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Foundry is an historic, progressive United Methodist Church that welcomes all, worships passionately, challenges the status quo, & seeks to transform the world.
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Sunday Jan 12, 2020
Sunday Jan 12, 2020
This Is Me
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC January 12, 2020, the Baptism of the Lord.
Text: Matthew 3:13-17
In many churches, parents who bring a baby for baptism are asked, “What name has been given this child?” It is a question that isn’t officially included in our United Methodist ritual and I must say that I miss it. Names are powerful markers of identity. The “given” name from a parent or parents is one special piece…and the “family name”—or surname—is another significant piece.
Sometimes the names we are given get overridden by affectionate nicknames—I have a dear friend whose name is Lillian but is known by those who know her well as Fuzzy. Performers and writers may have pen or stage names which provide a whole separate identity from their day to day life. Immigrants at some times in history have chosen to adjust their names in order to fit in. Some folks have had their names taken from them in acts of violence. For transgender or non-binary siblings, the name given at birth often doesn’t fit and so a new name is taken.
Names are important and powerful and, when we claim them as our own, can be gifts of connection and identity. It is deeply affirming to have someone call you by name. But there’s a kind of “name-calling” that is the direct opposite of affirmation. Bullying, calling people names, labeling, stereotyping…all of these are damaging, disconnecting, and dehumanizing.
And we are in a moment in history in which the changes, tensions, and prejudice in our world are spinning people up into rage and fear and an incapacity to perceive the dignity and worth of every human life. The technologies available to us make it terribly easy to say terrible things about people and call people names that are shameful and shaming with absolutely no accountability or interconnection. Of course—out of some perverse sense of normality or self-righteousness—there are always persons who don’t mind being cruel right to someone’s face. From playgrounds to pulpits, from lunchrooms to bedrooms, from board tables to kitchen tables, people get called stupid, animals, abomination, disappointing, worthless, ugly, and every other kind of horrible, hurtful thing.
I don’t wish to suggest there is any easy excuse for such name-calling or try to make this phenomenon more simple than it is. But I do believe that at the core of human hatred, prejudice, and cruelty is fear. Fear of being overlooked, of being insignificant, of being hurt (again), weak, devalued, unwanted, unloved. In order to try to get or keep something that provides a sense of identity, safety, and worth, a person can do incredibly awful things. In order to make themselves feel like they are “up” some will put others “down.” Many of you will have heard the saying that hurt people hurt people. Sometimes wounded people do their personal work so that their wounds stop fueling harm to others. Sometimes they don’t.
Regardless, for all the vast diversity that exists in the human family, I think a thing we all share is the ridiculously powerful and insidious temptation to allow fear to disconnect us from our true selves and from other people.
Our text from Matthew is the beginning of the story of Jesus’ adult, public life, a life that shares and confronts all our human fears with courage and love. “Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptized by him.” According to cousin John’s understanding, Jesus has gotten confused somewhere along the way into the wilderness. John’s out there unabashedly preaching Jesus as the awaited power player who will size folks up and sort them out and be the SuperBaptizer with Spirit and fire. The plan—and what John signaled to his considerable following—is that he (John) will be the one to humble himself and be baptized by the long-expected one, Jesus. But Jesus doesn’t swoop in with pyrotechnics or power plays. Jesus upends John’s expectation saying, basically, “You’re right that I’ve come ‘to fulfill all righteousness’—to show and restore right relationship—and the way that begins is for me, Jesus, to be baptized by you, John.” And with that, Jesus steps into the waters that had touched countless human bodies, wades into the flow of all that humanity, all the debris that comes out in the wash, all the beauty and mess of our common, human life.
Jesus first public act is to humble himself, to disappoint expectations, and to align himself with the likes of you and me. I assume he did this because it seemed like the right thing to do. And, according to the story, it seems God agreed. // I imagine John asking just before he dunks his cousin, “What name has been given this child?” And at the moment Jesus emerges from the water, the answer comes, “This is my Son, the Beloved.” Here, Jesus is given his true family name: Beloved. It is an affirmation and confirmation of who Jesus is, of his identity and connection not just to God but to the whole human family. Sometimes people have joked that we think of “Christ” as Jesus’ last name. But Christ is his job title (“anointed one,” savior). I would argue that Jesus’ family name is “Beloved.” And because he is a Beloved and knows that is his name, Jesus is able to be brave, to stand up to all the temptations and challenges to come, and to continue to be himself. Jesus knows where he comes from, who he comes from, and who has his back.
And the onslaught against Jesus Beloved begins immediately as he is led into the wilderness and tempted by the devilish voice to fill his belly, to fill his coffers, to fill his ego—to recant his baptism and put himself ahead of others, to serve himself rather than serve others, to trust the fearful promises of idols for his security and value rather than clinging to the love of God. Jesus lives the rest of his short life constantly under attack. He is praised when he goes to his home church—until he reveals who he really is; then his people kick him out and try to kill him. He is distanced from his family, called all sorts of names (including Satan himself), cheered and jeered by the public, rejected by many he came to serve, and betrayed and denied by his closest friends. Ultimately Jesus was arrested on false charges, publicly humiliated, became a scapegoat for the mob’s own fears, and was killed. When he returned from the dead, he greeted those who had hurt and disappointed him with peace and with open arms that revealed the wounds of his life not as symbols of shame but of triumph. He met and welcomed people in all their skepticism and fear in all the places we still get locked up and isolated and called us to step out into a life of freedom, and courage and love modeled on his own.
Just as at his Baptism, throughout his public life Jesus was told to be other than he was, was told to run away, to hide, to pipe down, to keep his hands off, to be a different kind of leader, a different kind of savior. But he just kept presenting himself in love and humility and vulnerability and courage saying, in essence, I know who I am, who I’m meant to be. This is me… Jesus joins us here today as we gather again at the Baptismal waters and says, “Your life is a life I share. And because of that, my life is a life you can share. And you don’t need to be afraid. You don’t need to be anyone other than who you are. No matter what people call you, say or do to you, you are a member of my family. We emerge from the same waters, are held in the same love, are fueled by the same grace and Spirit. You are a Beloved! This is your family name! This gives you all you need to be brave, to stand up to all the temptations and challenges to come, and to continue to be yourself. Remember where you come from, who you come from, and who has your back.” //
Many of you will know the story told in the 2017 movie musical, The Greatest Showman. It is a fanciful re-telling of the story of J.T. Barnum’s creation of “The Barnum & Bailey Circus.” One of the attractions Barnum brought to the public were performers described by some as “human oddities”—persons who didn’t fit in to polite society, like the so-called “Bearded Lady” and “General Tom Thumb.” In the film we see folks who had been cast off, ridiculed, and excluded from public life form community and claim their lives and their gifts without shame. The anthem and rallying cry in the film begins with the bearded lady, Lettie Lutz, singing these words:
I am not a stranger to the dark
Hide away, they say
‘Cause we don't want your broken parts
I've learned to be ashamed of all my scars
Run away, they say
No one'll love you as you are[i]
Just the other day, I was reminded that such words are not only spoken by those who have been most hurt and ostracized. My heart ached to read that my amazing, accomplished 24 year old niece struggles with feelings of shame and that if things don’t go well it’s her fault and that she is “bad.” And then I remembered that is the deep human fear—that we’re not right, that we’re not OK, that we’re messing up, that no one will love us as we are. It’s in all of us and is amplified and exploited in anyone who is the slightest bit vulnerable or outside the “norm.” Jesus’ life and example gives us encouragement that we are called to be exactly who we are and that we need not fear. And the song from The Greatest Showman provides new words to claim our strength as God’s children, bearing the name “Beloved.” //
I won't let them break me down to dust
I know that there’s a place for us
For we are glorious
When the sharpest words wanna cut me down
I’m gonna send a flood, gonna drown them out
I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I’m meant to be, this is me [ii]
Today, the waters of holy Baptism flow to drown out any voice that wants to cut you down or make you forget who you are. You are a Beloved! That is your family name. It is our human family name. And we are glorious!
[i] Justin Paul / Benj Pasek, lyrics. “This Is Me,” https://www.google.com/search?q=this+is+me+lyrics&rlz=1C1GCEA_enUS849US849&oq=this+is+me+lyrics&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2138j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8
[ii] Ibid.
Sunday Jan 05, 2020
Sunday Jan 05, 2020
Rising Stars
A homily preached by Rev. Ginger Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC January 5, 2020, the Epiphany of the Lord.
Text: Matthew 2:1-12
If you follow me on FaceBook you will know that responding to Friday’s breaking news related to the United Methodist Church kept me from writing a word of my sermon that day (Normally I do the lion’s share of writing on Fridays). I posted a picture of my computer screen, blank, save for the sermon title at the top, with a prayer for help from “Sweet Baby Jesus.” In response, I received many encouraging words, some very funny. My colleague, Magrey DeVega went so far as to write a sermon for me: “Some days, you just need a warm hug and a glass of wine. Today is one of those days. So let me just say: God loves you. So do I. Let us pray.” So helpful!
As tempting as it is to let that be it, today is the first Sunday of a shiny, new year. It’s also the day we observe the Epiphany, an even more ancient celebration among Christians than Christmas. Epiphany marks the end of the Christmas Cycle, which began the First Sunday of Advent and completes the 12 days of Christmas. It is the festival of the manifestation of God’s Word made flesh, honored by the gifts from all nations and peoples. The story we tell on this day is of the magi who “observed his star at its rising” and were the first to bring gifts to lay before the Prince of Peace. And we tell that story today in the midst of deadly violence and threats of more war. With all that, it seems that perhaps a bit more than a warm hug and wine is in order.
But the message I want to share today is pretty simple. When things are most complicated, uncertain and scary, simple truths can be very helpful anchors in the storm… At the heart of our story today is a quest, a search made by “wise men from the East.” Truth is, we don’t know much about the folks who “traverse afar” following “yonder star.” But what is clear is that they’d studied both prophecy and the stars, understood that something big was happening, and were determined to find the baby who was prophesied. I don’t know what they thought was on the horizon with the birth of Jesus. But we who live all these years later have some data. We know that the promise extended to us in Jesus the Christ is unconditional love, grace, guidance, encouragement, insight, and vision for our own lives and for the life of our communities and world. The promise is life in the kin-dom of God, a taste of mercy and of justice, of peace even when things are hard and of hope even in the face of fear. We know that Jesus created unlikely communities made up of unlikely people to do wondrous things. We know that Jesus sacrificed comfort, reputation, fame, fortune, power, and every other human temptation in order to be in relationship with and for the impoverished, the oppressed, the silenced, the forgotten ones. Ultimately, we know that Jesus sacrificed his life because he was unwilling to run away from the powers hell-bent on injustice, violence, and cruelty. He was unwilling to give up on love, on reconciliation, on the human capacity to grow and to change and become more loving, gentle, and wise.
Like the wise men before us, we seek the promised messiah. Like the wise men before us, our spiritual journey has as its destination finding and drawing near to Christ. We search for the kind of life Jesus reveals, a life of meaning, purpose, love, and wholeness. But what is it that guides us in our search? The biblical wise ones followed a rising star. Their clear focus kept them on track even in the midst of danger and uncertainty. What do we follow that will lead us to life? What are our rising, guiding stars?
The first “guiding star” I’ll mention is bright, shining, clarity about what you are after. What is the reality that you are trying to live into? In our personal lives, relationships, work, or congregation, clear vision for what you are trying to get to provides you with direction and, if you take the vision seriously, keeping your eyes fixed upon it, will help you know when to change course or say “no” or do something painful or difficult. Over the course of these past years in the United Methodist Church, it has been very important for me and for us as Foundry Church to be clear about our goals as they relate to the struggle in the denomination. Some of our goals have been: full inclusion of LGBTQ persons, removal of discriminatory language in The Book of Discipline, solidarity through presence and advocacy with those stranded in vulnerable places, a commitment to our Wesleyan emphasis on grace and “going on to perfection,” and to providing leadership in the denomination. We have been at all this for at least 25 years so it is clear we’re in it for the long haul. When pushback comes or things get tough, knowing what we’re after—and why—is essential in order to have the energy to stay engaged and to know which path to take.
Another source of guiding light for us is discernment through practices such as prayer, study, and meditation. Clarity about direction for our lives, projects, or relationships requires some silence, some listening to the wisdom of others, some intentional Sabbath time resting in the presence of God. In moments of turmoil, anxiety, and confusion, these practices of discernment allow for us to regain perspective, to perceive things that we would miss if we didn’t hit the pause button, to connect to our humanity instead of reverting to reptilian antics. In this moment in our church and world—and in many moments over the past years—it is so important to receive news, documents, plans with a deep breath and a commitment to be thoughtful, prayerful, and measured in our response. Simple and intentional practices of discernment give us a much better chance of being helpfully responsive to emerging realities instead of destructively reactive.
Another source of light-filled guidance is people. I remember a time at Camp Egan in Tahlequah, Oklahoma on family retreat with my church, 1st Methodist of Sapulpa. I was about 12 years old, we were in the outdoor “Tabernacle” near the creek; and at the end of the session, for reasons unknown, Cliff Brown—a man I had known as part of my church family since I was a toddler—said directly to me, “Listen, God loves you. And there’s nothing you can do about it…” And then he went on to quote from Romans 8: “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39) Why do I remember this so clearly? Well, it was a bright, shining, moment when I was offered an assurance of God’s love for me, a sign of Cliff’s love for me, and a powerful witness of faith. Cliff held the light of Christ for me. There are countless others who have been light-filled guides along my way inside and outside the church. I imagine you could say the same.
Over these past years, in the midst of what’s been such a difficult time in the United Methodist Church, your faces, your stories, my love for you and yours for me, are lights that have guided my footsteps. And one of the beautiful gifts in the midst of the mess is that I have gotten to know and come to love some of the most amazing people who are serving at all levels of the church and fighting the good fight for the sake of love and justice. // I encourage you, in the midst of every twist and turn on your life’s journey, look to the people who love you, who push you to be better, who inspire you, who make you laugh, who prove their friendship through true solidarity, kindness, grace, and generosity. It has been very important to discern who I could trust along the journey of life and ministry and leadership and who I could look to for support and guidance. Discern carefully and then remember—the thing I also learned at camp—the “take a buddy” rule and stay connected to those who will be true companions, who will be light for you in dark places.
Regardless of our good discernment, even the strongest and best people we know will falter here and there, will make missteps and disappoint us. We’re all human. And so if we are wise, as the wise ones of old, we seek the One whose love, friendship, solidarity, and compassion never falter or fail. Jesus the Christ is worthy of our trust, our hope, our devotion, and our love. The perfect light of God’s love and loving intention for us and for the whole world is found in Christ. Our call is to faithfully follow the guiding stars in life so that perfect light and love might fall upon us and be reflected in us. Such reflection may make you a rising star for others. What a gift. Thanks be to God.
Sunday Dec 15, 2019
Sunday Dec 15, 2019
Awaken to Joy
A sermon preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC, December 15, 2019,
third Sunday of Advent, “Awaken!” series.
Text: Isaiah 35:1-10
I have a weekly covenant group, monthly clergy group, annual 8 day silent retreat—and I pay a therapist a lot of money—all to help me keep perspective. I need the help. Because I can lose perspective at the drop of a bomb or at news of another brutalized body. I can lose perspective when another real fact is treated as “alternative.” I can lose perspective when another species is thoughtlessly voted off the survivor island. Heck, I can lose perspective at much less: my overstimulated, overscheduled life paired with the truly ridiculous expectations I place on myself and pretty much everything and everyone around me is plenty to skew my vision of what is.
In the Bible, chaos (tohu) in is understood as formlessness, confusion, unreality. I think it’s safe to say there’s plenty of that to go around these days. When chaos threatens to draw me into a vortex of confusion, numbness, fear, or life-sucking overfunctioning, I get my money’s worth through a therapeutic vision shift. The gentle nudge comes: What is the frame through which you are perceiving this moment? What image is driving the reptilian brain reaction? Often, the question interrupts the inner spin. I try to identify and hold a different—more true—frame or image. And that shift in my “seeing” helps me shift my “being.” I awaken to what’s more really real.
Perspective is how we “hold” reality, how we frame it and understand it in any given moment. If, for example, our framework is God’s saving love always at work for the healing and wholeness of the world, we hold moments of chaos differently than we might within another frame. It is profoundly helpful for us as human animals to have words or images or narratives that—as we identify or connect with them personally—provide a sense of connection when we feel untethered, a sense of freedom and agency when we feel bound and powerless, a sense of purpose when we feel apathetic or adrift. As Jesus followers, we have a story, we have words from the prophets, we have images—burning sand becoming a pool, the desert blossoming, a humble baby whose life and love save the world. All these things provide a frame, an anchor to hold onto in the chaos all around. //
About a year ago, I encountered a poem by Jewish poet, Yehuda Amichai, that has been knocking around in my head ever since.
The precision of pain and the blurriness of joy. I'm thinking
how precise people are when they describe their pain in a doctor’s office.
Even those who haven't learned to read and write are precise:
“This one's a throbbing pain, that one’s a wrenching pain,
this one gnaws, that one burns, this is a sharp pain
and that––a dull one. Right here. Precisely here,
yes, yes.” Joy blurs everything, I've heard people say
after nights of love and feasting, “It was great,
I was in seventh heaven.” Even the spaceman who floated
in outer space, tethered to a spaceship, could say only, “Great,
wonderful, I have no words.”
The blurriness of joy and the precision of pain––
I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness
and blurry joy. I learned to speak among the pains.
I don’t believe the poet is alone. Don’t we all learn to speak among the pains?
Longing, pain, and joy are all jumbled up in our human experience. And what of those gets most of our collective psychic attention? I don’t believe it’s joy. It’s not that we don’t appreciate joy when it appears or that we intend to race past the grace of joy as if it were a thing of beauty outside a racing train. It’s just that there’s so much of everything else clawing for our attention. And, in the mix, we somehow find all sorts of ways to name, describe, catalogue our pains. Most folks I know would admit, if they’re being honest, that the painful stuff in life provokes their inner spin cycles much more than the graces and joys. I have been known to cogitate for days on the things that are broken, unfinished, unjust, failures in my life and work—all the while largely ignoring the extraordinary beauty, power, grace and new life all around me. But really…
I want to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness
and blurry joy.
// From DC, to the middle of the country where I was raised, to all the far-flung places my colleagues and friends now reside—most people I know are deeply disturbed by the current state of our nation and world. Here at Foundry, I hardly need name all the tragedies, absurdities, and specific systemic sins that leave people weary and worn and angry and afraid and sad and numb. People all around us—and especially the young and marginalized—are more vulnerable than ever to poverty, violence, loneliness, mental illnesses, and addictions. It is important for us as followers of Jesus to stand in solidarity with all who suffer and are oppressed and to name the pain with all the precision and boldness we can muster.
AND it is critical that we also find a way to proclaim with some level of precision and boldness the joy that Isaiah describes in our text today. It’s a vision of hope for Jews who had long been exiled in Babylon. There is promise of sustenance and beauty and a clearly marked path—a “highway”—across the desert. Such a “straight shot” across the desert with the promise of water and safety is no small gift. Consider that it is incredibly easy to get lost in the desert where any “path” is quickly covered over by blown sand and everything looks the same. Consider also that the route from Babylon back to Jerusalem could be up to 1600 miles if you traveled the northerly route that kept you closer to water sources and civilization. But a highway as the crow flies that’s a fraction of that distance—with everything you need?! What a gift! Isaiah says, “no lion shall be there”—a promise that makes even more sense when we realize that the lion is the symbol of ancient Babylon. You see this is a promise that the redeemed will be free from the dangers, humiliations, and oppressions of empire and exile. This is a precise description of hope and of JOY!
And yet this word and promise is out of place. Scholars reveal that these words about a return from Babylon are cut and pasted into the middle of a whole other disaster—the Assyrian threat and conflict that happened hundreds of years earlier. And our text is not only out of chronological place. Imagine you’re watching a movie and you’re in the middle of the scene where everything is falling apart—fear, destruction, chaos running rampant—and all of a sudden it’s like someone has spliced the film with flowering fields and frolicking puppies: “The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.” ??!! Scholars disagree about why this poetic prophecy shows up precisely here. But one suggests, “The Spirit hovered over the text and over the scribes: ‘Put it here,’ breathed the Spirit, ‘before anyone is ready. Interrupt the narrative of despair.’ So, here it is: a word that couldn’t wait until it might make more sense.”
This is what we celebrate in this season: a word that breaks into this beautiful, broken world to “interrupt the narrative of despair.” Oh! Don’t we need this interruption? In my life and work I hear people longing for peace, for a release from the pains of the day to day and the struggle to get by. I observe folk longing for someone to receive them in all their particularity and fullness; for connection, for friendship, for a way to contribute to the common good, to be part of something meaningful. I perceive people longing for beauty, wonder, love, encouragement, justice, liberation, and hope. People long for a world less brutal and broken. These longings are deep and not new. This is the cry of the human heart from the beginning. The story we tell affirms that God receives the longings of God’s people and responds. Prophet and teacher are raised up by God through the ages to show us a way to live in community instead of isolation, with justice rather than iniquity, and with meaning that saves from despair; God’s prophets call us to choose peace rather than violence, love rather than fear, life and not death. The story goes that, again and again, we rejected those whom God sent. And in the fullness of time, God once again interrupted the narrative of despair, speaking a Word into the pain of a raging world and his name was Jesus who came into the world as life and light. And even after we rejected God’s good gift again, the light shines…the light will not be overcome!
This is our story, our song, our hope. It is our anchor. We need this story, this word, this wonder, this counter-narrative to the world’s crazy. We need it and the world needs it. And we are called to share and to live our story, to speak into the chaos of our world, to act in ways that align with God’s vision. Isaiah writes, “Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who are of a fearful heart, Be strong, do not fear!” We are called to speak truth to power and to powerless alike. To speak words and act in ways that bring hope and encouragement to the downtrodden and impoverished and exiled.
I want (us) to describe, with a sharp pain’s precision, happiness
and blurry joy.
We who know Jesus know something about blurry joy, don’t we? It is the moment we realize that though we see now in a mirror dimly, then we will see face to face. Isn’t there something of blurry joy in the times when we, like the first disciples, perceive only after the fact that Jesus was with us on the road? Blurry joy is the ark breaking through clouds into rainbow, it’s the Israelites marching from slavery to liberation, it’s a blurry figure dancing in the fire alongside Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, it’s Esther risking her life and saving her people in just such a time as this. Blurry joy is the tax collector—the agent of empire—on the same team as the zealot and freedom fighter because of Jesus. Blurry joy is that time in the garden… when it was still very dark…and, with eyes likely bleary from tears, Mary has a blurry vision of Jesus alive. We are a people who proclaim the promise of new life. And we know that wilderness wandering and incarnate vulnerability and cross and the tomb are the path to get there. We know that we falter and fail again and again. We know that the arc bends toward justice at a pace slower than we think we can tolerate. But we also know that precisely at the moment it seems the world is coming to no good, God comes to the world again. Every single time. We know that God makes a highway out of no way. We know that God brings life out of death. And—if we are able to keep from being lulled to sleep by the pains of this world—we know the good news, the God-with-us, resurrection news, that weeping may last for a night, but JOY comes as you rub the sleep out of your eyes and wake up. Joy comes in the morning…
---------------------
[i] Yehuda Amichai, Open Closed Open, “The Precision of Pain and the Blurriness of Joy: The Touch of Longing Is Everywhere: 16,” Orlando: A Harvest Book/Harcourt, Inc., 2000, p. 105.
[ii] https://www.ancient.eu/image/293/lion-of-babylon-detail/
[iii] Barbara Lundblad, http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=1941
Sunday Dec 08, 2019
Sunday Dec 08, 2019
Awaken to Peace
A homily preached by Rev. Ginger E. Gaines-Cirelli at Foundry UMC, December 8, 2019,
second Sunday of Advent, “Awaken!” series.
Text: Isaiah 11:1-10
I enjoy relative safety and stability in life. Many within the sound of my voice can say the same. It’s important to consider how easy it is to take this reality for granted. I have been thinking about how easy it is to take for granted that I wake up and go to sleep every night in a sheltered place that is clean and secure and comfortable and private, with running water and hygienic facilities; that there is abundant food in my home and ample resources to get more; that my dogs and cat have their own beds and a cabinet full of food.
When I have needed to move from one place to another, it has been because I chose to pursue a new opportunity. The “challenge” involved in the move was all the time it took to sort through, pack, and unpack all my possessions as I transferred them via automobile from one secure place to the next secure place. I have never been denied a place to live or the means to secure housing because of the color of my skin, the language or accent of my voice, or my gender identity or sexual orientation.
And while we are all finite and vulnerable creatures in a world where accidents happen, illness falls, and violence can erupt anywhere and to anyone, I am among those in this country and world who do not daily fear for my life or the life of my loved ones due to an abusive partner or due to stray bullets or bombs or “disappearances.” I do not have to fear the wolf, the leopard, the lion, the asp who lurk and lie in wait to do harm in the alleys or intersections, who strut and spew poison in marbled halls and paneled courts. I am not the target of those who take away food stamps and deny health coverage and cage children and steal children and allow children to languish in filth and to die alone. I am not among the terrorized and terrified denied shelter and safety at our borders.
I live in peace. And I’m not alone. To be clear, I’m not talking about inner peace. Many of us may struggle with various levels of anxiety and stress—some at truly debilitating levels—and it often gets worse this time of year. What I’m talking about today is the kind of peace that Jesus and his parents did not experience—the kind of peace that is freedom from threat of violence, the freedom to dwell in safety, the freedom to stay in their homeland without fear. I’m talking about the kind of peace that allows parents of any race or class or creed to trust that their children can be who they are, can play in public spaces. without being hurt or destroyed.
The vision cast by the prophet Isaiah in our text today is an ancient hope for the vulnerable in every age. In this vision a way is made for difference to dwell together in peace, for those with certain kinds of power to use that power to care and protect rather than to destroy. Lions and bears and asps and leopards and wolves continue to be who they are but don’t devour the little ones. And in this vision, the power of gentleness and playfulness and innocence and humility is recognized and allowed to lead the way.
Jesus came into the world to show us what that looks like. Jesus is born among the humble animals and, like them, is vulnerable to those whose hungry power would destroy him. Jesus from the very beginning crosses borders and boundaries, in solidarity with refugees everywhere, carried by his parents into unknown lands to try to find a place of sanctuary and safety. The holy family receives shelter and hope for their future from persons who could have turned them away.
In this world, still so far from the vision Isaiah saw, in this world still so plagued with violence, fear, and abuses of power, Jesus comes to awaken us to what is real: You and I live in relative peace. Countless others do not. Peace is denied so many of our human family and yet it is the promise heralded at our savior’s birth. Human actions at home and abroad, actions fueled by greed and fear, are responsible for stealing the peace and safety of God’s children. You and I can’t solve the global migration crisis or end wars in the world or on our streets on our own, but we are called to be peacemakers, to do what we can do. Educate yourselves; you can begin by participating in our Advent Justice Series focused on immigration. Contribute to our Advent Appeal which supports Foundry’s advocacy work for peace and justice and also the work of CARACEN, a local partner in our work with I.D. Ministry clients who are immigrants. Don’t take your peace for granted and do what you can to make peace for those hungering and thirsting for rest, for safety, for home.
By God’s grace and the example of Jesus we can be agents of peaceful change in the world. So be encouraged. May fresh hope and peace now comfort your soul…
Sunday Dec 01, 2019
Sunday Dec 01, 2019
“Awaken To Hope”
Written by Rev. Will Ed Green for Foundry United Methodist Church, December 1, 2019,
first Sunday of Advent, “Awaken!” series.
Text: Isaiah 2:1-5
If you’ve ever known a sleepwalker—or walked in your sleep—you’ll know what a peculiar, unsettling, and altogether fascinating phenomena it is.
Somehow, in the deepest states of sleep, our brain can overlay the world around us with an alternate reality so convincing that our bodies can’t help but engage it. What we would otherwise know to be “true” about our reality—the temperature, the setting we find ourselves in, the presence of others around us—is supplanted with a dream state so convincing that the sleepwalker can travel barefoot in subzero weather or step into a noisy room full of people without ever knowing they’re there.
Even more fascinating is the brain’s ability to draw on our knowledge and skills while sleepwalking, allowing sleepwalkers to perform complex tasks like driving, cooking, or carrying on a coherent conversation with someone doesn’t even know they are asleep. And the entire time, the person sleepwalking has no idea what’s real for them is really just a dream. They don’t even know they’re asleep.
As we explore Advent through the lens of our new sermon series—Awaken—sleepwalking seemed like an appropriate place to begin. As Christians, our faith is grounded in the truths that God is good and just, that God’s love endures and is available in all circumstances, that God is faithful to us. But the world—like a sleepwalker’s brain—has a way of layering over that truth with an alternate reality so convincing that we begin to forget what’s real. The wearying dreams of a world fractured by injustice and poverty, the nightmares of violence against and the abuse of black, brown, and queer bodies, the lucid dreams of our news cycle with its always-imminent crises—these become our reality. Like sleepwalkers we wander through the world convinced that these things—not God’s promises of hope, peace, joy, and love—are what’s real. And like a sleepwalker, we may not even realize we’re “asleep.”
But God desires that we become fully awake and alive to the power of God’s active and activating grace. God works to rouse us from the those dreams and liberate us for abundant living that embodies hope, demands and works for peace, claims and cultivates joy and lights up the world with love. And Advent is our wake up call. As we journey through Advent toward Christmas, we’re invited to examine our lives. To remember what’s real. To let go of what’s not. And to re-awaken in ourselves the power of hope, joy, peace, and love that sets us free.
“Optimism and hope,” writes Catholic priest and teacher Henri Nouwen, “are radically different attitudes. Optimism is the expectation that things—the weather, human relationships, the economy, the political situation, and so on—will get better. Hope is the trust that God will fulfill God’s promises to us in a way that leads us to true freedom. The optimist speaks about concrete changes in the future. The person of hope lives in the moment with the knowledge and trust that all of life is in good hands.”
“The person of hope lives in the moment with the knowledge and trust that all of life is in good hands.” What would you do if you trusted that your life was in good hands? What would you be liberated from or for? How might you come alive if you were free to believe it?
On this first Sunday in Advent we draw our attention to the Christian virtue of hope. It’s integral to our identity: First Corinthians 13:13 says that above all the other gifts of Spirit, which will fail and falter, “faith, hope, and love abide.” Romans 5:2 tells us that we are to “boast in our hope” of God’s saving mercy and grace and in verse 5 that “hope will not disappoint us.” I Peter 3:15 tell us to “always be ready to make [our] defense to anyone who demands from [us] an accounting for the hope that is in [us].”
As Walter Bruggeman says in his book, The Prophetic Imagination, “…we are ordained of God to be a people of hope.” It’s written into prayers spoken at baptism and communion, proclaimed at the end of every creed, sung out in many, many hymns.
And yet the world for which we hope—in which justice rolls down like water and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream, in which implements of war give way to words of peace and the common good outweighs self-centered desire—feels at best unlikely if not all together impossible.
Both for those to whom these words were spoken and to those of us reading them today, this Isaiah’s vision might seem so distant from our present reality that it doesn’t bear hoping for.
It seems like a pipe dream to speak of lasting peace when we can’t even stop the murders on D.C.’s streets. It feels impossible to envision a world where all are free to live abundantly when on this World AIDS Day young people in the District of Columbia are twice as likely as anyone else in our country to contract the virus and we lead the nation in new HIV infection rates. It may come across as crazy to think about God doing a new thing with the people called Methodist when for the last 47 years we’ve argued over and arbitrated the lives of LGBTQIA+ persons and gloss over or ignore our long history of institutional racism. How are we to trust in each moment that our life is in good hands when the world feels so broken?
Hope is a funny thing. We tend to reduce it, as Nouwen says, to concrete changes we desire for our future. I hope for world peace. I hope I pass that test. I hope they like me. I hope I get that job. This is what I like to call a…brittle hope, hope built on a foundation of our own action or desire and bound to outcomes which—despite what we may think —often lie far outside our control. We’re taught to build our hope on the actions of others—politicians who will “make America great again” or who “still believe in a place called hope.” To invest our trust in institutions which will give us what we need to get through. To believe that we have the willpower to make the world in our own image.
This works out well for a time, I suppose. But we all know that people will inevitably disappoint us. That empire uses hope more often as a tool of control than a vision for a better world. That institutions will—despite every good intention—cause harm and hurt. And when what we’ve placed our hope in fails us, this brittle kind of hope buckles and we are lulled into a version of the world in which hope feels like a pretty hopeless endeavor.
The purpose of prophetic proclamation is to awaken us to a different kind of reality. One in which the true rests upon the solid foundation of God’s loving action and justice, rather than the whims of empire or the fragile premise of our own strength. In the vision of the world to come offered by Isaiah, a close reading of the text reminds the listener that our future is not dependent upon our ability, force of will, or political prowess, but upon God who will be faithful to bring about justice and lasting peace. God is arbiter and judge in this new reality. God is the teacher and provider. The listener’s only job is to journey toward that reality in the light of God’s love, remaining true to what they know God is doing and will do on their behalf.
Isaiah wrote to a people, not unlike those of us today, who’s world was being torn apart by war, poverty, and greed. It must have felt truer to their reality to be hopeless than hopeful. But establishing our hope not in the strength of human ingenuity or action but in God’s, Isaiah offers hope that can simultaneously insist God will make a way even when we can’t see a way. By centering the temple—the physical dwelling place of God—in this new reality, Isaiah offers a hope that makes space for the proclamation of impossibility as possibility because we know all things are possible with God.
Today’s lesson reminds us that what we build our hope on matters. And it awakens us from a reality full of brokenness and fear with a “truer” vision of what’s possible when our hope is established on the firm foundation of God’s faithful action in our lives and in the world. Trusting that God is indeed birthing into the world the beloved community we so long for, we are liberated from the places and things which makes it feel impossible. Believing that God’s story is bigger than the dreams of this world can hold. And standing in this strength, with the knowledge of what is real, we are able to work and resist the forces of this world which deny that anything like the anti-racist, anti-colonial beloved community of God we aspire to be is possible.
It’s in the strength of this hope—that God is yet at work—that we are able to resist the schemes of empire and institutions which insist that it is their vision that will bring about the world for which we hope. It’s in the strength of that hope that we can rest, trusting that we do what we can do but in the end God’s got it. It’s in the strength of this hope that we are able to let go of our need for control and to trust in each moment of our lives that we are enough and that God will be faithful when we offer ourselves to make of that offering a blessing to others.
Once awakened, hope becomes less of a thing that we experience or desire that we have than it is an attitude we cultivate in ourselves and in the world, a living hope which is capable of facing our present circumstances with the trust that our lives are in the good hands of a faithful and loving God.
And the good news of this season is that—even as we wait and watch for the world to come—it is breaking into the world around us all the time. We see it—I see it—in the joy of a neighbor’s face when they receive the birth certificate they need to move from homelessness to housing. I see it when LGBTQIA+ people, despite what the church might say, continue to be faithful in claiming their calls to ministry and showing up anyhow. I saw it on Wednesday when John Wesley AME Zion, Foundry and Asbury Churches gathered in worship and for the first time in 183 years—since we were separated by the forces of institutionalized racism—shared communion together. I feel the power of what God is yet doing among us when I realize that people—despite the violence and harm caused by Christianity—continue to walk through those doors and find life-transforming relationship with Jesus Christ.
In this season of Advent we celebrate that our hope is built on nothing less than a God that so desired for us freedom and life that God became one of us. That through the surprising birth of one who came from a place which no one thought could produce good things, born of an unwed mother and skeptical father, one who challenged our perceptions of what was acceptable by welcoming those no one would accept, one who would challenge the power of empire not through military might but by self-sacrifice. In Advent we awaken to the possibility that despite what the world might tell us is true, God’s truth in Christ is truer still.
The invitation for us this season, then, is to in the words of First Peter: “prepare your minds for action; discipline yourselves; set all your hope on the grace that Jesus Christ will bring [us] when he is revealed.” To cultivate an attitude toward the world that allows us to lay its brittle hopes and to take up the living hope offered to us through God’s love embodied in Jesus Christ. To slow ourselves down enough that we might perceive the ways God’s love, justice, and mercy are breaking into this present moment with the promise of a future with hope—and therefore be strengthened in our ability to embody that hope for others—living light through which the world is set free.
These glimpses of the kin-dom are what give us strength to stay alert and together on the journey toward that world in which all will be might right and good. And in claiming them—in cultivating spaces and times in our lives when we open ourselves to remembering and naming where God is at work—we reject the temptations of brittle hope which leads only to disillusionment—and establish a firm foundation from which we can with joy, peace, love, and hope trust and proclaim that all is in good hands. May God make it so for you, and for us, in this season. Amen
BENEDICTION
Friends, God has given to us a living hope—one which endures despite disappointment, and disillusionment. God has established for us a foundation from which we can anticipate the faithfulness of One who makes a way when there is no way, and who is always working, always working, to bring about good in the world. So go out from this place and be that kind of hope brought to life for others, and “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”