Living As Though (Sermon)

“Living As Though”

1 Corinthians 7:29-31

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

1/25/15

         Whether persecuting Christians or being persecuted as a Christian, Paul lives with unmistakable passion and tangible faithfulness to his convictions. On the other hand, in spite of all that he seems to get “right” enough, the apostle constantly lives in the grip of some crucially, and at times tragically mistaken convictions.

         From our perspective, Paul is mistaken in his initial denial of Jesus as the Christ.  Because of that mistake, he commits the more wide-ranging mistake of trying to use shock-and-awe terrorism to bully Christians into recanting their faith.

After his Damascus Road experience, Paul focuses his energies on preaching Jesus. And one premise for preaching is his mistaken notion that Jesus will literally and presently return to lead God’s people into the glorious days of messianic reign on earth.

Jesus does not return when and how Paul expects. And while one can imagine him crying out like Jonah, disappointed and maybe even a disillusioned, Paul sows the seeds of his own peace in his first letter to the embattled church at Corinth.

         The Corinthian Christians face deep disorientation. As groups within the church begin to identify with and to revolve around particular individuals, the community fragments.

“It has been reported to me,” says Paul in Chapter 1, “that there are quarrels among you…What I mean is that each of you says, ‘I belong to Paul,’ or ‘I belong to Apollos,’ or ‘I belong to Cephas,’ or ‘I belong to Christ.’ Has Christ been divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul?”

         The apostle is scoffing at the idea that Christ has been divided. “What I mean,” he says, ‘is that Jesus is one and whole; and if the community is to survive it must revolve around Jesus.’

         In Chapter 7, Paul gets serious again. “I mean, brothers and sisters,” ‘that even though it looks like God’s promises are unraveling, and even though it feels like God has disappeared, God is present and faithful.’

‘The world is changing,’ says Paul. And this is not a bad thing. ‘Indeed,’ he says, ‘God is behind and within the changes happening to outward forms, but spiritual substance remains true.’

Paul’s words to the first-century church in Corinth hold relevance for the Church in 2015. Now, God is not calling us to “return” to old ways of thinking and being. On the contrary, I hear Paul challenging us to evolve ever deeper in our understanding of who God is and who we are as creatures made in God’s image. We cannot live with conviction in the emerging forms of faith while sipping the spiritual milk of static absolutes.

Paul challenges us, he dares us to live in the here and now of physical existence As Though God’s kingdom has arrived in its fullness.

On one level, Paul’s teaching sounds like an invitation to play make-believe. But living in the As Though of faith is not an act of denial. Living As Though is to engage the bold, creative Purpose who, billions of years ago, began the process of turning a seething and explosive chaos into the magnificent creation we see, hear, smell, taste, feel, and wonder at today.

To live in the As Though of the Kingdom of God means to inhabit the physical reality of life with an eye toward the eternal reality that gives physical reality its true meaning. Living As Though transforms – and here I use Paul’s categories – marriage, mourning, rejoicing, owning, and even politics into platforms for experiencing and sharing God’s grace and presence in and for the world. This is no siimple task. It demands that we regard all of our relationships from the As Though point of view – that is from the already-redeemed place of wholeness and grace.

The tricky thing about this is that we all move in and out of various As Though configurations. When I choose to live As Though everyone is motivated by selfishness, I treat every stranger with suspicion and fear. When I choose to live As Though World War III will happen in my lifetime, I make war a holy endeavor. And I will teach my kids that their highest calling lies in their expendability, and in their capacity to render others expendable. When we live As Though the physical creation is fundamentally corrupt, we treat the earth and our very own bodies as if they are evils to be punished and escaped rather than sacredgifts to be treasured and cared for.

The As Though of Jesus is very different. Jesus calls us to live in the As Though of the Kingdom, where the image of God is apparent within all human beings, and even within all creation.

Last Tuesday I went with some friends to see the movie Selma. This extraordinarily important story reveals some competing As Thoughs at work in the world. The Governor George Wallaces and Sheriff Jim Clarks of the world live in the As Though of racism and overt violence. They live As Though a person’s humanity and ultimate worth are determined by skin color. If a person’s skin is not white, that person might be killed, but he or she cannot be murdered. Within the As Though of George Wallace and Jim Clark, to be murdered, or even treated unjustly, is a privilege of race.

Martin Luther King, and others like him live in the As Though of equality and justice. Within that Christlike As Though, faithful ones not only advocate for justice, they discover the almost inhuman strength to forgive those who persecute them.

To his fellow black South Africans Desmond Tutu has said, “Be nice to the whites, they need you to rediscover their humanity.”¹

The bishop’s words echo a rather famous, kingdom prayer: “Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34a)

In the Jesus who prays and lives that prayer, the kingdom of God is arriving. So, says Paul, “let even those who have wives be as though they had none, and those who mourn as though they were not mourning, and those who rejoice as though they were not rejoicing, and those who buy as though they had no possessions, and those who deal with the world as though they had no dealings with it. For the present form of this world is passing away.”

Now, are we to stop marrying, mourning, rejoicing, purchasing the things we need, or dealing with the world around us? Of course not. But when, for example, a person realizes that every purchase has a price beyond dollars, and if she cares about the expense of producing and procuring an item to the extent that she is willing to do without it if that expense is the well-being of others, then she is living, or at least learning to live in the newly-emerging form. She is learning to live in the As Though of God’s kingdom.

The world is changing with terrifying speed, so we have much in common with the Corinthian Christians. Many of us do feel pulled in different directions, pulled to align ourselves with some Paul, Apollos, or Cephas, someone who seems As Though they are making good sense in an increasingly senseless world.

And into our own disorientation Paul says: Live As Though the Christ for whom you wait has come. And take heart, for in truth, he has.

¹http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/d/desmondtut188470.html

Dangerous Greatness (Sermon - For Officer Ordination/Installation)

“Dangerous Greatness”

Mark 9:33-37

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

1/18/15

         In his play Twelfth Night, William Shakespeare puts these memorable words on the lips of his character Malvolio: “…some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ‘em.”¹

         I suppose a handful of folks are born to greatness by virtue of some innate gift, or passion, or sense of purpose that takes hold of them and catapults them toward extraordinary achievement. Mozart, Leonardo DaVinci, and even Shakespeare himself come to mind.

         Others apply themselves to a discipline or a cause with such determined industry that they arrive at an unimagined level of prominence. That kind of diligence helped Abraham Lincoln become not just another politician, but an authentic statesman. 

         Still others find themselves swept up in circumstances beyond their control. Holding on for dear life, they find themselves in the grasp of a grace and a strength which also lie beyond their control. Being good stewards of those gifts, they not only survive, they make a difference. Considering the influence of people like Abraham, Moses, David, Paul, Mother Teresa, Ghandi, Malala Yousafzai, I think God has a particular preference for this kind of greatness.

         Simply being in the presence of greatness can make one feel great, as well.  During January of my second year in seminary, I spent in 21 days in the Czech Republic and Hungary learning about the church’s long history of struggle and triumph in Eastern Europe. For three weeks I was immersed some of the world’s greatest stories. Walking across the Charles Bridge and up to Castle Hill in Prague, I felt the weight of centuries of proud achievement and almost prodigal confidence in the sheer magnificence of that ancient city. Standing in the 700 year-old synagogue in the Jewish ghetto I heard the echoes of a persecuted people’s great pain and great faith. In the vibrant, uncomplicated people of the tiny hamlet of Biharkeresztes, Hungary, I watched tempered hope hold hands with unhindered hospitality. And I had these experiences in the company of professors and classmates whom I felt were so much smarter than me. All of this made me feel keener, more alert, more aware of the life with and around me. Never had I felt so confident, so capable of doing great things.

         Then I came home. And back in Decatur, Georgia there were diapers to change, dishes to wash, clothes to fold, and game after game of Chutes and Ladders and Candy Land to play. At first these things felt like intrusions into the tight schedule of a great traveler, and terrible strains on the delicate psyche of a great thinker. It took me a while me to come around and recognize my pathetic selfishness. It took me a while to embrace again the greatness of the seemingly unremarkable responsibilities of belonging in a family.

         Perhaps the disciples, after having spent so much time around Jesus, begin to feel that heady surge of greatness. They have seen Jesus perform indescribable wonders. They have heard him teach with an authority that both silences and riles his opponents. Most humbling, he has trusted them to minister in his name. Day after day the disciples feel the presence of dangerous greatness. And I say dangerous not just because Jesus calls us into dangerous situations, but because of the temptation to think that his call somehow makes us greater than others.

         To that temptation Jesus says, “No. If you want true greatness, you must seek it in places that power and wealth do not expect to find it. Don’t go the front of the line. Go to the back. Kingdom greatness doesn’t sit at the head table. It works in the kitchen.”

         The Church has taught for 2000 years that to “reach heaven,” one must avoid hell. But Jesus has always said the opposite. The biblical image of hell derives from the word gehenna, the burning trash heap just outside of a town. Hell, then, is our creation, not God’s. Jesus shows us, then, that the kingdom’s redeeming path strolls directly, and necessarily, through every hell that humankind can create.

To emphasize his point, Jesus sets a child in his lap and says, “If in my name you welcome even one such as this…you have welcomed me, and not just me…but the One who has sent me.”

         We have lost the outrage of this image. In our culture, children are held in much higher regard than in first century Palestine. This is good, of course, but it also means that you and I have to be very careful not to sentimentalize this passage. To imagine Jesus as some favorite uncle is to gloss over the scandal. In his culture, most children live in a deep hell. They are often neglected and abused, and occasionally sacrificed to other gods. To feel the same impact, imagine Jesus honoring a one-legged slave in the antebellum south, an elderly Jewish woman in Nazi Germany, or a panhandling illegal immigrant in contemporary America.

         “If you want to be great,” Jesus tells his disciples, “put aside your selfish ambitions and fears and become servants to all people, and to all the creation. I’ll decide what needs to be changed,” he says, “within them and within you. You just love one another and the earth. I’ll do the rest.”

         To be at the far, desperate back of the line, says Jesus, loving those whom the “great ones” of society do not even know exist, this is to welcome and to love God.

         Today we ordain and install new officers in Jonesborough Presbyterian Church. And these officers, like all who hold any church office, have been chosen to lead a congregation into the future, to guide them through exciting times and challenging times. But as leaders of God’s people, the extent to which church leaders can lead is dependent on our ability to follow God’s Christ. Church leadership is a matter not of power, but of the dangerous greatness of authority, and that authority comes not from the leaders themselves. It comes from the One whom the leaders follow with humility and grace.

         To those of you who will be ordained and installed today, and to all who seek to follow and to serve the Christ: Welcome to the back of the line.

¹http://www.william-shakespeare.info/quotes-quotations-play-twelfth-night.htm

Voices (Sermon - A Story)

“Voices”

Psalm 29

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

1/11/15

         I’m realizing something about psalmists, and it’s something not just to know but to love about them: Many psalmists have no interest in imposing heavy theology on their readers – no doctrines or laws. Psalmists are poets, you see. And poets, like all artists, don’t tell. They show. They reveal. They open doors and windows to experiences of holy wonder, experiences of God. Homiletics professor Dave Bland says that the writer of Psalm 29 is doing exactly that. He takes us into a thunderstorm so that we might experience not the storm, but Yahweh.¹

         As I read Psalm 29, follow along in a Bible if you like. Or close your eyes and imagine yourself in some place where you hear, see, feel, smell, and even taste the storm as it forms in the distance, as it sweeps over you, then passes, leaving you in that splendid, electric freshness that follows a thunderstorm.

Psalm 29

Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings,

ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

Ascribe to the Lord the glory of his name;

worship the Lord in holy splendor.

The voice of the Lord is over the waters;

the God of glory thunders,

the Lord, over mighty waters.

The voice of the Lord is powerful;

the voice of the Lord is full of majesty.

The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars;

the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.

He makes Lebanon skip like a calf,

and Sirion like a young wild ox.

The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire.

The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness;

the Lord shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.

The voice of the Lord causes the oaks to whirl,     

and strips the forest bare;

and in his temple all say, “Glory!”

The Lord sits enthroned over the flood;

the Lord sits enthroned as king forever.

May the Lord give strength to his people!

May the Lord bless his people with peace!

         Nothing I can say about Psalm 29 can improve on the way the psalmist shares his encounter with God. With your indulgence, though, I will share an experience of my own.

~~~~~~~~~~~

         Some doctor scheduled our first child’s arrival for September 17. Since babies don’t feel compelled to cooperate with such things, the child waited. (Boy or girl? We chose to be surprised.) Four days later there was a storm, but not a thunderstorm. It was a massive low-pressure system called Hurricane Hugo.

When it became clear that baby and storm would make landfall together, there was a flurry of phone calls between our home in Statesboro, GA and my parent’s home in Augusta. Our plan, you see, had been to go to a birthing center in the little town of Rincon, GA about 20 miles northwest of Savannah. We’d gone through all the birthing classes there. Marianne was in love with the midwives and with their philosophy of childbirth.

         “I do not want to have my baby in a hospital,” she said. “I am not sick. I’m pregnant!” Nurse Nancy and Nurse Margaret agreed, and they treated their patients accordingly.

         But just offshore, Hugo’s ravenous 140-mile-per-hour winds were clawing their way toward Savannah. We weighed our two options: Go to a nice, safe hospital in Augusta; or, literally, throw caution to the wind, and like Odysseus, face the Cyclops.

         It wasn’t as heroic as all that, of course. We had talked with the midwife.

“We’re going to be here,” said Nancy. “Our families will be here. The doctor is here. If necessary, he can do an emergency C-section. We have a generator. I feel good about you being here.”

         Believing herself to represent the voice of reason, my mom weighed in. “I will come to get you,” she said. “I’ll send a helicopter, or the national guard. Just don’t have my first grandchild in some hippie barn during that hurricane!”

“I…am not…sick,” said Marianne.

The voice of intent and faith had spoken.

         If you live near the southeast coast of the United States, and you see dark clouds churning, unnaturally, from east-to-west, a knot will form in the pit of your stomach. It will stir and kick. It can make you queasy. In sighs too deep for words, I breathed my prayers. My anxious voice mingled with countless other voices, and with the Voice, the Voice behind, before, and within all things – the Voice that creates, rearranges, and reunites.

In a way that I will never understand, Marianne and that Voice had begun a profoundly intimate conversation. My wife and I would speak some, but until the storms had passed, I was little more than a weather satellite. I might keep watch and collect some data, but overall I just stayed in my little orbit. I felt rather helpless to do much more.

I did pack the car and secured the brand new car seat in the back. Marianne walked around inside the tiny, green house we rented from the kind old couple next door. With motherhood approaching, Marianne kept her eyes closed. She breathed deeply. The life within her churned like the clouds outside.

When it was time to go, I walked her to the car, and helped her into the front seat. As we drove toward Rincon, ours was the only vehicle heading east. In our eyes shined a seamless stream of headlights – coastal residents evacuating to storm shelters in Statesboro.

I glanced at Marianne. Like the blue sky that shimmers unseen above even the most violent storm, she was at peace with the world above, beneath, and within her. She was at one with the forces of creation that have been, for untold billions of years, shaping and reshaping all that our eyes may see and our minds may know. She was a part of a sacred and eternal process of imagination, hope, and Love. Mothers may know this as others do not. To the extent of its humility, and to its willingness to be vulnerable and to suffer, the artist within us may know it, too. Outside of that, we simply receive their blessings, and we bless them as we are able.

In Rincon, Marianne walked into the birthing center like a caterpillar surrendering to its body’s impulse to create a cocoon. Surrounding herself with deep breath, she continued to pace and to live beyond the bounds of her own life.

After we had been in Rincon for about two hours, news came. It was welcome news – for us. Hugo had turned slightly north. The eye of that powerful storm now glared at Charleston, SC. But even for us, there would be no mistaking the sound of Hugo’s voice.

Late than night, as the storm surge crested, in some places as high as 20 feet, Marianne’s water broke. A little later the midwife spoke, her calm and breezy voice suddenly an urgent gust.

“Okay, Marianne, it’s time to push!”

Live oaks along the coast bent at steep, westward angles as the storm made landfall. Branches and trees that were strained beyond their strength snapped like twigs. Homes, old and new, swayed in the wind. Siding peeled off of walls as easily as one would peel bark from a river birch. Pine cones, sticks, trash cans, luckless birds, anything that had not been secured became dangerous projectiles in Hugo’s roar. Storm waters overwhelmed the sewersand flipped manhole covers like bottle caps in the surf.

Through much of the night, the storm howled and imposed its transforming will on the land. Life would be forever different for this part of creation. Some losses were permanent, and even that which could be rebuilt had been re-storied by the storm, and so would never be quite the same.

September 21, 1989. Marianne and I named the change who stormed into our lives, Benjamin.

When the wind had calmed and the rain had eased, Marianne, who had not slept, awoke, nonetheless. She awoke to a new world and a new life. She stayed awake all night holding, beholding, nursing and welcoming the wondrous new voice that God – that Imagination, Hope, and Love – had spoken into her arms.

The Lord sits enthroned over the flood…

May the Lord give strength to his people!

May the Lord bless his people with peace!

¹Dave Bland, Psalm 29: Homiletical Perspective, Feasting on the Word, Westminster/John Knox Press, Atlanta, GA, 2008. p. 225.