Park View Mennonite Church sermons

Phil Kniss: Roman Gladiators and Smart Phones

2012-01-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

Formed in Christ: Our Virtual Lives
Luke 4:1-13

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There is a wonderful gift that everyone of us here
has been given by our Creator—
the desire for knowledge.

Proverbs 8:10 says knowledge is more desirable than “choice gold.”
Aristotle wrote, “All humans by nature desire to know.”
Our insatiable appetite for knowledge
runs the engine of human progress.

Every good thing we enjoy—
apart from the natural world—
has been developed because of
this God-given appetite for knowledge.
To desire knowledge, is to be human.

But . . . to say we have an appetite for knowledge
is also to say—as with other appetites—
we need to be discerning.
Satisfying an appetite can lead to joyful fulness,
or to heavy, empty weight.
In the effort to satisfy an appetite, may lie sin or virtue.

In my sermon today, I’m drawing heavily on the work of
Douglas Henry, a professor of philosophy at Baylor,
from an article in a journal called Christian Reflection,
and some writings of St. Augustine and others.
Dr. Henry helped me understand two concepts
rooted in medieval moral philosophy—curiositas and studiositas.
And he also taught me what Roman gladiators and smart phones
have in common.

Now that comment—and my sermon title—is just a heads up.
You would be doubly wise today
to make sure your cell phones are turned off.
If a phone rang in this sermon . . .
in addition to embarrassment,
there would also be some obvious irony.

But before I get to the matter of phones,
let me deal with medieval moral philosophy.
But trust me. Not only will this be interesting. It will be elementary!
Well, if not elementary, at least Junior High.
I think 6th graders won’t have any trouble getting this,
so listen up.
And the really smart 4th and 5th graders, you listen, too,
and tell me afterwards if you get it.

These Latin words—curiositas and studiositas—
have been around a long time.
Thomas Aquinas and St. Augustine wrote about these words.
In plain English, they mean curiosity and studiousness.

Both are about how we desire knowledge—how we want to know.
But one is about only being curious.
The other is about studying to learn more deeply.

Now, we say it’s a good thing to be curious!
Being curious helps us learn to know new things.
Knowing something is better than not knowing something, right?
In school, curious students are motivated to study.
They want to do their homework.

But the way these philosophers used these words,
curiosity is bad, studying is good.
And Christian philosophers—
like the ancient Thomas Aquinas,
or like Dr. Henry at Baylor, who’s younger than I am,
but apparently smarter—
Christian philosophers say that curiositas is sinful.

To them, curiosity and studiousness, are two very different
ways to desire knowledge.
Those who are only curious, and those who are studious
are different
in why they desire knowledge,
and in what kind of knowledge they desire.

So, “why” do they want to know something?
The curious want knowledge so they can possess it,
control it for their own purposes.
Claim it as their own,
and secretly hope others don’t get the same knowledge.
It’s good to be smarter than someone else.
The studious want knowledge, not to possess it,
but to participate in it.
They want to get closer to the truth,
to get immersed in it, to bathe in it.
Knowledge is way bigger than themselves.
So big, so infinite, so vast it never runs out.
There’s more than enough for everyone.
So the more others share our knowledge,
the more delightful it is.

The curious live in a world of objects,
things that they can possess, or conquer,
or even squirrel away in some secret place.
The studious live in a world full of gifts.
God-given gifts. Grace-filled gifts.
Gifts we receive and celebrate
and delight in sharing.

The curious are focused on novelty.
They want to know what’s new.
And they want to be one of the first to know,
and they want others to know that they know.
They want to be known as knowers.

The studious don’t focus on whether it’s new.
They agree with Ecclesiastes,
“There is nothing new under the sun.”
God already knows everything they could know.
So they aren’t looking for what’s new.
They’re looking for where they can go deeper.
They don’t mind—in fact, they seek—repetition.
They want to explore the same reality again and again,
going deeper each time.
They realize they know only in part,
as through a glass darkly,
so they go back and dive in again, and again.

And while the curious like to announce their knowledge to the world,
the studious are okay with silence.
They discover that words are often inadequate
to describe the beauty and depth of what they know.

The curious are drawn to spectacles. Whatever is spectacular.
Out of the ordinary.
The view right in front of them—even a terrible tragedy—
is what’s most important.
CNN and Reality TV, are their bread and butter.
The studious try to enter into a deeper reality
behind what they are seeing on the surface.

Unfortunately, modern western culture specializes in curiositas—
to an extreme.
Why else do we obsess about the trivial and immediate and bizzarre?
Like what topics are trending
on Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, and Tumbler.
and other websites dedicated to tracking
the newest and trendiest bits of disconnected knowledge.
Why else has television all but given up on doing
creative, wholesome, thought-provoking,
and socially-relevant programming,
and opted instead for so-called “reality shows” and contests
that often put the worst of human traits on display
for our mindless entertainment?
Why else, when something happens in the world
that’s spectacular or scandalous or tragic,
do people stop what they’re doing and stare for hours on end
at the reporters on Constant News Network,
yammering on and on about this breaking news,
even when nothing new is breaking in the situation?

It’s because we, as a culture, collectively
have bought into curiositas, instead of studiositas.
We want a short-cut to knowledge,
bits and pieces delivered instantly to us personally, privately,
without any effort on out part to go deeper.
The more, the quicker, the better.
Like gorging on candy.

Okay, that’s the philosophy lesson.
Now, before I get to Roman gladiators and smart phones,
let’s talk about Jesus.
_____________________

We heard the story of Jesus
being tempted by the devil in the wilderness.
Jesus was being tempted to embrace curiositas.

The temptations—
of turning stone to bread,
of getting authority over the kingdoms,
of jumping off the peak of the temple—
those were temptations to take the truth about himself,
and possess it as an object to manage
and use to his own advantage,
to satisfy his hunger,
to gain control over others,
to go for the spectacular.
He was tempted to use his power,
in exactly the way we are all tempted
to use our power of knowledge.

But Jesus had the clarity and good judgement
to see what he was being tempted with,
and choose another course.
He chose studiositas.
He chose to use his knowledge and power as an opportunity
to go deeper into the truth of who we was,
and who he was called to become.

Interesting, though! This temptation came immediately after
Jesus was given a gift of new knowledge.
He heard a voice from heaven, at his baptism,
pronouncing his identity,
telling him who he was.

And immediately, with the voice still ringing in his ears,
he was whisked off into the wilderness,
and there he struggled . . . mightily . . .
with the temptation to use his newfound knowledge
as a tool to benefit himself.

These are not unlike the temptations we get hit with,
whenever we get new knowledge—
about ourselves, about others, about the world we live in—
we are tempted to hold on to knowledge tightly, as our own,
and use it for personal benefit,
instead of receiving it as an abundant, grace-filled gift,
in a world full of gifts,
a gift that invites us to dive even deeper into that world,
and into the lives of others,
and into God,
and into our truest selves.
_____________________

So . . . about gladiators.
In his article, Dr. Henry relates a story from St. Augustine.
Seems St. Augustine had a good friend, Alypius,
who would go to the Roman Coliseum,
and despite being a Christian, he was captivated by the sounds
of the gruesome, violent combat of gladiators.
So he would open his eyes and feast greedily
on the human cruelty unfolding before him.
He gave in to his powerful appetite to know—curiositas.
His appetite was filled, but he went away empty,
having given way to a sinful appetite.

The Roman Coliseum was an ideal vehicle for human curiositas.
It fed the desire to know, without any real relationship
with the subject of that knowledge.
People could watch from afar, then walk away.
No need to ponder its meaning, or its morality.
The knowledge was neither moral nor immoral,
purely an object, to possess, to keep privately.

In our day, there are countless parallels to the Roman Coliseum.
I already mentioned reality TV, and constant news.
There are many, many more vehicles that our culture has developed,
to help us cultivate and satisfy curiositas.
Perhaps none as effective, and pervasive, as the smart phone.

I have one. I use it. I enjoy it. A lot.
It keeps my life organized.
I have virtually all the information I need to do my job,
to conduct meetings,
to call people,
to find directions,
to read scripture
(as I pointed out to the children a couple weeks ago).
On this tiny device clipped to my belt all day,
there’s an app to accomplish almost anything,
and to access almost any available knowledge, instantly.
Now what could be wrong about such an amazing
technical innovation?
Sure, anything can be abused.
But the technology itself is morally neutral . . . right?

Except, I have to admit . . . though I’d rather not . . .
that this particular technology,
is especially well-suited . . . ideally-suited . . .
to facilitate and encourage curiositas.
Never mind the fact it can connect to the internet,
and all manner of immoral or morally suspect content.
Never mind it would be easy to engage in immoral communications
or behavior—
the kind that has already ruined many lives and careers,
and ended marriages.
Even if your phone—or iPad for that matter—
could not possibly access or send anything morally questionable,
there is still a moral problem to deal with, I’m afraid.

The simple fact that a gadget I can carry around everywhere
can provide such easy access to knowledge on demand,
powerfully feeds my sinful hunger for novelty,
for cheap, disconnected, shallow knowledge,
it feeds my pride, because I have it visibly clipped on my belt,
or pull it out in meetings,
so other people can see that I have this knowledge
at my fingertips,
it encourages a way of being in the world
that is more concerned about objects than gifts.

Not only is my phone an object that I possess, and protect,
and am proud of.
It can easily stand in the way of my enjoying many of the
wonderful, transcendent gifts that God pours out on me daily.
If I am walking down the sidewalk,
or sitting with the family at home,
or in a classroom, or conference room,
or at a table with a friend,
this object very easily gets in the way of, and trumps,
the ordinary and generous gifts of human existence.

When I’m tethered to my phone,
ready for every ring, chirp, or vibration it gives off,
I’m not as apt to notice other things.
When I’m checking Facebook, or email,
or doing a crossword puzzle, or playing “Angry Birds,”
I am, by definition, distracted and unable to fully engage
with the gifts God puts in my path—
be that a blue sky, or the songs of real birds,
or the greeting of a friend or stranger walking by,
or . . . most tragically, the attention and affection
of a loved one—spouse, child, parent, friend.

Now, are smart phones sinful, per se?
Should we rid ourselves of them?

Douglas Henry, himself an avowed power user of his smart phone,
said even though curiositas—
this sinful appetite for endlessly new knowledge,
possessed for private gain,
and proudly put on display—
is made more likely, if not inevitable, by a smart phone,
he would not say that having mobile connection to the internet
must be spiritually distracting or deforming.
Curiositas, he wrote,
“with its powerful, disordered love for knowledge,
tempted God’s faithful long before
Steve Jobs presented the world with its first iPhones.”
The Roman Coliseum being a case in point.
And Thoreau said, in the 1800s, by the way,
“We have more and more ways to communicate,
but less and less to say.”

We must establish habits and practices that help us resist curiositas,
and encourage, instead, studiositas.
That encourage us to enter into the lives of others, and ourselves,
and encourage us to plunge deeper into the truths
of this world—both its beauty and its brokenness.

We should consider internet Sabbaths.
We should consider establishing phone-free and internet-free zones.
This sanctuary could be one.
The dinner table at home surely should be one.
The car ought to be one.

We should cultivate the habit of having long conversations.
When was your last hour-long, face-to-face conversation?
I don’t mean a planned meeting with an agenda.
I mean a free-flowing, undistracted conversation
in which no party needed or wanted to be anywhere else.

We should read novels.
Or paint.
Or listen to symphonies.

We should take long walks . . . with our phone turned off.
Or “forgotten” at home.

We should learn a new skill,
or study a new topic in depth.

I’m saying this not to scold “you out there.”
I’m saying this, because I need to hear myself say it.

Our virtual lives can help or hinder being formed in Christ.
Mobile connectivity can be a good thing.
But it can quickly become a vice.
A vice takes something potentially good
and ruins it by loving it too much.

Curiositas is like other desires—
for pleasure, approval, wealth, power, status.
They are god-substitutes.
Idolatry.
They violate the first of the Ten Commandments.

But we can have virtuous virtual lives,
if we develop habits of studiositas rather than curiositas.

And if we do as the apostle encouraged us in today’s reading,
“Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just,
whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable,
if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise,
think about these things.”

Let us do exactly that.
Let us look for, and see God’s love,
in the abundant gifts of grace we receive daily.
And let us allow those gifts to direct our worship
to the God who gave them.

—Phil Kniss, January 29, 2012

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Ervin Stutzman: Body-building exercises for the church

2012-01-22T12:00:00.000-05:00

Formed in Christ: Building up the body

Romans 12:1-8

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From the time we are born, all of us are shaped to speak in a certain way. It is not just our family, but the community we grew up in that shaped our language and our speech patterns. If we want to learn another language or change our accent or pattern of speaking, that is hard work! In the Bible, the apostle Paul speaks of being formed in the image of Christ. In 1 Corinthians 12, Ephesians 4, and Romans 12, Paul speaks of the grace of God which grants us a variety of gifts. These gifts are exercised in the context of the Body of Christ, the church. Ervin Stutzman, Executive Director of Mennonite Church USA and a member of Park View Mennonite Church, reflected on the seven gifts listed in Romans 12:1-8. All of these gifts have a function to strengthen the church and move it forward in ministry. We all have some gift that we naturally exercise, but Ervin suggested that not only are there times when we may need all of them, but the church runs risks if it does not value and exercise all of the gifts. Ervin asks us, "How then are we to live in our congregation?" He highlighted the risk of imbalance. We need all of these gifts and suffer as a body if we neglect some.

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Phil Kniss: Stand up, sit down, bend low (and other exercises for reading the Bible)

2012-01-15T12:00:00.000-05:00

Formed in Christ: To be people of the Word

Nehemiah 8:1-12; Luke 4:14-21

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It was not an overstatement on my part,
when I said to the children that this church would not exist,
were it not for this book.
This book, and all the Christian communities throughout history
which helped to shape this book,
and then were shaped by this book,
and all the communal ethics and communal practices
that grew out of people living with this book—
this has made us who we are, as a people.

Now, it’s not the book alone that did this.
If we believed that, we would be making a god out of an object.
It’s this book,
in a back-and-forth relationship with the people it belongs to, and
through the power and presence of the God who inspired it—
who called into being the book and its people—
that has made us who we are.
It’s impossible to conceive of ourselves, the church,
without taking seriously these scriptures
as being at the heart of who we are.

Some regard the Bible as just an interesting cultural relic,
or beautiful literature, or source of good stories,

but dismiss its importance for how we live today,
and how we understand who we are.

I have two books at home that my mother put together for me.
One is a photo album,
of hundreds of snapshots of me, with captions—
images of me with my family and friends,
from birth through my marriage to Irene.
The other is a thick binder
full of distilled entries from nearly 50 years
of her daily diary entries and family letters,
that tell the story of the family I grew up in,
all the things that make me who I am.
If I regarded those two books
in the same way many people regard the Bible,
I would say, well, those are some cute pictures,
and some interesting stories,
but it’s not who I am anymore.
I don’t need them to tell me who I am,
or how I came to be who I am.
Plus, I could go on the internet right now,
and find pictures that are cuter,
and stories that are more interesting.
_____________________

The Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective, Article 4, says,
“The Bible is the essential book of the church . . .
We commit ourselves to persist and delight
in reading, studying, and meditating on the Scriptures.
We participate in the church’s task of interpreting the Bible
and of discerning what God is saying in our time
by examining all things in the light of Scripture.
Insights . . . we bring are to be tested in the faith community.”

See . . . the Bible is our book.
Reading it, interpreting it, is our job,
in which we all have an obligation to participate.
This is not a job we delegate to the professionals—
preachers, professors, theologians.
This is a job for all of us . . . together.
And this is not a job we can ignore,
if we want to call ourselves a church.

I’ve heard many sincere Christians take a pass,
on this job of wrestling with scripture.
Maybe they don’t understand it enough to appreciate it.
Too esoteric, too ancient.
Maybe they read stuff in there they need to argue with,
and they aren’t comfortable arguing.
Maybe they don’t feel this ancient book actually means much anymore,
or that it holds any authority in today’s complex world.
So the Bible gets pushed to the side,
as little more than a source of some inspirational stories,
quotable quotes,
and poetic language that sounds great in public liturgy.

If that’s all it is to us, we disrespect scripture.
I repeat. We would not exist, as a community of God’s people,
without this formational book.
We could never sustain our life together without it.
This is the central book of the living community of Christ.
This is the book of the church.
_____________________

We heard two different stories from this book this morning.
And they were both stories about how the written scripture
became formational for the community,
and the individual in community.

In Nehemiah 8,
there was a ceremonial public reading
and public celebration of the book of the law.
This was after the people had mostly returned from exile in Babylon,
and rebuilt the walls of the destroyed city.
Nearly 50,000 people were there,
most of whom had lived in Babylon for many generations,
and had completely forgotten who they were as a people.

So the newly rediscovered book of the law, the Torah—
what we know as Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deut—
was brought out and given to all the people, as their book.
Now of course, when I say it was given to all the people,
I don’t mean that Ezra passed out 50,000 leather-bound testaments,
and told the people, “Go home. Read. And obey.”
I also don’t mean that the people were given
a list of all the inspirational verses in their Bible,
with a chart telling them what verse to read
if they are discouraged,
or if they’re afraid,
or if they lust,
or if they need to forgive someone . . .
like the chart in the back of one of the Bibles
I got when I was a kid.
I also don’t mean that Ezra, their resident theologian,
just read it to them and told them what it meant.

No. Ezra, and twelve other people, six on his right, and six on his left,
read the text out aloud to the people . . . for six hours.
Then those 12, plus 14 more,
worked with the people in making sense out of what they heard.
All these helpers are listed by name in Nehemiah 8, v. 4 and v. 7.
26 unpronounceable names.
We skipped those verses out of pity for our reader, Trisha.

Exactly how these 26 interpreters did their work,
we don’t really know,
but the result was so powerful,
that 50,000 people spontaneously fell on their faces . . . and wept.
The emotion of remembering and reconnecting
with something deep within them that they had lost,
was simply overpowering.
_____________________

And in today’s Gospel reading,
there was also a powerful moment
when the scripture was read aloud and interpreted,
in the midst of a local community.
This time it was Jesus reading, in his hometown synagogue.
He stood to read from Isaiah,
and then sat down, as was customary,
to give his commentary on the text.
It was a nine-word commentary,
“Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.”

But then he started to say other things,
started spelling out some implications of the scripture,
that pushed the edges of the community,
namely, that God might care just as much about the Gentiles . . .
well, that was more interpretation than they wanted to hear,
and they turned against Jesus.

But Jesus was dealing with scripture according to their tradition.
That is, he was reading it in the middle of the community.
And then, he engaged the community in exploring the meaning.
Like any good Jewish rabbi, stirring up a good argument,
as to what the sacred text means for us, today.

How different than the way a lot of us read it these days.
We read one inspirational verse a day,
like a daily vitamin pill,
subscribed to and sent to our email inbox,
for a daily spiritual energy boost.
Or I read and interpret it alone,
trying to reinforce what I already believe,
or to prove someone else wrong.
_____________________

Earlier, I was making a case that the scripture
is powerful and formational for who we are today as a people.

It is a book of the people of God.
It is a book we must engage with—heart, soul, mind, and body.
Yes, even our bodies engage in the task of reading scripture.

There’s a notion we’ve lost sight of,
in modern Protestant American Christianity—
that there is something physical involved
as we engage with scripture in community.

We don’t need to physically engage with scripture at all—
as long as we assume scripture is primarily
a matter of the individual pursuit of knowledge
and the individual internal life of the spirit.
For that, all we need is a desk or private prayer closet,
any place where we can, in stillness and quietness,
absorb the words into our mind or spirit.
Read them.
And think on them.
And pray on them.
We don’t really much need our bodies for that.
Just our minds and hearts.

But once we accept that this is primarily the book of God’s people.
Then we immediately must deal with the physicality,
the sociality, of the embodied community of people
whose book it is.
And how this real, physical community of people in relationship,
absorbs and interacts with the book.

Now, I’m not at all dismissing
the place for individual reading and meditation and private prayer
with the Bible open in front of us.
That is also significant as a way to engage the scripture
and wrestle with its message.
I do that as much as I can, in quietness, every morning.

But . . . the place where the Bible really finds its home,
is at the center of the people physically gathered,
waiting to be formed by our communal encounter with God,
and God’s word to us.

We learn something of great value, I believe,
if we pay attention to these stories of the people of God
interacting communally, viscerally, with scripture.
If we notice their collective physical posture,
and movement, and gestures.
They are not coincidental.

Take a look again at Nehemiah 8.
The people were gathered in the square, facing the Water Gate.
And the book was physically brought into the square,
and Ezra took it, facing the square, in front of the Gate.
V. 5 (quote) “And he opened the book in the sight of all the people,
for he was standing above all the people;
and when he opened it, all the people stood up.”
And they read it aloud for six hours.

You noticed, I guess, that we stood this morning
when this text was read.
We stood upright.
A physical posture of attentiveness. A sign of respect.
Though not for six hours.

Then Ezra blessed the Lord.
And the people said, “Amen. Amen.”
And lifted up their hands.
Then bowed their heads.
Then they worshiped the Lord with their faces to the ground.

This was pure physical engagement, which had meaning in itself.
They were physically demonstrating their response to the text.
This encounter with scripture was not a mind game.
It was the act of an embodied people of God,
standing, sitting, bending,
in acts of reverence,
attentiveness,
repentance,
and praise.

But when they finished reading, they weren’t done.
More physical movement, and engagement.
More body exercises.
At least that’s what I gather from this.
We aren’t told exactly how all this took place.
But there were 26 different helpers and interpreters
who were brought in to help with the task of
“giving the sense” so the people could understand.
So I doubt it all happened from the platform.
I imagine these 26 helpers fanned out among the people,
maybe in smaller groups,
and worked at the task of interpretation and discernment.
Listening, responding.
Taking questions. Maybe even making adjustments,
based on the questions and comments of the people.

But however it happened,
it clearly was not a private reading for private edification.
It was the work of the whole people,
a people moved by the Spirit of God,
to seek the word and will of God together.

And . . . there was physical engagement and physical posture involved
in Jesus’ reading of Isaiah in the synagogue.
And it followed the customary pattern at that time.
Jesus stood to read from the scroll.
Then he sat to give his commentary on it.
Standing was the posture of respect for the sacred text.
Sitting was the posture for teaching,
as all the rabbis did.

Standing up.
Sitting down.
Bending low.
All communal physical engagements with the reading of a text.
It makes sense because, and only because,
this book belongs primarily to the people,
and is centered in their life together—
of life of shared, embodied practices.

You see, my point here is not that we make sure
we get our physical movements right.
It doesn’t really matter in the end,
that we always stand at the right time,
or sit at the right time.
There are many valid ways to engage the scripture.

But if we neglect the communal encounter with scripture,
as we are physically gathered—
whether in a sanctuary,
or a Sunday School circle,
or around the table in someone’s home—
if we neglect the communal wrestling together
to get the sense of the reading,
to reflect together on what it meant, and what it means,
if we neglect the work of reading, interpreting,
and applying as a community . . .
then we are neglecting the most formational activity
we as God’s people have at our disposal.

This book is a great gift to us from God.
Mediated, of course, through God’s people through the ages.
But it is a priceless treasure.
It’s okay to keep a copy for sentimental reasons,
even if it doesn’t get read.
Nothing wrong with having a Bible behind glass,
or on a coffee table,
or in a shrine,
or even locked up in a safe.
They can simply stand as a symbols
of what’s important and precious and valuable to us.

But it’s so much more than that.
It is the common, shared book of the common people.
It needs to be accessible and used, by all.
It needs to be interacted with, as a living text,
without which, we couldn’t live.
It’s a precious gift from God for our life together.

And we should thank God regularly for this gift.

Let’s thank God now, in song,
by singing together from STJ 27

God of the Bible, God in the Gospel,
hope seen in Jesus, hope yet to come,
you are our center, daylight or darkness,
freedom or prison, you are our home.

—Phil Kniss, January 15, 2012

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Phil Kniss: A mystery in plain sight

2012-01-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

Epiphany: "Lift up your eyes and look around"

Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12; Isaiah 60:1-6

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We are observing it today in worship,
but Friday was Epiphany, the end of the 12-Day Christmas season.
Overall, it was a good Christmas,
here at Park View, and for me personally.
Wonderful worship experiences.
Amazing music that carried us along.
Beautiful art to inspire us.
Rich time with family.
Thoughtful sharing of gifts.
And just the right amount—a modest amount—
of nostalgia and sentimentality.

It was a good time.
And a good distraction from all the political mudslinging
and other foolishness going on this time of year.

I get a little weary—well, more than a little weary—
with the state of our public discourse,
with the way of talking to each other,
that our culture has come to accept as normal.
You have to act like you just know, without a shred of doubt,
that what you believe is the one right way to believe,
and then you must do everything you can
to distance yourself from your opponent,
to loudly exaggerate, stereotype, pigeonhole,
discredit, and yes, despise those who disagree with you,
and then you play the fear card . . .
suggesting that the other is out to destroy our way of life,
and then for good measure, you thrown in some innuendo
that your opponent’s viewpoint is not very far removed
from that of Hitler or Nazi Germany.
No middle ground is allowed.
You’re either entirely right or entirely wrong,
and thus, entirely good or entirely evil.
Our culture, and our politics, both left and right,
are built, it seems, on some misguided devotion to
absolute certainty,
and a outright rejection of mystery.

Just see how fast someone falls off the national political stage,
and into oblivion,
if they suggest they don’t really know about something,
or imply there might be more than one legitimate way
to look at a some hot issue,
or try to nuance their position in any way.
They get shouted down, or they get ignored.

We in the church are sometimes guilty of the same.
We, too, are sometimes afraid to embrace mystery,
when it comes to matters of faith.
We need to at least act like we’re sure, even if we have to fake it.
Or when we do speak of mystery,
we try to move quickly to solving the mystery,
to finding the one right answer.

The season of Epiphany, at first glance,
actually seems to support the notion
that the mystery is over . . . and now we know.

The word “epiphany” means, of course, a “revelation.”
An epiphany is when the lights come on!
It’s when the hidden becomes revealed.

Our scriptures today speak confidently of what has been revealed.
The Gospel story from Matthew 2—the story of the wise men—
celebrates that the light of God has come to the Gentiles.
The Old Testament reading from Isaiah 60
proclaims with joy
that our light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has risen upon us.
The epistle reading, from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians,
sounds utterly confident that God’s activity, once a mystery,
has been made known in Christ, made known to all,
including Gentiles.
In former days, this secret—
that God includes Gentiles in his family—
was an unknown mystery,
but now, everyone sees what used to be hidden.
The Gospel of Christ,
is a mystery in plain sight.

So in light of these texts,
in light of this biblical confidence and optimism about revelation
why—on Epiphany of all days—should I talk about mystery?
Well, in light of our human experience,
how can I not talk about mystery?

In light of the year we have come through—
with yet more disasters, war, famine,
religious hatred, and violence of all kinds—
how can we not just say that there are things we don’t know?

Furthermore, the human experience of the writers of scripture,
was not that different from our own human experience.
They too had struggles of faith.
Yes, the people who wrote our Holy Book did not always know,
and were honest about it.
They had questions that were too difficult for them.

The twelve disciples,
even as they walked in the very presence of the divine Son of God,
stumbled and bumbled their way along
on this strange and complicated and ever-changing
journey of following Jesus.
And their fears and missteps and doubts
are all recorded for us in the pages of holy scripture.

The great apostle Paul,
who personified optimism and bravado and certainty,
had this to say, and I quote,
from 1 Corinthians 2:3—
“I came to you in weakness and in fear and in much trembling.”
and from Ephesians 6:19—
“Pray also for me, [as I speak] the mystery of the gospel.”
and from 1 Timothy 3:16—
“Without any doubt, the mystery of our religion is great.”

So I think I’m on solid ground when I say,
that even in light of Epiphany’s divine revelation to the nations,
even with the ongoing enlightening work of the Holy Spirit,
we are left with a gospel characterized by mystery.

The question for all of us, is what do we do with this mystery?
What is our relationship with the part of the gospel
that is mystery?
What should our posture be toward the unknowable?
Do we push it away, or walk toward it?
Do we anxiously strive to uncover everything unknown?
Or do we welcome the mystery and live with it?

This is Epiphany. The Day of Revelation.
But sometimes, it seems, the only thing an epiphany reveals,
is a deeper level of mystery.
_____________________

I find Paul’s words, in today’s reading from Ephesians 3, compelling.
Paul described himself as a servant of this mysterious gospel, v. 7.
A servant of the gospel. A servant of the mystery that is Christ.
We often talk about being a servant of God, a servant of Jesus,
even a servant to one another.
But Paul says he’s a servant of the gospel of Christ.

What does he mean by that?
I think we often, mistakenly, think of the gospel as a thing.
As some commodity we have in our hand.
Something we reproduce and hand out to others.
A belief and behavior system,
that once we have it mastered,
we package and distribute it.
Customized for our particular market, of course,
but nonetheless, it’s a commodity we possess,
and which we have the power to shape, to mold,
to make available, or to withhold.

But no, the Gospel is not ours to master or manage.
It was, and still is, the Gospel of God.
Paul, in this letter to the Ephesians,
understands that the gospel is not something we have, or hold onto,
or pass out like candy.
It’s something we serve.
The gospel has its own life . . . in God through Christ.
The gospel exists completely outside of our small attempts
to reproduce, package, and market it.
And the gospel has its own authority.
We let the Gospel speak to us, and to our world.
We let it set the agenda.
We bow to it.
We serve its best interests.

And, as something out of our control, it still has a mystery about it.
Not a mystery far away beyond our knowing.
Actually, according to Paul, it’s a mystery that is in plain sight.
Paul is confident the mystery is made known by the Spirit.
But we never master it. It masters us.
We are called to serve the mystery of the Gospel,
to devote ourselves to it,
to order our lives around it.

Just because the gospel of Christ is a mystery,
does not mean it’s any less worthwhile,
does not mean we shouldn’t dedicate our lives to it,
does not mean we shouldn’t be its servant.

To be a servant of the mystery simply means this:
we welcome the unanswered and dangling questions of our faith,
but we don’t falter in our commitment
to keep following the way of this mysterious gospel.
Not knowing everything about it,
is no excuse for not committing our lives to it.
In fact, if we did know everything there was to know about it,
if we could master it,
we would not be in a good position to bow,
or submit to it, would we?

I think many Christians make one of two mistakes
in facing the mysteries of faith.

Either they deny the mystery,
and try to shore up their faltering faith,
by acting all the more certain and dogmatic,
and just hoping all the dilemmas will disappear.

Or, they get cynical,
and assume if they can’t wrap their mind around it,
and get all the loose ends tied up,
then it must not be worth believing in.

I choose, rather, to be a servant of the mystery.
To give a place of honor to the mystery of the Gospel.
To say, no, I don’t know everything it means to follow Jesus in life.
It’s a start, but things don’t really become perfectly clear,
just by asking, “What would Jesus do?”
It’s at least as complicated for me, as it was for St. Peter,
who had Jesus right in front of him, in the flesh.
Nevertheless, I choose to take all that I know of myself,
and give it to all that I know of Christ and the Gospel of God.

I want to be a servant of the mystery,
and say, I don’t know all there is to know about the ways of God,
but nevertheless, I trust God.
_____________________

I don’t know any other way to cope, theologically,
with the many and deep kinds of suffering
right now being inflicted on God’s children all around the world.

In the just the last few days since New Years,
I’ve listened to reports on NPR about the alarming rise
in vicious sexual attacks and murder of young women
in Somali refugee camps,
and nothing is being done to address the crisis.
I’ve been hearing about the renewed mass slaughter of Christians
and burning of churches in Nigeria,
and threats of retaliation by the Christians
against the radical Muslim groups claiming responsibility.
I’ve read of yet another bombing in Syria on Friday, killing over 26,
and reports of hundreds being tortured.
There has been famine and flood across the globe.

Where is God in the middle of all this? Where is God?
I don’t answer the question glibly.
Because I don’t know, in any rational, provable way.
But my faith—mystery and all—does have an answer to give.
There is a place, a firm place, where we can stand,
where the mystery is in plain sight.
And from that place, I say, with conviction,
God is right there, in the Somali refugee camp,
weeping with the women.
God is on the doorsteps of the Nigerian churches
as the gunmen run inside.
God is sitting on the street next to the grieving families in Syria.
God is where the suffering is.
Wherever people are being abused, or going hungry,
or dying for lack of shelter.
God is there.

Suffering is part of life, for all God’s children.
Even Jesus said, God sends rain on the just and on the unjust.
God does not reach down and manipulate the jet stream,
so that rain falls on those who need it most,
or so that hurricanes and typhoons destroy only the wicked.
God does not reach down and push on earth’s tectonic plates,
to cause earthquakes and tsunamis.
I just don’t believe God routinely interferes with the course of nature,
in order to make certain people suffer and other people prosper.
Nor does God prevent people from choosing evil,
and doing harm to other people and to creation.

If bad things happen,
it doesn’t mean God masterminded it,
and it has nothing to do with what God thinks of us.
When God’s children suffer, God suffers.
God feels deeply.
God is a God of deep compassion.
God knows our sufferings.
God does not walk away from us in our time of need.
God walks toward us.

By faith, that is my conviction about God.
Can I prove it? Of course not.
But by faith, I receive it, and hold it,
as a mystery in plain sight.
God loves . . . always.
God is with us . . . always.
And God is especially close to those who suffer.
_____________________

Our faith in a compassionate, suffering God
is something we call to mind every time we take communion.
And we will be doing that this morning,
as we typically do on Epiphany Sunday.

There is no better representation of a mystery in plain sight,
than the symbols on display this morning:
Symbols of the body of Jesus, broken for the sake of the world,
and the blood of Jesus, spilled for the salvation of all.

At the Lord’s table, when we eat and drink these symbols,
we identify with—mystery of mysteries—a God who suffers.
We remember the suffering and death of Jesus,
and, in fact, partake of it.
This morning, when we eat the bread and drink the cup,
may we also partake of the suffering of God’s children,
all around the world,
and here at home, among us.

_____________________

Let us pray . . .
Lord, it is with great joy and thanksgiving
that we eat and drink at your table today.
You have been seeking us,
drawing us toward you,
desiring to show yourself to us more fully.
And so we come, thankfully,
to this table of mystery and revelation.
Bless us as we partake,
that we may be a blessing to others.
In the name of Christ who lives and rules,
and who walks beside us, Amen.

—Phil Kniss, January 8, 2012

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Barbara Moyer Lehman: Being named, being chosen

2012-01-01T12:00:00.000-05:00

Christmas II: "His glory is above earth and heaven"

Luke 2:15-21

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Pastor Barbara Moyer Lehman began her sermon on New Years Day by telling the story of Sojourner Truth and how this African American woman gained her name. This woman chose her name, and her name gave her her identity. In Luke 2 we hear of Jesus being named when he was 8 days old. Mary and Joseph had no idea at the time how Jesus would live into his name. Here in North America we do not necessarily attach great importance to the naming of children, in that we don't look closely at the meaning of a name. Sojourner Truth did. She chose a name and then lived out the meaning of that name. But names do carry weight and meaning in our culture. In the New Testament people acted in the name of Jesus. Today, we pray in the name of Jesus. Our prayers are grounded in our faith in Jesus. In Philippians 2:5-11, we hear that God exalted his son, and gave him a name above every other name. Blessed be the name of the Lord!

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