WHICH WAY TO SHECHEM?

This is a sermon I preached in 2005, and then reworked to preach in Manchester, MI in 2015. As I reworked it I was struck by 2 things: 1) Paul's letters to the churches are filled with precisely the "problem of the next day" that I refer to here as I think about the two brothers in the parable of the Father with two sons, 2) there is more to think about, for me to think about, in offering forgiveness and living with forgiveness.  In any case, I hope you find something here.

            Each week, week after week, Christians gather and pray the prayer Jesus taught.  The Lord’s prayer is almost entirely a petition—give us this, grant us that, keep us from the clutches of evil.  However, there is one passage that differs from the rest.  We pray: “AND FORGIVE US OUR---and the Greek word here is ὀφείλημα, ατος, τό, or Transliteration: opheiléma
Phonetic Spelling: (of-i'-lay-mah) which can mean – debt, sin, or offense---sins, and here’s the special part “AS WE FORGIVE THOSE WHO SIN AGAINST US”.

            The central message of the Jesus movement is “God forgives sinners!” Now that wasn’t so new to Jesus’ Jewish listeners.  The Torah, the five books of Moses, talks about the day of atonement, sin offerings, and the like.  The psalms and the prophets are full God’s word of pardon to his people.  But quite scandalously to the Jewish religious authorities of that day, the  forgiveness that Jesus proclaims is available quite apart from the Temple in Jerusalem.  Then, as we read on in the Jesus prayer, the passage seems to imply that as members of the Jesus is King movement, we must do the same that God is doing.  Forgive us as we forgive others.  The context of the prayer in Matthew emphasizes just that point.  Look what Jesus says in Matthew 6: 14 and 15.  Immediately after teaching the prayer, he says “For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.  But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins. Now think about it—that’s a little intimidating.   As we forgive others so we are forgiven: that we are forgiven only in so far as we forgive others?.  I can just hear the hemming and hawing, the fits of “”Well that really means . . .”  But quite plainly it seems to me, Jesus insists that the only way to be liberated, to be healed, to be free at last, to live in peace with God and neighbor is His way, the way of forgiveness of sins.  In effect, what Jesus tells us after he teaches us the prayer is this.  “If you don’t forgive your brother, as you have been forgiven, then maybe, you just don’t believe that I really bring the Great Forgiveness straight from the Forgiving Father.  Maybe you don’t believe in My death and resurrection.”   Failure to forgive is not some little moral fault like having a few too many on Saturday night, it’s denying the central claim of the faith we profess: faith that sins are forgiven.

That[PF1]  does not fit well with our notions that all we have to do is pray to Jesus and all is right with the world.  Jesus seems to be saying we actually have to participate in the act of forgiveness for there to be forgiveness at all. 

            So what is this forgiveness that is so central to the Jesus movement and apparently so central to our Christian lives?  Well here’s a picture of it.  It’s a story that Jesus tells.  Folks have started to complain that Jesus, this supposedly pure guy, announcing that God is acting right now, this holy healer, well he, as the beginning of Luke 15 tells it, “Welcoming sinners and eating with them.”  So Jesus tells three stories, one about a runaway sheep, another about a coin that is misplaced, and finally one that begins, “there was a man who had two sons . . .”  You might have heard this story.  The older son is a straight-laced, by the book, I hope a guy like that wants to date my daughter type kid.  The younger son, not so much.  He’s the kid that at about 7 or 8 already had the twinkle of mischief in his eye.  Now in his late teens or early 20’s guy, well he wishes his father were dead already so he could get his hands on his share of the family estate.  Not only does he wish it, he marches right up to dad and says it, hand out, “gi—me”.  Well you know the story.  It does not work out well.  The money is squandered and the young man has no choices left.  He’s got to come home, tail between legs.  But here’s the surprise, cue the Hollywood lighting, strike up the music from Halmark movies, post the cuddly baby and soft cat videos on Facebook.  The Father runs out to embrace the young man as he trudges along.  The father welcomes him home.  The Father clothes him in rich robes, puts the family ring on his finger and orders up a celebratory feast!!  Now that’s what forgiveness looks like.  That’s where I could end this morning and we’d all be off the hook, “Well God forgives us.  Isn’t that just sweet, might dang convenient too.  What’s for Sunday supper?”

Oh, and remember the prayer you said this morning—you’re supposed to do the same sort of thing.   Hmmm….are you like the Father?  At least the Father had it easy, it was his son.  The prayer we said doesn’t limit us to forgiving our wayward flesh and blood.  We are to forgive “those”---those anybody at alls ----apparently, who sin against us. 

            And the difficulty I have with the story of the man with two sons is this.  Let’s call it the problem of we the living, the next day problem, the time goes on problem.  Do this.  Pick one of the boys the older son or the younger son, whichever one you are most like—straight and upright picture of moral rectitude older son or wastrel, low down younger son.  Now imagine it’s the morning after the joyous return.  The smell of porridge cooking wakens you and you head down to the kitchen only to find your brother there.  What gets said?  What’s not said but stirs around in brain, heart and stomach?  The older brother how does he live with forgiviness—well the retirement home on that nice little bend in the river where the trout jump is out of the question now—1/2 the family estate is gone, so you’re just getting a ½ of the ½ that’s left when the day comes.  If you’re the younger son, how do you live into forgiveness?  How does it feel to see your brother’s eyes pass over you?  The past is not going to ever go away.  There is no gone and forgotten in this world.  There is a next day.  So take a moment, pick a character and honestly, quite honestly imagine what you would do or say.  What is it like to forgive?  Can you forgive?  What is it like to be forgiven?  Can you live into forgiveness?  What do you do with remorse?  Does it ever go away?

Think about your own life.  What happens between us when somebody has acted disgracefully like the son the Father runs to meet?   Do we admit our disgrace?  Are we a people who will allow those who have disgraced themselves to admit it aloud?  Do the words “I’m sorry” cross our lips easily?  Don’t the words “I forgive you” get choked off by our self-serving sense of right and justice?  Even if we get as far as leaving our pride behind and say the words, how do we put life back together again?  What about the problem of the next day?  The problem of life goes on?

            Now that story sets a high bar, and as I’ve tried to indicate a difficult and maybe puzzling bar.  So let’s turn to the story in the day’s reading that addresses the problem of the day after, the problem of life goes on—the story of Jacob encountering Esau.  It’s a story with two surprises for those who want to be disciples of the Forgiving One.  Once upon a time, there were two brothers.  They were so different, that even as they grew in the womb together, they fought toe and hand.  Esau was born first, and thus deserved the birthright and promise passed from Abraham to Isaac his father.  But Jacob, coming out of the same womb, was even then grasping onto Esau’s heel as he entered the world and took his first breath.  Now Esau grew to be a man’s man—hunting and working hard in the fields.  Jacob stayed in the tents with his mother.  One day, when Esau came home quite hungry from a hard days hunt, Jacob made him trade his birthright for food.  Later, as their father Isaac was about to die, a blind old man, Jacob tricked Isaac. It was time to pass onto the older son the blessing of the Lord—you remember the blessing from Genesis 12—I shall make you a great nation and through you all the nation’s of the world will be blessed.  Well a blessing that big, once given, can’t be taken back.  So Jacob, the tricky one, disguised himself as Esau, and Isaac gave Jacob that blessing.  Esau got so mad at his slimy little brother that he nursed murder in his heart.  So Jacob took off—yes he went on the run, back to his grandfather Abraham’s old homestead, way off in Haran.

The part of the story I read happens over 14 years later.  Jacob made quite a family for himself in Haran.  He’s got 2 wives and 2 concubines.  He’s got 12 sons.  But the blessing is not complete.  He does not live in the land of promise.   So he and all of his family, his servants and his flocks set out for home:  the promised land.  There’s just one problem.  Esau lives there.  Esau, the brother who had the blessing stolen from him.  Esau, who, last anyone knew, wanted to murder Jacob.  As Jacob comes to the border of the promised land, he sends gifts ahead to his brother, sheep and goats—better a little poorer but still alive he figures.  Then, he splits his party up: concubines and their children first, then wife number 1 Leah and her children, and finally the beloved wife, Rachel and the beloved child Joseph last of all –maybe some will be safe from his murderous brother.  The night before they all cross the Jordan into the danger of the promised land, Jacob goes off alone.  There he meets a man.  They wrestle all night.  Jacob wrestles so hard the man blesses him, changes his name to Israel—for he had wrestled with both God and man his whole life, and come out still alive.  Now its time to meet Esau.

The stage is set, so now listen to how real life forgiveness takes place between flesh and blood folks like us.  “And Jacob raised his eyes and saw, and look, Esau was coming, and with him were four hundred men.”   Not a promising start to things now is it?  For Jacob, the moment of truth is now.  Mustering up his courage, he walks past his flocks, his family, and alone approaches his brother, bowing down seven times in an act of formal and very submissive obedience. 

Listen again to surprise number 1, “And Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell upon his neck and kissed him, and they wept.”  Sound familiar, a story with a running man . . .this time he wrestles the wrestler Jacob into an embrace.  He fell upon Jacob’s neck, and he didn’t have a dagger in his hand, no he had tears in his eyes.  Jacob and his family are stunned.  Instead of just rage over the theft of the blessing and birthright, Esau has greeted them with open arms and tears of joy. 

  Jacob has been forgiven by his brother, and here’s surprise #2.  Nothing really magical takes place here.  No little hallmark angels appear in the sky.  No sentimental Hollywood style music begins to swell in the background.  Forgiveness is offered, and a much-relieved Jacob takes it.  But no sweet reunions take place.   In fact the story is very clear.  The past between Jacob and Esau has not been wiped out by Esau’s running.  Even as he accepts forgiveness, Jacob takes the opportunity to take sideways note of the blessing of Isaac he stole so long ago.  Remember how he tries to get Esau to accept his gifts?  He say, “ . . . for God has favored me and  I have Everything,”

Or think on Esau.  He’s has always been an emotional, and perhaps a bit dimwitted, brute of a man.  What impelled him to run forward and fall upon his brother’s neck in a tearful embrace?  This story, like so many others in the books of the Old Testament, doesn’t tell us much about the inner workings of the characters minds.  All we see is their character revealed in word and deed.  Something has driven Esau forward.  There may be a hint of his motivation in the offer he makes—“Let us journey onward and go, and let me go alongside you.”  Jacob offers a fairly transparent lie in response, “the nursing sheep and cattle are my burden, and if they are whipped onward a single day, all the flocks will die. . . .let me drive along at my own easy pace . . .till I come to my lord in Seir.”  So Esau tries again, “Let me set aside for you some of the people who are with me.”  Maybe Esau is contemplating folding Jacob and all he possesses into his own fortune.  After all, he is the older brother.   Jacob puts him off again.  And as soon as Esau leaves, Jacob and his family turn the other way and head in the other direction.    Some sweetness and light eh?  This is not the stuff of a Hollywood ending.  This is the stuff of real life.  Oh the story tells us that the brothers meet one more time.  A few chapters later they bury Isaac, their father, together at the oaks of Mamre.  No words are recorded at their meeting. 

The point I see here is that forgiveness among us isn’t always perfectly given nor perfectly received.  The results may never be perfect either.  You see, this side of the Kingdom, forgiveness between us is full of ambiguity and mixed up motives.  In our own lives, in our own homes, yes, even in this place called Stony Creek, there are some we need to forgive and probably, if we’ll admit it, some who could offer forgiveness to us: there may be a wife that needs to say “I’m sorry, forgive me” to a devoted husband she has neglected or worse.  There may be a father who needs to turn to a daughter and say “Forgive me for being so harsh.”  There maybe someone in the next pew you need to go to and say, “I’m sorry, I’ve gossiped about you.”  But Esau and Jacob remind us that there is no instant magic to be found.  Distrust and hard feelings may not disappear.  For we are like Jacob and Esau—full of the good and not so good stuff of humanity.  We hurt and give hurt.  We are offended and give offense.  We trespass the boundaries of love and in turn others trespass the boundaries of love against us. 

What are we to do?  Our prayer each and every week asks that we be forgiven as we forgive.  And this story tells us that it’s just hard slogging work.  You want to know just how hard and thankless it is?  Remember the One who told the story of the Running God.  He knows a thing or two about how hard forgiveness is.   Jesus’ arms were wide open on that Friday he offered us forgiveness for good and for all.  How could he keep them open for so long? [PAUSE]   Forgiveness is messy, sometimes bloody work.

What’s the Good News in all this for us, the disciples here at Stony Creek?  Well, note how this little section of the story of the running brother ends—“And Jacob came in peace to the town of Shechem, which is in the land of Canaan, when he came from Paddan-Aram, and he camped before the town.”  Paddan-Aram is in the land  Haran, where grand father Abraham got his call from God.  For Jacob it was the land of escape and exile from a brother with murder in his heart.  Shechem is in the land of Canaan, across the Jordan.  Shechem is in the land of Promise.  In Hebrew, Shechem means “saddle” or shoulder.  It describes a geographic feature.  A High point from which one can look back and see clearly where one has come from, and look forward to see where one must yet travel.  Which way to Shechem?    Forgiveness, that’s the only way to Shechem, the only way to safely, in peace, whole, come into the Promised land.  You see, Remember how Jacob describes his brother as he accepts forgiveness, he says, “for have I not seen your face as one might see God’s face.” Forgiveness, clumsy, mixed up, given without the best of intentions, grudgingly accepted for the sake of not getting something worse, forgiveness somehow reveals the face of God.   The way to Shechem may be a hard and complicated mess as this story tells us, but the only way to Shechem is to live up to our prayer—“ forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”  For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.  Amen. 

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 [PF1]

What comes to mind when you think of your church?

I just had a version of this essay posted on our church website.  I don't really know if I could track down the citation for the study anymore, but I am pretty confident that I've got the gist of it right.  An alternative title could be: Beyond Nice

When you think Stony Creek, you think [fill in the blank] . . ..

A few years ago I ran across some research that tried to find out why some churches grew and some churches did not.  The researchers asked church members to characterize their church.  So folks were asked, “What’s the first thing that comes to your mind when you think about your church?”  Some responded their church was a “friendly church”, others noted their church “reached out to the poor” or “helps members to keep in touch with God”.    The researchers then tried to see if there was a relationship between how members characterized their church and the vitality of the church in terms of membership.  So ten years later, the researchers returned to those churches.  They found that if more than half of the church membership had characterized their church as a “friendly church” then it was also true that the church most likely suffered from declining membership and was in danger of, or had already, disappeared.  At the same time, if more than half the members of a church characterized their church as a place to serve others or come closer to God, then it was likely that the church was still growing and lively. 

Churches where members are interested in “friends” typically don’t grow –why should they, their “friends” are already attending.  Members in friendly churches sit among their friends in the same pew week after week.  They are happy to chat together at coffee hour, and they tend to socialize together outside of Sunday church activities.  Churches typified by a strong sense of ministry and mission—“following Jesus”, “helping the poor” or “getting closer to God”—are churches in which most activities involve either worship, prayer, learning, or service.  And, significantly, folks at these mission oriented churches ask others to join in more frequently than folks who attend churches that most characterize as “friendly”.

If the lost and lonely people in this world simply needed friends, they could join a bowling league or the Lions club.  A young family that wants to raise their kids with solid values doesn’t need more friends; they need a church that tries to practice the teachings of Jesus.  A person looking for meaning in life might be more likely to find it through regular opportunities for godly service to their neighbor than through pleasant after worship chat about sports and cooking.

Don’t get me wrong, I certainly wouldn’t have come back to Stony Creek after visiting the first time if folks had treated me badly: “friendly” is a good place to start.  But I love coming to Stony Creek because I hear the Word, have opportunities to serve, and get to learn to follow Jesus.

In short, “friendly” churches tended to fade away, while mission churches tended to flourish.  What kind of a church are we at Stony Creek?  What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of Stony Creek?  

Dolphins in the Desert

This is a devotional talk I gave for my church’s annual meeting (a Charge Conference in Methodist speak) in 2008.  Our church was going through a decline in numbers and heart.  This meditation was intended to challenge our notions of what was possible and impossible.  I first heard the Midrash for children I include here at a service at Temple Beth Emeth.  Rabbi Bob Levy continues to delight, amaze, and fill me with his wisdom.  The children’s Midrash is decidedly from him.  The Hebrew word in question is tachash.  In my brief survey of “Ask the Rebbe” style websites, many writers quickly claim “dolphin” is obviously a mistranslation of tachash.  Apparently the old Anchor bible translators found an Arabic word seemingly close to the Hebrew tachash and that Arabic word means dolphin.  But then, well, …you’ll see that calling it a mistranslation might miss the whole point.  So, for those who face long odds here’s a meditation for you.  My hope is that it brings hope.

Dolphins  in  the  Desert

Exodus 36: 14-19

14 They made curtains of goat hair for the tent over the tabernacle—eleven altogether. 15 All eleven curtains were the same size—thirty cubits long and four cubits wide.  16 They joined five of the curtains into one set and the other six into another set. 17 Then they made fifty loops along the edge of the end curtain in one set and also along the edge of the end curtain in the other set. 18 They made fifty bronze clasps to fasten the tent together as a unit. 19 Then they made for the tent a covering of ram skins dyed red, and over that a covering of hides of dolphins. 

The children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob had been in Egypt as slaves for hundreds of years.  Their cry for help, for release from  bondage “rose up to God.”  God “heard their groaning” and “he remembered His covenant.”  You know the rest of the story.  God calls the reluctant Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt.  With a mighty arm God leads them on the Great Escape.  They cross through the waters and begin a long journey to freedom.

Along the way, at a place called Sinai, God makes an eternal agreement with them: I’ll be your God, and you will be my people.  The Israelites agree.  They say, “Everything Adonai has said, we will do.”  Next God, being a good Methodist, says, “Take up a collection.”  He says in Exodus 25: 8-9, “And let them make Me a sanctuary (mikdash, a holy place) that I may dwell among them.  Exactly as I show you—the pattern of the Tabernacle (mishkan, dwelling place) and the pattern of all its furnishings—so shall you make it.”

And so we come tonight to those instructions repeated as the craftsman, Bezalel and Aholiab carry out their tasks—the details can make all but the true bible geek’s eyes glaze over.  But I want to pause because there is a holy surprise hidden in the midst of these arcane architectural instructions.  After all these are instructions for God’s House, we ought to take a bit of notice eh?

11 curtains of goat hair, 50 loops to fit into 50 bronze clasps to make the covering around the tabernacle then cover that tent with ram skins dyed red and over all of that, the protection for the Holy of Holies, the place where the Ark of the Covenant will rest (the box with the tablets of the covenant—the 10 words), the place where a human might approach God and find mercy, over all of that, the text says, make a covering of hides of dolphin skins.  Dolphin skins.  Rams, goats, gold, silver, bronze, linen acacia wood copper, all the other building materials, well with all the gold the Israelites took out of Egypt, you can imagine they traded with caravans to get that sort of stuff.  these items are not all that unusual among the folks who ply the Sinai peninsula.  But Dolphin skins—where and how do you get dolphin skins in the desert?  I mean, it’s a desert right—no water, and last I knew dolphins swam in water.  What do we make of that?

Well most modern scholars think the Hebrew word Tachash that I following in the footsteps many of the ancient interpreters translated as Dolphin cannot possibly be dolphin.  After all, there are no dolphins in the desert eh.  One commentator goes so far as to declare that the editor who put this passage together just blindly followed a tradition that they couldn’t possibly have understood.  Now that editor must have been very blind, because they made the “mistake” twice: once  in chapter 20 where God gives the instruction about building the Tabernacle and again here in chapter 36 where the craftsman follow those directions to the letter and skin!  The NIV gamely translates the word as sea cow or dugong a Red Sea mammal with a tough hide that Bedouins used for making sandals.  The NRSV gives up completely and translates the word as “Fine Leather”.

Well older commentators stepped up to the book (rather stepped up to the scroll) and said look, God gave us this book—every jot and tittle of it.  Let’s make a go at understanding it instead of declaring that we know more than the ones who gave us the book.  And so here are two ways to find dolphins in the desert: the first is for children and adults who love a good yarn

Now Adonai, our God, led the people out of the slavery of Egyptland.  And when they had run so far they came to the sea.  There it was mayhem: the sea in front of them and the cruel chariots of the Egyptian army behind them.  It wasn’t looking too good for Moses.  He’d gotten them into this mess . . . so and you know the story . . .Adonai, our God, parts the waters.  The wind, the very breath of God, divides the sea and the Israelites start across on the dry land at the bottom of the sea, right between two forty foot high walls of water.  Imagine their wonder and delight.  Imagine their joy and surprise.  Given up for dead and now through the water into life again!  Hurray.  Just one little minor difficulty.  Fish start falling on their heads.  Flop, Flop Fish, Falling.  All those fish, swimming along minding their own business and suddenly, there is no more water.  Flop, Flop, Fish, Falling.  Well this would never do.  It may be a minor problem, really no cause for complaint, to people running for their lives from Egyptian chariots this Flop, Flop Fish, Falling, but if you’re a fish trying to swim in mid air, well that’s a major problem.  After all who likes to go flop flop and end up under some Israelite foot!

So Adonai, blessed be the Holy One, called on the smartest of the sea creatures for help.  He called the dolphins.  He said, “My dolphins, I’ve got to get these people out of Egypt and away for the slavers who are coming after them.  While I’m busy with that could you make sure that there’s no more Flop, Flop Fish, Falling.”  The dolphins all agreed.  They cried, “Let it be so.  Amen” and away they swam right up to the edge of the water wall.  They began to patrol the edge, and whenever a fish swam too close they would swim quickly over and herd them back to safety.  This went on and on as the people raced across the sea floor.  The dolphins were tired, but they had told Adonai they would serve Him and serve Him they did—all afternoon they swam back and forth on patrol.  No more Flop, Flop Fish, Falling. Hurrah for the dolphins!  Then as the last of the people climbed out of the sea bed, the Egyptian chariots were entering the sea bed back on the other side.  Now, you know what happens next.  God stops the wind.  The walls of water fall.  The pride of the Egyptian cavalry is swept over by the roaring sea.  Miriam leads the women in song: a song of safety, liberation and freedom sung loudly as only liberated slaves can sing. But the dolphins, the dolphins, they were tumbled about as the walls of water collapsed.  Many were so tired from doing the will of Adonai and saving the fish from flop flopping, they themselves were flop, flopped over and over tumbled hither and yon.  Alas, many a dolphin gave her life to follow God’s will and save God’s creatures.  To honor the sacrifice of the dolphins on the day of liberation, God told the Israelites to go to the sea shore and there among the washed up pieces of broken chariot, they found the dolphins.  They gathered their bodies tenderly and carried them to Sinai.  There they were told that the dolphins skins were to cover the meeting place of God and humans—the Holy of Holies, the Tabernacle of the Lord.  And so that’s how there were dolphins in the desert.

There’s another tradition of interpretation among the Sages.  This explanation is very different.  It goes like this: Oh course there are not dolphins in the desert.  Who ever heard of dolphins in the desert?  What are we children that we tell just so stories, moralizing tales where all is wrapped up in the end just right? Of course not, don’t you be foolish.  Life is much more complicated than that—it really is.  We’re grown people.  Dolphins in the desert are impossible.  Everybody knows that.  And you see that’s just the point.  You, dear reader, dear listener are supposed to cruise along  through this text about tents and tabernacles, wood, gold, rams, goats, acacia wood and on and on.  You dear reader dear listener, dear friend are to hear or read this story year after blessed year and not think a thing of it, until one day you stumble—dolphins, how can there be dolphins in the desert.  And because God gave us every jot and tittle of this book you’re not supposed to think it’s a mistake.  No indeed, you are supposed to say that’s impossible and go back and read slowly and realize just what the impossible covers.  The very place where God and humans meet face to face why its covered with “no, that’s impossible, it can’t be”, and you’re supposed to pause and begin to think about who meets there under this impossible covering; why it’s the God who promised Abraham that his 100 year old loins would produce a great nation, a blessing to the entire world.  Indeed there under, “no, that’s impossible, it can’t be”, you meet the God who told Abraham in 3000 years there will even be a bunch of Gentiles in Southeastern Michigan at a place called Stony Creek who will bless your name and will be trying to go about the business of being a blessing for others.   Heck you walk into this place covered by, “no it can’t be, that’s impossible”, and you’ll met a God who tells you his name is, and I’m not making this up, it’s in the Scriptures, his name is “ I will have compassion on whoever I have compassion” and maybe just maybe that compassion may be for you—“no, it can’t be, that’s impossible”.

But Friends, You see, God seems to be in the impossible business—but it’s not just any kind of impossible that we want.  Nope, I won’t turn young, handsome and rich because dolphins can turn up in deserts, and no, even if I really, really squeeze my eyes tight shut when I say I believe it, it still won’t happen.  No matter what some slick haired pretty boy preacher says from his expensive church stadium on Sunday morning, thinking right doesn’t make it so and getting rich, being happy, and full of positive thoughts just might not be the blessing to the entire world Abraham was promised.

God is in a particular kind of the impossible business—he’s in the business of freeing the oppressed, of bringing high and mighty empires down to their humble knees, of healing the lame, feeding the hungry, giving sight to the blind, running right toward suffering and taking it on, sharing it.  God is seeking out those with no friends and offering community. And most of all, He’s dying to forgive all sorts of sinners who realize that time has run out and run to that impossible place to meet a God whose name is I’ll have compassion . . . He’s in the business of taking what’s left for dead . . . and making it alive.    

Dolphins in the desert? Holy places covered by the impossible? Think about it . . . last year at Stony Creek there were times when, heck, as many as 40 or 50 of us sat right here on Sunday mornings and heard stories of God’s compassion and sang of His grace.  This past Sunday, Jim Sayre [now, in 2014, of blessed memory] told me that over 100 of us sat and heard stories of God’s compassion and sang of His grace.  Impossible, eh?  Dolphins in the desert, eh?  Friends I’ll tell you what’s impossible, listen close you might have to tell this story again sometime—God is a Jew who died, tortured on a cross by the empire with the most powerful military of the day.   Three days later that given up for dead Jew showed up very much alive looking so much like Eden’s original gardener that even one of his good friends named Mary couldn’t tell the difference until He called her by name.  When He called Mary’s name that morning He turned her weeping with grief into tears of joy.   That Dead Jew turned live Gardener of Eden might even call your name.  What might happen when you hear Him call your name?  Just what looks over and done with that might have breath again?  What’s dead that might come alive?  A dead Jew from 2,000 years ago who calls your name this very day?   Now you tell me what’s more impossible than that:  Dolphins in the desert, indeed.

Buen Camino!

A Story and a Picture of a Story

It has been three years.  Much has changed.  Much has not.  I have been feeling the urge to get back to the keyboard, so here is a bit of a meditation I wrote for the website at my church.  I dedicate it to my walking partner and friend, Peter.  He walked with me through the Prado and we dropped our jaws together in the room full of El Greco paintings on themes from the life of Christ.  Then we walked across Spain together and talked of Nicodemus and played the game of Midrash.  I dedicate it to my friend Meck Groot who opened my eyes to so many issues of race, class, gender, power etc.  It sounds so theoretical and  politically correct and all to write it that way, suffice to say, it was different and more personal, more human.  So here it is, a mediation on the text from the Revised Common Dictionary for April 12, 2015 and a mighty fine painting by Velazquez I stumbled upon on day over lunch at the desk.

The Story

¹³ Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles^[a] from Jerusalem. ¹⁴ They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. ¹⁵ As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them;¹⁶ but they were kept from recognizing him.

¹⁷ He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?”

They stood still, their faces downcast. ¹⁸ One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?”

¹⁹ “What things?” he asked.

“About Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people. ²⁰ The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him; ²¹ but we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place. ²² In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the tomb early this morning ²³ but didn’t find his body. They came and told us that they had seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. ²⁴ Then some of our companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see Jesus.”

²⁵ He said to them, “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have spoken! ²⁶ Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?” ²⁷ And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself.

²⁸ As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as if he were going farther. ²⁹ But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them.

³⁰ When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. ³¹ Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. ³² They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?”

³³ They got up and returned at once to Jerusalem. There they found the Eleven and those with them, assembled together ³⁴ and saying, “It is true! The Lord has risen and has appeared to Simon.” ³⁵ Then the two told what had happened on the way, and how Jesus was recognized by them when he broke the bread.                         

 LUKE 24: 13-25

Luke’s tale of the downcast disciples who encounter the risen One, Jesus, as they walk from Jerusalem towards Emmaus has always been among my favorites.  It has so many elements that I identify with—the downcast disciples’ hearts are set aflame by the way Jesus “opened the Scriptures”.  A dinner is served.  Then as the ancient prayer that declares God “blessed”  for creating and sharing bread is recited, then as the bread is broken, and only then as the broken bread is sacramentally shared do they finally see the One with whom they have walked---the risen Lord.

Over these last few years, I have delighted in filling in the background details to the oft heard tales from the bible as a way to further explore the story’s meaning.  Imaginatively filling in those details is part of my process of wrestling with Scripture.  Any painter who attempts to paint a bible story must, of necessity, do the same. The details they sketch and fill with color tell us something about the unspoken background, the imaginative landscape, which gives life and meaning to the sparse words of the story on the page.

In about 1620, the Spanish painter, Velazquez, retold the story of the Road to Emmaus in a painting we have come to call, The Kitchen Maid.  Luke does not tell us who prepared the meal that Jesus and the downcast disciples shared, but quite obviously, someone did.  Luke does not tell us where the bread came from or who washed the dishes after the meal, but again, give it a moment’s thought, and there is indeed a ‘from somewhere’ and a ‘by someone’. 

Velazquez makes a decision to not only fill in those details, but to bring them front and center.  In Spain in 1620, with memories of the oft-times savage “Reconquista” of Spain by Christians over the dark skinned Moors from North Africa still fresh in the cultural imagination, Velazquez tells the story of Emmaus with a woman, a dark skinned Moor, a servant, perhaps a slave, at the center of the tale.  Jesus, Cleopas, and the unnamed disciple are off to the side.  The outsider is brought into our focus.  She stands amidst disorder.  Pots are overturned, crumbs about.  She is trying to keep up.  She is listening, ear tilted, intently.  Her job, after all, is to wait on the men in tense anticipation.   She overhears the discussion, maybe the prayer.  In my mind her ear is turned by the sound of thumbs digging in, of crust tearing at the sublime moment of disclosure.  The downcast disciples see the One in that moment of broken bread.  This outsider, a black scullery maid, she too hears the sound of bread broken.  The light on her face: grace which floods over her as well.  Grace enough for the outsider, maybe even just for the outsider.

The story of the Road to Emmaus draws me in because it speaks to my uncertainty about my place in God’s story.  The downcast disciples are first of all told of their place as the Scriptures are “opened” to them.  Yet, it isn’t until Jesus acts by blessing, breaking, and sharing bread, that He is fully revealed.  Words are not enough.  Words prepare the way, but Jesus himself, blessed, broken, and offered freely, is the Way.  And then Velazquez tells the story again.  There I am again.  This time, I’m with that girl in the kitchen.  I’m broken enough inside, despite all of the advantages of my life, not to feel quite comfortable or at home at the head table in the other room. Yet, my hope is that even though I stand amidst disorder, my face might also be warmed by that light.  Warmed by grace-filled light, if I but wait in tense anticipation, tilt my head, and listen carefully for the sound of bread broken . . . for us all, even me.   Buen Camino.

Post Camino: Pigs in Spain

Okay, okay.  I said in a post long ago that you might easily get the impression that this big adventure was all serious devotional stuff.  Friends, we did not march across Spain flagellating ourselves.  I was intent on trying the marvelous foods, cheese, and wines of Spain.  I did too.
Let me start with that most trayf (yiddish for unclean, forbidden, non-kosher) of foods: the pig.  As I have written, my wife is Jewish.  My children are thus Jewish and were raised that way.  My wife is a Reformed Jew.  We do not keep a kosher home. Nevertheless, even though trayf seafoods often make an appearance on our family menu (shrimp, crab--most non-fish seafood--Thanks to my Aunt Patsy for introducing Ketl to the wonder that was her crab gumbo), that most potent of symbols of unclean food; the humble pig just does not make an appearance at our table.  Now,I'm not fit to judge the Almighty, but I can't figure why in the world the Chosen, bound to God for all time with an unbreakable Covenant, People were denied the rich pleasures of juicy, drippy, oh so good swine.  I mean come on.  Is there anything much better than smoking a giant swine shoulder for hours and hours, pulling it to shreds and then dipping it into a North Carolina vinegar based sauce. After years of bacon deprivation at home in Spain I went wild for hog.
Now the Spaniards are the kings and queens of swine as far as I can see.  They make Serrano and Iberico hams that surpass anything the Italians or Germans do.  They serve ham with just about everything.  The basic sandwich here is 'bocadillo jamon': a couple of thin slices of rich cured pig between the halves of a baguette.  A leg of the top quality black footed ham can go for hundreds of Euro.  I'm actually quite done eating that ham (or any other cured meat--especially chirizo) as I've had it and that ever present white bread (don't they know about whole wheat, rye, barley, millet etc?) Till it threatens to come out my ears.  
The wonder of it is, in all my walk across Spain, I never once saw a pig (well, I did see some Vietnamese potbelly pigs, but I think those were pets not meat.  Where all those pigs are raised and slaughtered is simply a mystery.
What is not a mystery is pig in Spanish cuisine.  They eat it all: nose to tail.  In one bar I had the ears.  My traveling partner, Pete, called it beer and an ear since the boiled ear was a bar food.  Yesterday I had roasted pig cheek in a neighborhood Catalan restaurant.  The menu called the dish 'Pigs Face in his own Sauce'.  Who could resist a line like that? Not me, face in sauce, especially 'his own'?  I was all over that. I ate hearty.  Meat from around the face of most animals is often the tenderest of all.  Pigs cheek meat certainly fell off the jaw with luscious goodness.  In another bar I had slices of boiled pig intestine with my beer.  Again, Pete won the naming contest: beer gut.  I have to admit that I didn't eat my whole, a bit too barnyard flavored, portion on that one, but as I tell my Sunday School class when I introduce a new food, "the worst thing that can happen is that you won't like it and will never eat it again."  Tonight in a fancy Barcelona restaurant (think turn of the last century brass and wood decor, white linens, three glasses, 3 forks fancy) I had 'Pig Trotters Catalan Style": pigs feet with pine nuts and raisins in a tomato sauce.  Oh my!  Fatty, fatty skin to grow delirious over, knuckle bones to suck on, and toes to avoid.  What a dish!
This Protestant boy lives in a house of the Jews and loves them.  Yet I wnt bonkers for oinkers over here.  These folks know their swine, every bit of it.

Day 39: Santiago

Now I don't like to be that arrogant, rich, ugly American tourist guy, but when we presented our hot sticky selves to the tourist information fella in O Pedrousa the oppotunity to play the part just presented itself. While the temp had not reach 37C of the day before, it had been at least 30C. I had heard from Daniel, the Texas kid, that plans were afoot among the younger folk to 'beat the rush' into Santiago by getting up at 2:00 and doing a bit of night walking. Imagine the fun: an albergue with bunks  for 100, a line for showers, competition for space to dry clothes, and folks rustling around in the hot night as they pack up. Well, this ugly American suggested to Pete that we get a pension for our final night. The tourist information guy suggested one, called ahead to make reservations, gave us printed directions and off we went: ugly, quite ugly, rich (the albergue is 5, while a pension with a bathroom ensuite is 15 to 25), Americans clutching the paper key to a night with only their own snoring to deal with.
A German couple had listened in on our conversation and fell in with us hoping to get a room as well. He was with the tax office and she was some kind of bond and banking lawyer. They weren't ugly at least.  We trudged along the hot road talking of the fate of the Euro when Italy's soon to come bank failures hit, Merkel (he said, 'nien Merkel'), and Germany' prospects against Italy in the EuroCup semifinals. We passed the albergue. There in the front yard were 40 or 50 pilgrims sprawled on their packs in the hot sun waiting to begin the tedious process of check in (show pilgrim credential and get a stamp, show passport, enter name, citizenship, region, mode of travel--foot or bike, and point of origin for pilgrimage). We walked by to the next building. The pension was air conditioned (a first) and had an endless supply of hot or cold water in whatever proportion I selected--paradise. Thank you late middle age, 2 income, American, mid-life, career arc. I'll deal with the ugly and try to repent of the arrogant.
Despite the comforts, I slept fitfully. The next morning brought our last sort through and pack up, our last pack hoist, and our last set out into the cool Spanish bird chirping morning. We only have 17K to walk so the pace is easy and comfortable for my aching knee. The Way winds through a couple of small quaint hamlets full of old stone houses, animal barns, and flower filled gardens just as we have seen for 38 other days. Entire families with young children, rowdy teens, and smiling older types are walking--all beaming with excitement, imagining the square and the church at walk's end today.
There are bars aplenty with numerous outdoor tables sprinkled about this morning. We stop for coffee and treat ourselves to a nutella filled croissant and fresh squeezed orange juice. We strike up conversation with a couple of Irish women (I wish I could say 'lassies' and 'laddies' with the same musical lilt that our Irish friends, Eugene and Peter, had back on day 1 and 2) and an American guy. The women have done about 10 days of Camino Frances as a holiday. We get that look of respect and awe (well maybe I exaggerate the awe part) when we say, "We've done 39 days from Irun--the Northern route".  We pull out our guide books and help them plan their next years holiday--the coast of Cantabria from Bilbao to Santander, a 6 day walk with a couple of lay on the beach days thrown in."  Buen Camino lassies. 
We push on and begin to discuss "What does it all mean?"  We are like the break shot in a game of pool, careening all over the place: God, wives, vocation, wives, church, family, wives, the future, jobs, emotional life, spiritual life, and yes, wives.  We finally get to the equipment requirements and proper techniques for making soup stock and its uses in the various cuisines of fall and winter in Michigan.  We also recount stories of the intense debates and occasional kitchen murders that have occurred over the 'proper' way to prepare meatloaf.  Thirty eight days of difficult and mostly glorious walking in Spain has such a way of focusing the mind on the very core of important existential matters don't you see.
We break again for another coffee as our distance is so short today.  Marta and Hector, the young couple and their friends we met in Vilalba appear.  They are excited to be finishing.  The Irish women and the American fellow appear.  This time I really get to talk with Geraldine.  She's a blood lab tech/manager.  Some years ago she was asked to try to adopt their storage protocols to a lower tech environment.  She worked and worked on the project and then decided she better 'see it throught ya know'.  She travelled for five weeks across west Africa in a truck with a team of 8 others.  She has been back 5 more times from Kenya to Ghana.  I loved listening to her tell her stories.  She is one of those folks you meet who, without tooting their own horn, is just going about the business of bringing about healing to the world.  Her life seems so much about 'give, give, give' and quite frankly my life back home seems so often nothing more than 'take, take, take' or worse, 'talk, talk, talk'.
As we walk on we leave the charm of walking through the countryside behind.  Santiago is the regional capital.  The airplanes that have only been bits of silver shimmering in the sky are now dropping down with all their noise and speed and smell.  We walk past the end on the main runway.  Luckily none drops right over our heads as we pass.  Signs for Santiago are all around now.  We get temporarily sucked down into the seemingly endless undertow of 'please use my camera' to take the same picture of the group in front of the sign.  The Koreans who nearly drowned us in their kodak moment were completely suprised to find I had visited their fair country, and soon I will again, at least as a digital image smiling with them.
As we enter the city we are still 2 or 3K from the 'old city' and its Cathedral.  I have been fortunate to have had only one blister on my feet in the 6 weeks of walking (it was on the top of a toe and did not affect my gait).  Yet now, so close, St. James seems to be reminding me that great blessings sometimes have a price.  My feet seem to explode with hot spots (the first signs of trouble that often lead to blisters).  We find a shady area near the university and sit, take off boots, drink our water, eat an apple, and relax as if this break is no different from any other we have taken.  After a good bit, Pete hoists pack and says, "I'm ready to get there."  Off we go.
We approach the old city.  The streets get narrower and narrower.  Pilgrims, laden with backpacks and smells of exertion crowd in among Spanish folk going about their own business.  The streets get twisty and stone in that medieval sort of way of cities built before automobiles.  Pete and I get turned around and slightly confused about direction.  We hear Gallic pipes playing the spritely Celtic music of the region: a busker dressed in Galician garb is making a living amongst the echoing stone.  We see an opening of light ahead, we must be near square.  We head that way.  Under an arch, past the busker, we see a corner of bright light.  We turn the corner.  It is the square.  Pilgrims are milling about.  The great cathedral of St. James rises to our left.  More pilgrims arrive.  We are bruised.  I limp.  We have carried burdens and joys these many days.  Now we are giddy, absolutely giddy.  We cry.  We hug.  Arms open and raise in triumph.  St. James, so long ago you called my name.  Now, three years and 500 miles, limping but overwhelmed by joy, I have come.  I have come.

Day 40: Once, when I was 57 years old, I walked 500 miles across northern Spain

When I came to the end of my walk I had a day of reunion and rest. I was reunited with my wife. We celebrate our 33rd wedding anniversary next week in Barcelona. After all those years together, we have never been apart quite so long. I hope never to be apart so long again. Yet our time apart was rich in reflection on our lives and our ever-growing intimacy. You don't get what we have together without long years of always opening, even when stubborn pride resists, our hearts, in trust, one to another. Her voice, her touch thrill me more each day. Her intellect and her wit charm as ever before. Her own unique way of devotion to Torah and the ways of Judaism inspires me in my own Christian devotion. She puts the Song of all Songs on my lips. "In the place my wonder comes from, there I find you."
Near the square I briefly saw the four Latvian young people who came to Spain, like me, as an act of devotion. In them I saw the future of the Church--energy, openness, piety, wide-eyed wonder at the multitude of joys in the world. We shared a warm embrace and that most modern of information--email addresses. Buen Camino and Via con Dios.
I saw Stefan the Polish professor. He was heading to A Corunna to see the last existing Roman lighthouse. My young friends, Hector and Marta, were in the square. They are truly modern and have already 'friended' me on FaceBook. They are just great kids, and I hope Spain has a good future for them. The two Irish gals were here. The German woman who started the great Miraz cattle stampede by tasting galegos leaf from a wheel barrow was in the square. Some I met along the way had come to the square days ago. I will miss them completely. More arrive who I never got the chance to meet. The raise their walking poles just as I did, in triumph and celebration. They laugh. They cry. They embrace. I want to shout, give the thumbs up, pat on the back, lift a glass of wine in toast to each one I see. A cloud of witnesses, a thousand years of souls' arrivals, a thousand years of tired feet and full hearts greets each and everyone of us who walk so far and sings, "Well done" in a voice that is so high, clear, and bright.  Just listen as you stand in the square; you'll hear.
I meet Pete and we go inside for the Pilgrim's Mass. We have come an hour early to get a seat. The church is massive and ornate. Tourist, tour groups, pilgrims, and some honest-to-goodness worshipers fill the place. Many pilgrims line up to go up behind the altar to 'hug the saint', an ornate statue that many embrace from behind. Others lined up to go below the altar to spend a few moments in the crypt of St. James. As much as I've invoked the name of the saint in these entries, my devotional sensibilities and history really do not include those sorts of expressions of piety. I'm happy to sit, pray, chat with Pete, and people watch. As we wait, Tomoko, the Japanese woman we met approaches, she is looking for other friends, but wishes us a final 'Buen Camino'. Then the American, Dave, who we had met with the Irish gals, asks to join us. We happily slide over. As it turns out, Dave is from Puerto Rico and is a devout Catholic. He had come to the Cathedral early in the morning and celebrated the Mass with a group of seminarians down in St. James crypt. He is a fascinating fellow who talked of his sadness over the state of the church and his delight to be worshipping there today. As we talked a nun approached the microphone on the altar. She asked for 'silencio, por favor'. She spoke in rapid Spanish, but the upshot was she was going to teach us the sung responses for the Mass. She then sang in a high and delicate voice, "Jesu Christi Rex Gloria (Jesus Christ, King of Glory)." She said, "Repeata." When she wasn't satisfied with our volume, she said again, "Repeata." She taught us the tune to two other responses that were a bit too complicated for me to do anything but to hum along. Her beautiful and fraile singing was a very promising start to worship. After a few minutes the processional began with the organ filling the space with wonderful sound. There were seminarians, about 9 or 10 priests, and 2 VIPs (I am woefully ignorant of the dress and its indicators of rank in the Catholic church). The Bishop, I presume, started the service by reading the names of the home countries of the arriving pilgrims for the day. A lay reader read a Psalm (I think, I'm judging more by the rhythm of the reading than by my ability to pick out every 10th word). Another lay reader read the same Psalm in Italian. The other VIP stepped up and asked us to rise for the Gospel reading. It was from Matthew, but I couldn't follow it. The man read with obvious passion. The church was filled with folk who could understand him, so the Gospel went out, many heard, and maybe, just maybe, somebody decided to 'repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.' And indeed it was, for after a sermon on what I took to be the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul, the Mass started. During Mass, before you partake, you are required to make peace with anybody you've offended. The practice comes from the Day of Atonement rituals in Judaism, Jesus cites the practice, and Paul comments on it as well in the Epistles. As my wife always says, "What good is all that 'gettin right with God ' stuff you Christians keep yapping about, if you don't 'get right' with your neighbor?" Well, the Passing of the Peace is our attempt to 'get right' with our neighbor before we take the bread and cup that gets us 'right' with God. So there amidst pilgrims and tourists and worshipers we turned to one another, strangers, old friends, new friends, families, and we made peace. For a bright moment shalom descends as a gift from above passed hand to hand, heart to heart. Maybe it is really more ritual than real desire, and it is certainly more desire than reality, but it is not a bad place to start, eh?. Turning one to another, offering an open hand, "Peace brother" "Shalom sister."
It is indeed a heady moment. The Mass continues and the priests line the altar rail to distribute the Body to the body. Forward they come, in their hundreds. Graybeards and youth. Folk in backpacks. Fathers and sons. Old friends. I have too much respect for the Catholic church to participate, but I sure joined them in spirit qnd longed to in body. What a time, what a time. As Pete said afterwards, "Now, I am indeed full.
After all who came forward were served, then the show started. The giant Botafumerio was filled with incense and a group of 8 monks sets it to swinging. The thurible weighs over 140 lbs. They use pounds of incense and charcoal to get it going. Alledgedly it swings at 80kph and rises nearly 20 meters high.  The monks swung it for 4 or so minutes befor backing off.  One of the visiting priests up on the altar got his camera out to get some shots.  The crowd went wild.  The whole place was filled with incense--prayers rising up sweetly to God's nostrils as the scrptures say or perfume to cover the odor of pilgrims as others say.  Either explanation works.  Applause broke out. 
Then it was over.  Pete and I got separated.  My wife and I and her traveling companion went off to enjoy a dinner of razor clams and grilled octopus.  Pete went to meet his wife at the station.  The next day I caught a plane to Barcelona.  My wife and I will spend our anniversary in the old Olympic park with several thousand dear friends cheering on Espana in the Eurocup finals.
What does it all mean? 
I would be hard pressed to say right now.  I left Ann Arbor like Abram with the hope that I would be blessed and be a blessing in turn (Gen. 12:3).  Well, I was blessed beyond measure or words: everyday, each day.  Will I, in turn, be a blessing?  I have some deep discussions with my pastor and a couple of confidants, and my wife ahead of me to put together some of what bubbled up for me during those wonderful days.  Will I be a blessing?  I truly hope so.I do so truly hope so. It is though, the future.  No one has a crystal ball.  If they say they know tomorrow, they are sadly mistaken or they are just outright  liars.  As the poet says, "Last I heard only God gets to say what has to be."  What I know for certain now is that once when I was 57 years old I walked 500 miles across northern Spain.  It was and shall ever be: Buen Camino.