not only is there disaster on every hand—

wars, terrorism, famine, earthquakes, and deadly storms.

There is also, seemingly, a shrinking church.

The faithful are declining in both numbers and influence.

Christianity seems to be in serious jeopardy,

sometimes even under attack.

Christendom is either dead or dying.

So it’s not surprising that out of a religious anxiety,

some focus on a theology of escape.

That is, escape for Christians,

and fiery judgement on everyone else.

I heard lots of judgement day jokes in the last couple weeks,

and laughed along with some of them.

But it is unbecoming of us to ridicule or laugh to scorn

our brothers and sisters who sincerely, but mistakenly,

thought they knew what God was up to on May 21.

We, too, are sometimes sincerely mistaken.

And in any case,

it is also our faith that Christ has promised to return.

It is our faith that God—whose nature is both love and justice—

has a mission on this earth to save and redeem

and restore and reconcile humanity and creation,

and one day to vanquish evil with a just judgement.

But there is no question that mission has not yet been accomplished.

It is a mission in progress,

and all who are willing,

are invited, now, to participate in that mission.

We are not told to wait around until it gets so bad

that we are whisked away from it.

We are told to collaborate with God now,

in God’s ongoing work of salvation.

It is happening right now,

and it will yet happen in a greater way,

a more complete way.

Yes, there is an end, a purpose toward which God is moving.

And that purpose is love. And salvation.

This is the Good News.

That out of a pure and powerful love, God has saved.

And God is saving. And God will save.

When we speak of the Good News in that way,

it makes a huge difference both in the message of the Gospel,

and in the way we proclaim the message.

Our witness is more than an effort to win a rational argument,

or to prove others wrong.

Christian witness needs to express a Christ-like hospitality

and respect for the other.

It’s tragic . . . tragic . . . that Christians are known these days,

by all the things they are against,

instead of by the Good News they proclaim,

and the love they express in life.

_____________________

We could all take some clues from the scripture readings today,

from the Gospel of John, and the book of Acts.

In John 14, Jesus gave his followers the Good News

that he would never abandon them.

He had already warned them about his coming suffering and death.

But now he speaks words of comfort.

In essence, he says, I have given you the truth,

about God, about this world, about yourselves.

I have given you my words, my commandments.

Now, I give you myself.

Yes, I will soon be leaving.

But I will not be leaving you alone.

“The Father will send you an Advocate in my place.” v. 16

“This Advocate is the spirit of truth.” v. 17

“I will not leave you orphaned; I am coming to you.

In a little while the world will no longer see me,

but you will see me; because I live, you also will live.

On that day you will know that I am in my Father,

and you in me, and I in you.”

“You in me and I in you.”

In Jesus, truth and loving relationship are inextricably tied together.

Jesus never dispensed truth as a cold, rational commodity.

He was drawn toward the people,

and drew them toward him, as he spoke truth.

He went against the grain

by embracing children,

touching lepers,

allowing women to touch him,

entering the home of known sinners,

all the while speaking the truth in love,

calling sinners to repent,

calling the righteous to be humble,

calling all people to live like the children of God that they are.

I wonder why today,

some Christians stand on their soapbox and rail against evil,

either on a street corner,

or more typically, in letters to editors, or talk radio,

and argue loudly with persons they have no relationship with,

and condemn those who disagree with them . . .

and think that they are following in the way of Jesus.

Maybe they think they are modeling their style of witness

after the bombastic apostle Paul,

who got himself in trouble everywhere he went,

and never seemed to have a shortage of enemies.

If so, I suspect they’re forgetting about the way Paul conducted himself

in today’s reading from Acts 17,

when he found himself in the pagan, metropolitan city of Athens.

Paul reserves his sharpest criticism for his own beloved

brothers and sisters in the church.

He doesn’t mince words in calling his own people

to a deeper level of faithfulness.

That’s why he has that rougher reputation.

But how does he act when called upon to be a witness

in a culture where his own culture and religion

were both completely foreign?

How does Paul give witness in the public square

when his tradition is a marginalized minority?

Which, when you stop and think about it,

is pretty much where we sit as Christians

in our post-Christendom society.

How does Paul witness in Athens,

when he encounters a host of pagan shrines and idols?

By writing scathing letters to the Athens News-Record?

By screaming at “you wrong-headed and depraved idolators,

who are destined for hell?”

Well, let’s take a look at Acts 17,

starting earlier in the chapter, before today’s reading.

Paul was dropped off in Athens,

after being whisked away from threat of death in Thessalonica.

While he was waiting for his friends to join him,

we see in v. 16 that he was walking around the city.

It says he was “distressed” by all the pagan shrines and idols.

As someone steeped in a culture that worshiped

only one all-powerful Creator God,

Paul’s distress is understandable.

And, in fact, he engaged the Athenians in conversation,

and in the kind of debate that was common and encouraged

in a Greek marketplace.

His debate intrigued the local philosophers,

so Paul scored an invitation to the Areopagus—

a high honor for a Jewish preacher, no doubt.

They wanted to hear more.

So our reading today was Paul’s speech in the Areopagus.

This sometimes fiery, argumentative, opinionated man

opens his mouth to speak to these Greek idol-worshipers,

and what comes out are soft words of respect.

In v. 22, he gives the people of Athens a heartfelt compliment:

“I see how extremely religious you are in every way.”

King James says “superstitious,” which makes it sound derogatory.

But Paul was not criticizing, he was affirming.

He said, “You Athenians take your religion seriously.

That’s to be commended.”

So, when the credibility of Paul’s Judeo-Christian faith is on the line,

he opts for respect and humility.

He notices their yearning for the divine.

And he affirms them.

He says in v. 23, “I went through the city

and looked carefully at the objects of your worship.”

Paul was there not to attack them, but to understand them.

He notes in particular, their shrine to an “unknown God,”

so he tells them, “I can introduce you to this unknown God.”

Amazing. And then Paul did something even more amazing.

In order to introduce them to Jesus,

he didn’t pull out the Torah or quote Old Testament prophets.

He used their own literature.

This mini-sermon, verses 24-28,

is chock full of analogies, and images, and ideas,

that resonated with Greek philosophers and intellectuals.

In v. 28, he quoted their philosophers and poets directly.

“In him we live and move and have our being,”

apparently a quote from Epimenides,

a poet philosopher from Crete.

And, “For we too are his offspring,”

a quote from the Greek poet Aratus, a Stoic.

Paul knew and respected his audience.

He engaged them where they were, on their terms,

and then with respect, he said,

“You know, there’s something more.”

And then he proclaimed the truth

embodied in the person of the risen Jesus.

To be sure, his message about resurrection

met with mixed reviews.

Some laughed and derided him.

Some were curious, and asked to hear more.

Some became believers.

But the point is,

only after respectfully listening with an openness to learn,

and a desire to more deeply understand,

did Paul challenge them to think in new ways.

It might not be a bad practice for us, as well.

That before we start preaching the Gospel in any culture,

we know that culture well enough

that we can quote the poetry of that culture.

The heart of Paul’s message, after he quoted their poets, was,

“The God you are looking for is among you already,

and is calling you and me, and all people everywhere,

to turn our lives around, to confess our sins,

and act like the children of God that we are.

“You have wonderful shrines,

but God is a lot closer than you think.

God doesn’t live in carved stone.

God is as close as a parent.

We are God’s offspring.”

It’s a message of truth, contained in relationship.

Greek philosophers were great at constructing lofty ideas,

and they were good ideas.

They influenced Paul.

Greek thought shows up in Paul’s preaching.

But the missing piece was relational.

God is close to us.

Ideas must become embodied in relationship.

“In him . . . in God . . . we live and move and have our being.”

The heart of the Gospel that the Athenians needed to hear,

came through with perfect clarity,

and not a hint of manipulation,

of condemnation,

of one-upmanship.

Disembodied truth, isn’t the whole truth.

Truth shouted by strangers from the street corner,

or the newspaper, or radio,

is, at best, an incomplete truth.

The true Gospel of Jesus Christ

is embodied in real relationship.

It draws our lives toward and into God.

It draws our lives toward and into the lives of others.

A Gospel that is true, like the Gospel Paul proclaimed in Athens,

is a Gospel that will draw us into the world of the other.

Truth has no integrity,

if it is spoken without a willingness to enter the world of the other.

Are you looking for a litmus test for truth? Try this.

Does it draw us into the world of the other,

and does it draw all of us together toward God in Christ?

Is our expression of truth worthy of the truth Jesus proclaimed?

Does it draw us and others into the orbit of God’s affection?

Does it sound like the truth of Jesus who said,

“I will never leave you orphaned” . . .

“I am in you, and you in me”?

Does it resemble the intimacy, the relational closeness,

that we sense in the testimony you are about to hear

from one of our members, Jon Dutcher.

Jon lost his mother 9 days ago,

a mother he was intimately close to.

Though separated by many miles,

Jon, who struggles with Parkinsons Disease,

found solace in daily phone conversations with his mother.

Phone conversations that may or may not have included news.

But often included prayer, scripture, or song.

It’s fitting, since those conversations were often over a phone line,

that we hear Jon’s testimony in his words, but not in person.

They are leaving today for a trip to Australia to visit their daughter,

and could not be present in person.

So Jon recorded this on Friday...

“Sometimes I feel like a motherless child…a long way from home…”

My father passed away on 10th October, 2006; my mother just 4½ years later—20th May, 2011. Both of my parents were buried next to my oldest brother who died 16th January, 1989. That leaves me-- the oldest living member of the Frank Dutcher family.

Is it any wonder I feel like an orphan?! Doesn’t it make sense?

But I am reassured by God’s Word that the Spirit of Truth provides a presence, literally a friendship for me in this godless world. How can I sorrow on- and- on as though in an orphaned state when I have this awesome friend who sticks with me through thick-and-thin, closer than a brother or a mother or a father?!

Instead I sing with Mary, the mother of our Lord —“My soul glorifies the Lord, and my Spirit rejoices in God my Savior…For the mighty one (my friend and guide) has done great things for me! Holy, holy, holy is his name. For He lifts up the humble, and sends the rich away empty.”

—Phil Kniss, May 29, 2011

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Phil Kniss: The Love Shove

May 15, 2011 - Easter 4: Scattered and Gathered

John 10:1-10; Psalm 23

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Jesus as the Good Shepherd is an image that never gets old.

Without a doubt,

Psalm 23 is the most frequently read psalm in public worship,

but I’ve never heard anyone complain.

I don’t think anyone in this room would say

you’re sick and tired of hearing Psalm 23

and you wish everyone would just give it a rest.

Yes, there are moments, or seasons, in our lives,

when we might feel removed from God’s loving care,

when it might be hard to connect with, or even believe, this image.

But there is no one who is repulsed by it.

We are all drawn inexorably toward this image of Jesus as a

comforting,

protecting,

soothing,

guiding, and

loving shepherd.

Especially in times of loss, of distress, of chaos, of danger.

So today, as every year, on the fourth Sunday of Easter,

we worship God as Shepherd.

But . . . what is it, exactly, that makes Jesus the Shepherd

a Good Shepherd?

What does Jesus do as a shepherd, that makes us say, “Oh, yes!

Jesus is a Good shepherd.”

Is Jesus a good shepherd,

because he always protects us from every danger,

so that nothing bad happens to us . . . ?

is it that he always fights off the wolf,

always foils the plan of the thief,

and makes them run away in defeat . . . ?

is it that Jesus always cradles us gently, and speaks softly,

always comforts, never frightens,

that we might always live in peace. . . ?

If that’s the case, it makes you wonder if our Good Shepherd

is doing a very good job.

That ever-comforting, ever-protecting image of the Good Shepherd

is, by far, the dominant one.

That’s the one that gets put into paintings and poetry

and greeting cards and refrigerator magnets.

That’s the one that comes immediately to mind,

whenever we hear Psalm 23 and John 10.

And there’s nothing wrong with that image.

Psalm 23 is, in fact, an ode to the shepherding God

who makes us lie down in green pastures in peace,

who leads us beside still waters.

It’s not an . . . inaccurate image.

It’s just not complete.

Even the 23rd Psalm openly states that we will also find ourselves

in the valley of the shadow of death,

or surrounded by enemies.

Life does not cease to be challenging or dangerous

just because the shepherd is there.

So what makes Jesus a Good Shepherd?

Let’s look at our Gospel reading, John 10:1-10.

Here Jesus gives us a picture of sheep, inside a sheepfold,

a protective shelter for the night.

The true shepherd of the sheep enters by the gate,

calls his sheep by name, and they respond.

In contrast, there are imposters—thieves and bandits, Jesus says—

who don’t use the gate, but try to climb in another way.

But when the good shepherd comes to the fold,

the gatekeeper lets him in,

he calls the sheep, and brings them out for the day,

and then he leads them where he wants them to go.

The people hearing this little parable didn’t quite understand Jesus.

So Jesus spelled it out for them, saying,

“I am the gate for the sheep.”

I’m not sure whether that explanation

cleared things up, or made it more confusing.

Because Jesus is mixing his metaphors at will.

At one point, he’s the shepherd; at another, he’s the gate.

But that’s the way it is. One image can’t say it all.

Jesus uses many different images to describe himself.

As the gate, Jesus is making a bold claim.

I am the entry point.

I am the passageway to life—abundant life.

Abundant, not as in having lots of goodies and comfort,

but having a quality of life, a full-ness,

a life that overflows in goodness.

There are those who think they know the way into the Kingdom—

whether by violence and political rebellion,

or by an obsession with religious ritual purity.

But they are false shepherds. Hired hands, it says later in the chapter.

They misunderstand God’s Kingdom.

But Jesus the Gate and the Good Shepherd says,

come in through me,

attach yourself to me,

I will lead you there.

Life is found as we pass through the gate,

coming in and going out.

As much as we might like the safety of the sheepfold,

abundant life consists of coming in and going out of the gate.

_____________________

So as I studied this image of the shepherd and the sheep,

of the sheepfold, and the gate,

I learned something interesting,

that I don’t think was ever pointed out to me before.

Let’s just review the image here again,

if you want to open your Bibles to John 10.

There is the sheepfold in v. 1.

Maybe a stone-walled enclosure, with thorny briars on top.

The sheep have been there all night, and it’s now morning.

The shepherd has arrived to reclaim his sheep, v. 2,

and take them back outside,

into the wide open countryside . . . where the wild animals live.

The gatekeeper opens the gate, v. 3,

and the shepherd calls the sheep

and he gets them out of the fold.

Now, I always pictured this—and it kind of reads that way—

as if the shepherd simply gives a little whistle or something,

and walks out the doorway and all the sheep gladly follow him out.

Could be the way it happens,

except for the verb Jesus chose to describe “bringing them out.”

In v. 4, it says,

“When he has brought out all his own,

he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him.”

After they are brought out in the open, then he gets in front of them,

and leads them to pasture.

And by “brought out,” he means “shoved out.”

The verb Jesus uses here is “ekballo.”

It’s used all through the New Testament,

but never in the sense of gently walking in front

and saying, [whistle] “here we go, come along now.”

No. It’s the same verb used when it says

Jesus “cast out” an evil spirit.

It’s the same verb used when it says Jesus took a whip

and “drove the money-changers out of the temple.”

It’s the same verb used when it says the Holy Spirit

drove Jesus into the wilderness to be tested by the devil.

Virtually everywhere that verb is used in the New Testament,

it implies pushing someone somewhere they don’t want to go.

I find that interesting. And significant.

The sheep—that’s us—would no doubt prefer

staying in the safety and security of the sheepfold.

But staying in the sheepfold is not where abundant life is found.

Abundant life is found in coming in and going out of the gate . . .

coming in and going out and coming in and going out . . .

So out of love for us sheep,

out of a strong and fierce love for us,

Jesus shoves us out of the sheepfold.

You’ve heard of a love-pat. This is a love-shove.

Jesus shoves us out from where we feel safe and secure,

and into a broken and dangerous world

that desperately needs what God’s kingdom has to offer.

A world that needs the healing and reconciling

and peace-building and justice-seeking of kingdom people.

And we need it, too!

If we are to “have life, and have it abundantly,” to use Jesus’ words,

we need to live into our created purpose.

We were not created to live our lives behind stone walls all the time.

We were created for an active, dynamic life in the wide open world.

The church gathered, as we are this morning,

is a wonderful thing.

It is a life-giving thing.

Every bit as much as restful nights in the sheepfold

are necessary for healthy sheep.

It’s an essential part of the rhythm of life.

But we were not created just to hang around other sheep 24/7.

A healthy church, and healthy believers that make up that church,

are engaged in God’s saving and healing and redeeming

mission in the world.

Yes, our vision at Park View is to be a community of communities,

but that’s only the first part of the phrase.

It’s incomplete without the second part.

We are a community of communities engaged in God’s mission.

Jesus our good shepherd, out of his great love for us,

regularly shoves us out of the sheepfold

into a world of need, and danger, and opportunity.

So Jesus is not the good shepherd

because he always protects us from every danger,

or because he never lets bad things happen to us.

Jesus is not the good shepherd

because he fights off every wolf,

and foils the plan of every thief.

Jesus is not the good shepherd

because he always speaks comfort and gentleness.

Yes, when we need that kind of comfort, for our health and well-being,

Jesus will be there in that way.

But Jesus is our good shepherd,

because Jesus knows what we need for life.

So like a good shepherd,

he gives us a love-shove out of the fold and into the world.

Where we are not promised freedom from pain and suffering.

But we are promised presence.

Jesus said, “I will never leave or forsake you.”

Even out in the wild wide world,

even in suffering, the shepherd is with us.

Sometimes saving us from the attack,

sometimes suffering with us in the attack.

But never abandoning us.

_____________________

For the most part,

the lives of the faithful sheep of Christ in America,

are not fraught with lots of danger.

The same thing can’t be said for many places in our world.

We heard a brief word last Sunday, shared in our prayer time,

from a brother from Nigeria,

a Baptist pastor by the name of Ayuba Ashafa. [invite him up]

He is from Kaduna, the epicenter of bloody clashes

between Christian and Muslim communities in Northern Nigeria.

He is the founder and director of Justice and Peace Makers,

a movement of Christians and Muslims seeking to build bridges

and hammer out inter-religious reconciliation.

He is here for several weeks at the Summer Peacebuilding Institute

at EMU to be equipped for his work

His 2,000-member congregation

has been burned on four different occasions,

most recently a few weeks ago.

When he left his wife and three adult children at home

a little over a week ago, to fly here,

his area was under a 24-hour curfew,

and he needed to pay for a police escort to the airport.

That’s not the kind of world we are accustomed to living in,

when we’re outside the sheepfold.

So I asked him to share a testimony with us this morning.

A story that tells how he, or his family, or his church,

experiences Jesus as shepherd,

in the midst of such suffering and distress.

[story from Rev. Ashafa]

—Phil Kniss, May 15, 2011

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Phil Kniss: Hospitality--the art of being ready when God stops by without an appointment

May 8, 2011 -- Easter 3: Confusion and Clarity

Luke 24:13-35

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In this Easter season—we’re now at the third Sunday of Easter—

one of the things we find out as we dig around in the biblical stories

is that Jesus wasn’t the only one needing to be resurrected.

Thomas, the so-called doubter we saw last Sunday,

had to have his faith resurrected.

Peter, the Rock who crumbled under pressure, and publicly denied Jesus,

had to be forgiven and restored into relationship.

And every last one of the disciples,

who ran away into the night as soon as Jesus was arrested,

now were huddled together in a secret room,

cowering behind locked doors.

These dozen deserters were in no way ready

to become apostles and pillars of Jesus’ new kingdom.

Their vision, their hope, their life purpose needed to be resurrected.

Today’s Gospel story is a perfect example.

Two disciples walking from Jerusalem, home to Emmaus,

probably about seven miles west.

You heard this remarkable story read from Luke 24.

Turn to it if you’d like.

This story begins with two disciples walking west,

literally into the setting sun, heads hanging down,

and it ends with them running east, toward the rising dawn,

bursting with good news to share.

This is a resurrection story.

Not because there was a dead body that came to life.

But hope and vision which had died, was raised to life.

It’s a dramatic story, and it all pivots around one particular moment,

when Jesus, who they didn’t recognize,

broke the bread at their table, v. 30,

and their eyes were opened.

Some of you heard this story many times.

But let’s back up a bit,

and think about what happened

before the two of them started trudging westward back home.

We don’t know much about these two disciples.

The name Cleopas occurs only once in the Bible, right here.

His companion we know nothing about.

Some guess it was his wife.

But we can assume they were close to the inner circle of the Twelve.

At least, they knew right where to go in Jerusalem

to find their hideout.

We also know their state of mind on this walk home,

based on what they said to Jesus, the unknown stranger,

and v. 17 says, “They stood still, looking sad.”

They were disillusioned.

They were disillusioned about who Jesus was,

after the awful events of the last week.

In v. 21, they said to the stranger,

“We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

We had hoped.

Past tense. They no longer hoped.

They knew that would never happen.

They were disillusioned, disappointed, dejected.

Of course, to be disillusioned,

means that you’ve been under an illusion.

These disciples were under the illusion that Jesus was going to use

his miraculous power to overthrow their Roman oppressors,

and restore Israel as a sovereign, independent nation,

and sit on the throne of David in Jerusalem,

a throne that had been empty way too long.

They were under the illusion that they were following

the soon-to-be King Jesus of Jerusalem.

They were seeing something that wasn’t there.

But now, when we find them in this story in Luke 24,

they are being disillusioned.

Of course, painful as it might be,

I suppose disillusion is better than illusion. Right?

If our lives are built on false perceptions,

it’s better the falsehood gets stripped away . . . right?

Stripping away the false, however,

doesn’t always make the truth come into focus right away.

Disillusionment is just the first stage toward

a more truthful way of seeing.

But it’s an absolutely necessary stage.

Disillusionment is something we resist, understandably.

We resist it with all our might.

None of us want the world as we know it

to start shaking under our feet.

But if the world we know is built on an illusion,

disillusionment is something we must experience,

and we must embrace,

if we want to see things truthfully.

And, it’s right there, in our state of disillusionment,

where the conditions are right for God to show up,

and begin to open up a new, and more truthful, world.

Most of the time disillusionment isn’t a choice.

Disillusionment happens to us.

It gets thrust upon us.

Something happens that destroys the false reality

we’d been living under.

But to move from disillusionment to truthful clarity

requires a choice.

We need to be attentive, we need to be open,

and we need to be willing to surrender.

We may not need to choose to let go of our illusions.

But we have to choose to let go of our disillusionment.

To move toward clarity, we must be seeking it.

And this is why the story of the two disciples

on the road to Emmaus is so important.

Cleopas and his companion were actively seeking clarity.

They knew their old illusion of Jesus the conqueror

was never going to hold up.

As Luke 24 says, they “had hoped.” But no longer.

But they had not thrown in the towel.

They had not quit Jesus altogether.

Too many strange pieces in the story didn’t quite fit together.

They were still curious. Still seeking.

As they told the stranger on the road,

“some women of our group astounded us”

when angels told them Jesus was alive.

And there was the matter of the empty tomb

that some other disciples went and saw.

So yes, they were disillusioned, and dejected.

Jesus obviously wasn’t about to overthrow the Roman oppressors.

But there was something going on.

They couldn’t see it yet. But they were open to seeing it.

How do I know?

In this story is some irrefutable, tangible evidence

that they were seeking truth.

They practiced hospitality.

They practiced deep hospitality.

These traveling disciples . . . and we today . . . have choices

about how to position ourselves in a world

of uncertainty, of chaos, of confusion.

We can build walls, or we can practice hospitality.

I look at these two disciples, and I’m inspired.

They walked with a perfect stranger,

and listened to that stranger with open minds and open hearts.

And then they opened their home.

Yes, they were confused and depressed,

but not to the point of closing themselves off

to one who offered a new perspective.

Of course, this stranger wasn’t a complete stranger.

They didn’t know it was Jesus,

but they knew he shared their faith and their scriptures.

Their eyes were opened when Jesus broke the bread.

But they would never have gotten to that point with Jesus,

had they not been ready to give and receive hospitality.

They would have never gotten the clarity they sought,

if they had assumed a posture of defensiveness

and self-protection.

They had every right and every reason to turn inward,

to focus on their own disappointment and defeat,

to protect themselves from any further pain

by not letting that stranger into their lives.

They could well have let the stranger go on his merry way,

and could have gone into their own house,

and locked the door—

just like the door was locked

in that secret room back in Jerusalem.

They could have chosen to just close themselves off,

and crash.

Nobody would judge or criticize them in the least,

if they wanted to go into survival mode,

to give themselves some time and space to recover.

But as a result of the practice of hospitality,

God showed up.

And, as it usually happens,

God did not make an appointment in advance.

God did not wait until they cleared their schedule

and got back to him . . .

to let him know that Tuesday after next, between 1:30 and 3:00,

would be a convenient time to meet.

No, as usual, God stopped by. Unannounced. Unscheduled.

But because hospitality was in their blood,

Cleopas and his companion were ready for God.

I don’t mean they had the beds made, and food in the oven.

I mean they were ready to set aside their own agenda,

and be open to the other.

They were ready to hear an alternate interpretation

of the events of the past week,

and what a more faithful response might be to those events.

Our society is sorely lacking in people

committed to the practice of deep hospitality.

It’s no wonder we are so polarized.

It’s no wonder that fear so quickly overtakes us.

It’s no wonder we resort to shaming and shutting down our opponent,

rather than engage in a respectful struggle for truth.

It’s no wonder that we have all but lost the skill of civil discourse.

It’s no wonder that Tea Party folks, and the rival Coffee Party folks

have never sat down at the same table,

and taken a sip of each other’s preferred beverage.

It’s because deep hospitality is not a value in our culture.

It’s this same resistance to opening ourselves to the other,

that makes us less likely to be ready

when God stops by without an appointment.

_____________________

When I was still in my twenties, I was pastoring in Gainesville, FL.

I think in my youthfulness, I may have been hospitable more often.

More ready for the unexpected encounter.

One Sunday morning, I was closing up after church.

Irene had already gone home to fix lunch for company.

I was catching a ride home with our guest.

Just as I was locking the church door,

a disheveled and miserable-looking man appeared,

and said he wanted to “talk to the pastor.”

In our downtown church, this was actually a frequent occurrence.

The next sentence was going to be a request for money.

The reason would vary.

Needed to buy some food to eat.

Needed to get a bus ticket.

Needed a place to sleep that night.

I was just about ready to brush him off,

and point him to the homeless shelter, St. Francis House,

But instead, I opened myself, just a crack,

and sat down on the bench with him, ready to listen.

I don’t remember his whole story,

but I remember the part where he said,

“I’m planning to kill myself today.”

I spent at least an hour talking with him.

Our lunch guest got involved in the conversation.

Eventually, we took him home with us for lunch.

and had him break bread with us.

By the time lunch was over, he had changed his mind.

Our other guest and I took him back into town.

He took us to the place he had hidden his handgun.

We helped him dispose of all his ammunition.

And then took him to the airport,

for a flight back to the family he was running from.

He declared his handgun, and checked it in properly.

He paid for his own plane ticket. He wasn’t indigent.

And he took off for home,

ready to give life another chance.

I have no idea what became of him.

But the practice of hospitality,

literally kept this man alive that day.

As I look back at that encounter and what I experienced from it,

I can also say God stopped by, without an appointment.

That time, I was ready.

I know there have been many times since, that I wasn’t.

_____________________

I think that part of our problem,

as I said in my Easter morning sermon,

is that we’re not always ready for resurrection life.

We may not actually want to see the risen Jesus more clearly,

because we have a hunch what it might mean.

We might rather go on with life as we know it, undisturbed.

We might not be looking for an encounter that will change our lives.

We might not wish to be stretched beyond our point of comfort.

Hospitality, by definition, is risky.

I also need to say that it is appropriate to draw boundaries.

Along with hospitality, comes the responsibility to be discerning.

Not every guest is a welcome guest.

Not every visitor comes speaking with the voice of God.

Don’t we wish it was easy to know, in real time, which was which.

In our seasons of confusion or disillusionment,

when God stops by, and we answer the door,

more than likely God won’t be in the form of

a glowing figure in a white robe,

with flowing hair and a deep voice,

telling us exactly what to do next.

Good discernment is crucial.

It might mean a long and careful and communal process

to tell whether, in fact, this was God that stopped by,

or whether it was something we ate,

or something more sinister,

trying to lead us away from the future God has for us.

So here is what I think I’m ready to commit to,

and I invite you to join me in this commitment.

I want to be deeply hospitable.

I want to be ready when God stops by without an appointment.

And I want to be discerning.

So . . . I will choose to surround myself with a core community

of persons in covenant with one another,

who together worship God,

who together have a high regard for the scriptures

who together are committed to keeping Jesus Christ—

his life, teachings, and sacrificial death and resurrection—

at the center of our life together,

and who together will walk boldly into the world

in all its beauty and brokenness,

ready to both give and receive the practice of hospitality.

By hospitality, I mean being attentive, open, and yielded.

In that order.

Attentive, so that I will at least notice when God shows up.

Open, so I will lower my defenses and listen more deeply

to God and God’s messengers.

And yielded, so that when I grasp what God is saying,

I will have the courage to lay down my own agenda,

and go where God is pointing me.

I cannot be faithful to the call of Christ,

if my posture is one of defensiveness, rather than hospitality.

if I walk into the world with a slick, pre-packaged message,

rather than first embodying the Good News of Christ

with a compassionate, yet bold, presence.

May we all join together in this commitment

to be ready when God stops by.

—Phil Kniss, May 8, 2011

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Barbara Moyer Lehman: A New Birthing of Hope

May 1, 2011 - Easter 2

John 20:19-32

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After presenting the New Testament scripture for today from John 20:19-32, Pastor Barbara Moyer Lehman acknowledged that sometimes the Sunday after Easter can seem like a let down following the great celebration of Easter Sunday. We have a "mountain-top" experience, but Easter Monday dawns as another ordinary day with the same problems in the world very evident. One might ask, "What difference does the resurrection make?" But Jesus is the resurrection and the LIFE!

In Jesus' self-disclosure to the disciples in John 20, he showed how he fulfilled all of his promises made before his death. Jesus offers peace to his disciples. He removes their fears and he gives to them the gift of the Holy Spirit. Even in the midst of Jesus' re-appearing, we hear of the doubt that Thomas expresses. Pastor Barbara said that doubt is normal. We all relate to Thomas because we also have doubt. Jesus invites us to let go of our doubts, let go of our need for certainty. We are to embrace mystery and live in the hope of the resurrection. And we can look for signs of hope around us now!

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