Red Clay (March 2017 Newsletter)

Dear Friends,

         Above many acres of Georgia piedmont, warm winds sigh through the tops of tall pine trees. Beneath the trees lies another distinct feature of the southern landscape: layers of thick, red clay. As difficult as it can be to work, and prone as it is to stick to and stain everything it touches, red clay can also be a blessing. It holds moisture much longer than the thin, sandy soil further south. During times of drought, roots wander purposefully through dry soil, seeking the oases of clay where they drink and nourish whatever tree, or shrub, or crop, or weed, stands above them in the scorching sun.

         There is another, less abundant variety of clay in GA. This clay is white (in the same loose sense that the other is “red,” of course). During certain anguished times, white clay has been sought out, as well. It is not plants that seek it, however. People do. In the throes of poverty and desperation, some have discovered that white clay is edible. It fills the belly and keeps the anxious pangs of hunger at bay. But unlike roots wrapping around and burrowing through red clay for moisture, those who eat white clay receive no nourishment. You may eat your fill of white clay, and starve to death, nonetheless.

         We are now into the third month of 2017, but some of us may still be climbing out of the doldrums that often darken the first weeks of a new year. This unpleasant but predictable phenomenon usually results from the white clay feeding frenzy of November and December. Traveling, entertaining, eating, and so on are not wrong to do, but the paradox is that excess has no substance. It does more to mask our joy than to release it.

         While he does not use the image of clay, Henri Nouwen wrote his little book Making All Things New to remind us that there are all kinds of spiritual white clay we consume as substitutes for true spiritual nourishment. And he suggests fighting emptiness with emptiness. Emptying our lives of clutter, we make room for that which truly fills and gives growth. Jesus lived this empowering emptiness: “In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.” And God commands it: “Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy.”

         True happiness and fullness stand a chance when we abandon all the white clay, all our addictive possessions, power, status, and meaningless diversions – everything we devour that ends up devouring us.

         May the roots of your hearts seek out that which satisfies – the red clay of community, prayer, service, and compassion. And may you enjoy the dessert of sharing your healthy, new fruit with gratitude and joy.

                                                                        Peace,

                                                                                 Allen

Ongoing Transformation (Sermon)

“Ongoing Transfiguration”

Matthew 17:1-9

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

2/26/17

         The Lord is my shepherd. (Ps. 23)

         The Lord is my refuge and strength. (Ps. 46)

         You make the clouds your chariot…you make the winds your messengers. (Ps. 104)

         The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed…yeast…treasure hidden in a field…a net thrown into the sea. (Mt. 13)

         If God is the soul of biblical stories, metaphors are their flesh and bone. Metaphors work differently than facts. Speaking poetically out of and into human experience, metaphors invite and enlighten. They tease and transform.

         The story of the Transfiguration provides a splendid example. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John “up a high mountain.” In scripture, holy moments often happen on mountains. Abraham and Isaac have a disturbing father/son experience on Mt. Moriah. Moses receives the commandments on Mt. Sinai. Elijah defeats the prophets of Baal on Mt. Carmel. Jesus constantly goes up mountains to pray and to teach.

         In biblical literature, when someone climbs a mountain, that means watch out! Something wild and holy is building.

         When sharing “mountain top” stories, people of faith are giving voice and vision to memories of some palpable presence in their lives, moments when they heard a still, small voice speak out of the uproar. Times when they felt energized and purposed through something commonplace. The experience transformed them into some new version of themselves.

         Up there with Jesus on that mountain, Peter, James, and John have just such a moment. They witness a light so revealing that it illuminates past, present, and future. Moses who was, Jesus who is, and Elijah who, to these devout Jews, was and is to come, all these prophets of God are distilled into one vision, one reality.

         The effect of this experience seems a little dubious. Instead of creating confident faith and bold action, hope gets twisted into the delusion that all has been finally and fully accomplished.

         “Let’s stay here!” says Peter, who, six days earlier, had identified Jesus as the Christ. “I’ll build each of you a comfortable little hut, and we won’t go back down there. We won’t go back to where people suffer, where nations kill, where children die, and where everything is mystery and suggestion. Let’s stay here, where seeing is believing.”

         “Hush!” says the cloud. “This is my Son. Listen to him!”

         The three disciples fall to the ground quivering in terror.

         “Get up,” says a voice. When the disciples raise their eyes, they see only Jesus.

“It’s okay,” he says. “But we are not staying here. We’re going back down.

         “And listen to me,” he says. “You’ve seen something remarkable today. I want you to remember it. But that’s it. Just remember it. Don’t mention it to anyone until…well, until it makes sense. And trust me; you’ll know when that is.”

         Maybe one reason Jesus tells the disciples not to mention what happens, is that they need time to let this exciting, terrifying experience become more than some event to report. It has to become a real story, because transfiguration is something that has happened to all of them. More to the point, transfiguration has just begun. Since Jesus creates time for that story to evolve into something more than a singular event, that is to say, into a metaphor, transfiguration never stops happening.

         With every new teaching, with every new act of humility and strength, Jesus of Nazareth has been living into and revealing his messianic identity. He shatters and transfigures the metaphor itself. He reveals an unanticipated Christ. Because of this, the disciples must wait. Transfiguration of the metaphor must continue before they share it.

         An experience really becomes a transfiguring story when the person who lived it re-lives it by reflecting on it and sharing it – over and over. And it becomes transfiguring for hearers when the storyteller gives the listeners room to experience it for themselves. Once we tell the stories of our experiences of God, they become witnesses to something beyond us, metaphors available to everyone. And that’s why we re-live them as ceremony and ritual, and why they take on lives of their own.

         Christmas, Epiphany, Holy Week, Easter, Pentecost – all the key days of the church year revolve around ancient stories. They are times for re-telling those stories. Re-hearing them with new ears and grateful wonder. We wrestle with the metaphors – birth, giftedness, surrender, death, resurrection, re-birth, and spiritual community. We re-enact them with intention and generosity. And they renew us.

         The sacraments of Baptism and the Lord’s Supper – these two sacred celebrations in the life of the church remember and proclaim not one memory, but the totality of the story. They remember and proclaim the grace at work within the creation, and God who initiates that grace. God’s grace stories us. It comes to us, perhaps most compellingly, through our own experiences, as it does to Moses, Elijah, and Jesus, as it does to Peter, James, and John. Grace is revealed to us through things we can see, feel, smell, taste, and hear. That’s why physical elements, water, bread, and wine are the central metaphors in the sacramental dramas. We are transformed and transfigured not by theology convincingly argued. We are transformed and transfigured by human life faithfully lived and lovingly shared.

         Now, while the story of the Transfiguration breaks brand new ground, that new ground is being tilled by old stories, by traditions that have been recorded and handed down, traditions that have been shaping faith and practice for generations. Our present context is new, uncharted, full of dangers and possibilities our ancestors never imagined. You and I, we hear those lively old stories with 21^st century ears and issues. And they keep shaping us, calling us forward, not back.

         We are keepers of a flame we did not light. We have received it from those who came before us. Each person, each generation, each tradition has its own candle. And each candle is itself a story, with its own physical realities. Each candle will burn only so long. So, we pass along the flame, not the candle. In each new context, people, generations, traditions hold their own candles. But it is the same flame. The candles change, and we give thanks for each of them, but we trust the flame. We trust its light.

         There is empowering Love and challenging purpose in all of this. When Pharaohs, Jezebels, Caesars, Herods, and other tyrants arise, and even when they do their damage, seeking, as all of them do, to force and to control the narrative of Creation, we are not their servants. We are not minions of power and fear. We are servants of the Living God. We are followers and bearers of the Light of the World. That’s why we leave the mountain tops and return to all the messiness of people and relationships, advocacy and dissent, life and death.

“You…make fire and flame your ministers,” says the psalmist (Ps. 104).

What are you seeing and hearing?

What is your story illuminating?

How will you share it?

The Price of Perfection (Sermon)

“The Price of Perfection”

Matthew 5:38-48

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

2/19/17

         In 1999, theologian Walter Wink published a book entitled The Powers That Be: Theology for the New Millennium. The centerpiece of this book is the author’s research on the historical context of Matthew 5:38-42. Wink concludes that Jesus’ instructions about turning the other cheek, giving away both coat and cloak, and going the exstra mile are not about capitulating to evildoers and bullies. In fact, says Wink, Jesus teaches just the opposite.

To understand Wink’s interpretation of turning the other cheek it helps to visualize. Imagine yourself standing face-to-face with someone who, for whatever reason, becomes physically aggressive and strikes you on the right cheek. According to Walter Wink, this scenario implies a relationship between people of higher and lower social standing. For two reasons the blow to the right cheek of a person of lower standing must be accomplished with the back of the aggressor’s right hand. First, in ancient Palestine, the left hand is a person’s bathroom hand. It would disgrace even the aggressor to hit with that hand. Second, to hit with a right hand, is to acknowledge an opponent as a social equal. A right-handed backhand to a right cheek both rebukes and belittles.

“Turn the other cheek” means offer the left cheek. Dare the aggressor to humiliate himself by slapping you with his left hand, or to acknowledge you as an equal by hitting you with a right cross.

The courtroom scenario does a similar thing. Wink says that Jesus’ hearers would understand him advising to strip naked in a public place, thus embarrassing the one who has taken you to court. And going the extra mile has to do with a law allowing Roman soldiers to draft peasants to carry their gear. That law, however, limited the conscription to one mile. The illegal extra mile puts a soldier at risk of shameful discipline by his superior officer.¹

Many people, myself included, jumped on Wink’s bandwagon. The idea of sticking it to The Man holds far more appeal than simply getting slapped around. The more I’ve thought about it, though, the more it seems that Wink’s theories make some assumptions that sidestep contingencies in the scenarios, not to mention the deep and disrupting scandal of the gospel.

Throughout the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus challenges us to live lives of justice. And God’s justice isn’t about punishing wrongdoers. It’s not about getting even. God’s justice is about setting things right. It’s about restoration and reunion. Please, don’t hear me saying that justice means getting “back to the way things used to be.” There’s never been a time when all was “right.” And if future generations are to know peace, we must help by working for it today. Restorative justice is a way of life, a gift handed down. Doing holy justice means taking what feels like unjustified initiative to love with the radical, restoring love of Jesus. And he throws us straight into the hard stuff.

“Love your enemy,” says Jesus. Anyone can love those who love them back. Loving those who don’t love you, though, loving your enemies, that Love does justice, loves kindness, and walks humbly with God.

Then, in what sounds like a moment of spiritual pique, Jesus says, Look, you all have to be perfect. Just like God is perfect.

Perfect? Seriously?

The Greek word is teleios, and it is variously translated as perfect, mature, complete, full grown. Eugene Peterson’s translation of this verse is helpful. “In a word,” says Jesus, “what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.” (Mt. 5:48, The Message)

The call to recognize and live out our “God-created identity” took me back to our book study conversation last Wednesday night. We are reading The Book of Creation: An Introduction to Celtic Spirituality by Philip Newell. The chapter under discussion had to do with the image of God as understood in the ancient and quietly enduring disciplines of Celtic Christianity.

Most of us who were raised by the western church were taught that at The Fall, we lost all trace of our holiness. We are born out of and into iniquity. It is our defining reality. According to this theory, original sin, God was so deeply offended by human sin that God cannot forgive, that God is, in fact, powerless to forgive, except through some satisfying act of retribution. So, God sends Jesus, the righteous one, to atone, by substitution, for our sins.

Let that sink in. For generations, the Church has been preaching the love of a God who can be satisfied only by the savage torture and execution of an innocent person. When that is our image of God, and thus the image in which we are made, how will we treat each other? Specifically, how will we treat those whom we label enemy?

The ancient Celtic tradition teaches something different.

“To say that we are made in the image of the divine,” says Philip Newell, “is to say that what is deepest in us is…the love…wisdom…creativity, imagination, and wildness of God.”²

What is most essential and primordial in humankind, then, is not iniquity and brokenness, but a mystical wholeness. We are made in the image of creative, transforming, eternal Love. And when that is our image of God, and thus the image in which we are made, perhaps we will treat each other differently.

“No one is to be regarded merely as an object,” says Newell, “for at heart each woman and man is a holy mystery.”³

Jesus saves us not by satisfying God’s need for violent retribution, but by fully revealing who God is and, therefore, who we are, regardless of what it costs him to do so.

Our sin is real, of course. We’re far from perfect. We prefer a God who allows us to feel fear, judgment, and vengeance toward others. The price of perfection has to do with dying to whatever false self we have willfully created – or dutifully accepted – and embracing a God who desires that we experience and reunite with the holy love, wisdom, creativity, imagination, wildness, and mystery that lies at the heart of the Creation. Only when we accept that God lies at the heart of all things can we even begin to imagine what it might mean to love our enemies as Jesus loved those who opposed him, ridiculed him, and killed him.

Remember, too, loving our enemies doesn’t mean “tolerating” them. Tolerance implies a distance and a perceived sense of superiority over the one tolerated. We can both tolerate and exploit someone.

To love means to listen and to speak, to share stories, to want to understand. It means to be in relationship. It means to hold on, at all costs, to the conviction that beneath all that seems threatening, off-putting, and just plain wrong about someone, he or she holds a promise of blessing for us because that person carries, deep inside, the very same stuff that lies at the heart of our own being – the essence of God.

A truly humble, patient, and grateful faith. That is the price of perfection.

¹I could not find my copy of this book for specific page references. The Powers That Be: Theology for the New Millennium, was published in 1999 by Doubleday. The Cokesbury website lists two ISBN numbers: ISBN 10: 0385487525; ISBN 13: 9780385487528.

²J. Philip Newell, The Book of Creation: An Introduction to Celtic Spirituality. Paulist Press, New York-Mahawah, NJ, 1999. P.84.

³Ibid. p. 84.

Salt and Light (Sermon)

“Salt and Light”

Matthew 5:13-20

Allen Huff

Jonesborough Presbyterian Church

2/5/17

         Salt is a chemical compound – sodium chloride. We season food with salt. For thousands of years humankind has used salt to preserve and purify food. And for the same reason that it’s useful for churning ice cream, salt clears icy roads. And for all its various uses for good, the more salt we use at the dining table, the more likely we are to need the operating table.

         ‘What good is salt that isn’t salty?’ asks Jesus.

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. Non-salty salt is useless. Saltiness is to salt as compassion and justice are to discipleship. The mission of disciples is to make a difference in the world, to season and enhance the creation, to make it a livelier and tastier place for everyone. Like leaven in bread, just a little salt can make a big difference.

         Disciples are not told to become salt. They are salt. “You are the salt of the earth,” says Jesus. ‘Even when you’re not acting like it, your purpose is to serve, help, care, love, challenge, reconcile, and work for peace. To lose your saltiness is to lose your relevance and your voice in the world. Indeed, to lose your saltiness is to lose your lives.

         Remember, too, salt exists not for its own sake but for the sake of that which it seasons. The right amount of salt brings out the flavor of the food. Too much salt covers and even destroys that flavor. As spiritual salt, then, we follow Christ not simply for our own good, but to benefit our neighbors, to evoke the holiness God imbues into all things. If Jesus’ disciples truly want to season the ever-growing casserole called Creation, then we will salt as he salts, by loving as he loves.

“You are [also] the light of the world,” says Jesus.

The metaphors of salt and light both connect intimately with us. Light often represents God’s presence in the world. Lighthouses, flashlights, candles in dark hallways, fireplaces in the cold and gray of winter – all of these things can stir our imaginations and our memories.

         Like salt, light exists for the sake of those who depend on it. And we depend on it for much more than sight. Light draws us into its luminous warmth when we feel lost and alone. Without the light of the sun, the earth would be an asteroid, dark and lifeless. No animals or plants would exist, no human beings, no poetry or music, no hopes or dreams.

         “You are the light of the world.” That should both intimidate and invigorate us. While we do not possess the power of sunlight itself, God still chooses to reveal something of God’s own light through us. When we nurture the flickers given to us by God’s bright and brightening grace, they combine with other flickers and become a flame, a beacon, a sign of God’s presence and promise.

         That’s the point of lighting candles on Christmas Eve. As Jesus is born anew into heart and mind, consciousness and action, we take our one little flame and share it. In a few moments, it illuminates the entire sanctuary. Each candle helps to push the darkness back and to show the way to the aisles, and from there to the narthex, and from there out into the world where we take our light, where we are light. And salt.

         Only after affirming his disciples as salt and light in and for the creation does Jesus challenge them with his teaching about the importance of the law. “Whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven.” These words foreshadow Matthew 25 when Jesus turns things around to affirm the faithfulness of true disciples. When you cared for “the least of these who are members of my family,” says Jesus, “you did it to me.” (Mt. 25:40)

Jesus says that to keep the law and to care for all who are vulnerable – the hungry, the sick, the prisoner, the refugee, all who feel unsalted and left for dead in the dark – these two things, justice and compassion, are inseparable. The very purpose of God’s law is to create and nurture communities of justice and compassion.

Everyone is included in the kingdom of God – or as I am now trying to call it, the eternal Outpouring of God. And while I do trust that all of us are welcome in the Outpouring of God, I also believe that such a vision requires from all of us a firm commitment to compassion and justice.

I think God expects all of us to commit to active care for one another, and to commit to active care for the environment and wilderness.

I think God expects us to commit to creating just and equitable societies where everyone has the opportunity to find meaningful work, to feel safe, to breathe clean air, to drink clean water, to have good healthcare, and to receive an empowering, well-rounded education. Praying for our leaders to provide such things is never enough. Holding them accountable while doing our share of the legwork in our own communities, for the Love of God and the sake of our neighbors, this is our calling. Discipleship involves a lot more than going to church.

God’s trustworthy Word declares that it is not Herod, it is not the wealthy and powerful who most faithfully represent God’s justice in and Love for the creation. That blessing is the gift of those who are salt and light. And Jesus defines them as the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, the peacemakers, and those who are persecuted for righteousness sake.

Salt and light is who we are. Maybe we’re saltier and brighter on some days than we are on others, but having been created by God for relationship and responsibility, we are salt and we are light, nonetheless.

         As you come to the Lord’s Table, may your saltiness be enhanced.

May your light become more radiant.

And may your hunger for compassion and your thirst for justice not be quenched but renewed.