"God is Many Different Things..."

It's easy to see God in the beginnings: the birth of a baby, the gleeful laughter of a young child, the first flowers blooming in Spring.  Yes, it is easy (at least most of the time) to see God in these beautiful moments of new life, of fresh starts. 

It's not always so easy, however, to see God in the endings, the changes, the transitions: the death of a dearly loved grandparent, a child leaving home to go to college or head into the work force, the grayest day in December when snow blankets the ground.  It can be so challenging to see God when things are cold, when we're a bit sad; when we don't know what the future might bring. 

But Anaya reminds us that "God is Many Different Things..."

God is not just the resurrection, God is also present in the death that must come before the dawn.  God is not just the birth of Jesus in a manger but also the Jesus we see on the cross.

"God is Many Different Things."

Death and resurrection. Hello and goodbye. God is present in it all.

As I pack my books in boxes, sort out my files and label them for safekeeping, it is my hope that I will remember that just as God was present in the first greetings I received here at University Christian so God is also present in the last goodbyes, the final exchanges of hugs and farewells.

"God is Many Different Things" Anaya reminds us. May we have the wisdom to learn this truth.

The tac board (butterfly included) that holds Anaya's wise words and beautiful work: 

Rev. Jamie Haskins

University Lutheran Church

May 8, 2011

Luke 24: 13-35

                                                                Extra-Ordinary

Duct tape. You know—sticky, gray, something we use it to make minor repairs in a pinch.   It hangs in the aisles of hardware stores—you find it at Fred Meyer or Target.   Most of us probably have a roll sitting somewhere in our house: whether it’s back in the depths of your junk drawer or neatly organized on a utility room shelf, we’ve all used duct tape before.  It’s ordinary.  Nothing special.

At least that’s what I thought until I read about the “Stuck at prom” scholarship competition —the Stuck at prom scholarship awards $10,000 to the lucky couple who create the best ensemble for their high school senior prom using only—and I bet you can tell where this is going—using only duct tape.   When I first heard about this particular scholarship, I couldn’t believe it—couldn’t believe that high school seniors would celebrate such an extraordinary, important night in their young lives by creating clothes out of duct tape, by dressing themselves in duct tape, in something so ordinary, and so I looked online and do you know, it’s actually true: I saw pictures of elaborate, beautiful dresses, tuxedos, jackets with tails even, all made out of duct tape.  

--so run of the mill, something we use all the time, the ordinary—made beautiful, made extraordinary.

Our scripture this morning starts out in a place that looks a bit like duct tape in its ordinariness.  It is in the wake of Jesus’ crucifixion that two regular folk make their way home from Jerusalem to Emmaus.  They are not a part of the 11 disciples locked there in that upper room after the crucifixion and they aren’t the women who found the empty tomb and first spoke the news of Jesus’ resurrection—no, they’re just two ordinary people.

And there’s nothing special about Emmaus either—no famous festival, no reason we would ever remember this city were it not for this story.

Yes, the beginning of this gospel scene is almost startling in its normalcy. Jesus isn’t appearing to anyone; there’s no resurrection, no empty tomb, no one who once was dead is coming to life and so for the first time in at least a little while, it’s all relatively mundane: two ordinary folks, walking down a dusty road, toward a nowhere kind of town.

These two travelers: Cleopas and an unnamed companion, are talking things over when a fellow traveler sidles up beside them—a fellow nobody they probably assume—because he’s walking unaccompanied on a desolate road outside of Jerusalem—he comes along side them and asks what they’re discussing with one another.

This fellow traveler has got one of those faces—you know, one of those faces that you swear you’ve seen before, you know you have met them but you just can’t figure out where—you can’t place them.  When he asks Cleopas and his companion what they are talking about they tell this stranger that they are discussing all the things that have happened in Jerusalem over the past few days, about Jesus’ crucifixion, the women going to the tomb and not finding his body there. How could he have missed it?

And then their fellow traveler, he interrupts them, breaks into their explanation and begins to speak about scripture, teaching them about the sacred texts until this newly formed traveling party makes their way all the way back to Emmaus.  When the two veer off the road and head toward home the stranger continues on, acting as though he will journey on alone, and so they ask him to stay, extending an offer of hospitality to this one they don’t even quite recognize:

“stay with us for it is nearly evening the day is almost over” they offer.  Stay with us.

On the road to Emmaus these travelers extend a simple invitation to a stranger, someone they cannot quite place, and he takes it.  They gather around a table there in Emmaus—and it is only then, in the gathering and the sharing of food—only when their traveling companion takes a simple loaf of bread, breaks it and blesses it as they begin their meal together that the two travelers recognize this one they are with as the very person they have been speaking about, as Jesus—the text tells us that “their eyes were opened, and they recognized him and then he disappeared from their sight.”

Suddenly these nobodies, in the middle of a nowhere town, are aware that they have walked with, talked with, and broken bread with their risen Lord.

It was revelation.  It was Easter news.  And all of it—all the way up until Jesus vanishes completely right before their eyes—all of it sounds a bit like, well, duct tape.

A spoken word. An invitation of hospitality, breaking bread: these are normal things, ordinary moments, everyday occurrences: you know, duct tape types of experiences.

During Holy Week and even in the early wake of Easter it is good to celebrate the miracles of our faith: the resurrection, the empty tomb, a Jesus who walks through locked doors and tells Thomas to place his fingers in the mark of the nails.  But now, now that we are fully immersed in the Easter season, we find ourselves back in the duct tape, the normal,

there aren’t anymore special occasions. No palm branches to wave or sunrise services to attend.

And that’s part of the good news this morning, part of the Gospel we learn on the Road to Emmaus with these two travelers—these two nobodies—we learn that

more often than not we experience Jesus, we encounter resurrection,  we know the Easter news in the

duct tape of life.

The ordinary.

The every day.

In a spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

This past week was called extraordinary by some: extraordinary because late Sunday night we learned that Osama Bin Laden had been killed.  Masses of people gathered across our country to celebrate: they sang in the streets, they chanted rhythms of victory.  Others, however, raised their voices in lament.  They raised their voices and they continue to mourn the fact that violence in any form, that bloodshed and the taking of human life, no matter what it looks like, could ever be celebrated.  They grieve that some within our nation and our media would celebrate the loss of any person, any human being. 

The death of Osama Bin Laden—and larger questions, questions about violence, about life and bloodshed, these questions are mammoth—they are vast—they are emotionally charged and, for many, unbelievably complex.  In times like these, when wars of words and battles of brutal violence and bloodshed rage across our nation and our world, it is easy to feel like nothing short of the extraordinary, nothing short of an empty tomb, nothing short of Jesus’ appearance to Thomas and the other disciples in the upper room, could ever even begin to serve as an adequate response, an adequate answer, to such complexity, such daunting questions, such violence.  How do each of us: one person, one voice, one individual, and how do we as a church, a neighborhood, an ecumenical parish: how do we even begin to address the complexity and the pain evident in our world today?  When we are so ordinary, so small, and the injustice, the violence, the anger feels so large, so extraordinarily big?

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

As we journey to Emmaus this morning, scripture is discussed, a loaf of bread is broken; and before crumbs can even fall to the table the two travelers realize that they have been in the presence of the risen Lord and their hearts have been warmed.  Resurrection, salvation, redemption…all of it is found there in the smallest, most ordinary of things.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine.

and ever since that encounter on the road to Emmaus the church has been acting out this scene again and again.  Every Sunday we—mere mortals, mere human beings, you might even say mere “nobodies”—we travel together—and in our travels we discuss Scripture, we issue invitations, and we break bread.

It’s not new.  It’s nothing out of the ordinary.  And yet it’s absolutely extraordinary because each Sunday we meet with the risen Lord.

In a world where we can feel so small, when it may seem as though nothing we do could even begin to address the violence, in a present as complex as the moment we are living in now, we are reminded this morning that even the smallest, most ordinary things can serve as a powerful response, even the most simple actions are sites of resurrection, places where hearts are warmed and eyes are opened.  Even those nobodies, those everyday disciples like us who gather together, are people of extraordinary redemption.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

Bread is broken so that all can be fed as we prepare for communion and we witness to a world where broken things can be made whole.

Mere wine flows from a cup to our lips and we profess our faith in a coming reality where bloodshed and violence are no longer celebrated.

And an invitation is issued: you, University Lutheran, invite a lesbian minister of another denomination to preach from your pulpit and in doing so you lift your voice in response to the pain of discrimination, the division of our church and our world.

 speaking words,

breaking bread,

pouring wine,

the issuing of an invitation

Here, today, as we do every Sabbath, every Sunday, we meet our salvation.

Enacting the ordinary we revel in the extraordinary as we immerse ourselves in Easter yet again.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

And we are reminded that even in the face of the extraordinary, the confusing, the sad: what we do—these small things—the seemingly mundane—the duct tape parts of life—in these small things we meet Jesus and he travels with us a bit farther down the road—we see him just a tad more clearly,

in a spoken word; a bit of bread; a sip of wine,

Powerful responses in the smallest of forms,

resurrection made tangible:

an issued invitation, the ordinary made extraordinary.

This is what we do every Sunday in our gathering: mere elements—words, bread and wine, become responses to that which is so dark, to a world of brokenness and pain. 

University Lutheran Church: In all of our ordinariness, Christ meets us here on the road to Emmaus and he journeys with us.  Revealing himself in the simple, the ordinary, time and time again. 

And with these ordinary elements we together witness to another way of being: to resurrection, to Easter news, to the gospel.

A spoken word.  A bit of bread.  A sip of wine. 

This is the good news my brothers and sisters.

Easter news.
Thanks be to God.

And so it goes that this past Sunday morning, during our Tenebrae service here at University Christian Church, one of our candles literally jumped off the communion table.  With no help from any human being, no gust of wind, for no reason at all--one lone candle took a nose dive for the floor.

It was a serious service this morning that began our journey through holy week.  In traditional Palm Sunday fashion, we celebrated Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem.  But we also began the long walk to the cross.  Jesus' journey from his entry into Jerusalem toward the crucifixion is one of the darkest narratives we know as Christians.  It is a valley that we walk through with somber reverence each year as we prepare ourselves for what will ultimately be resurrection and new life.

And so, in the midst of this somber, shadow-filled acknowledgment of the darkness you can see how absurd it is that a candle would propel itself off the table and onto the floor: and it didn't just "gently fall" off the table.  Oh no, this candle took a dive worthy of an Olympic athlete.  It went straight up into the air, arched downward and then sped toward the sanctuary floor.  You just can't make this stuff up.

You see, the candles are spring loaded--the outer candle actually has a hollow interior that you refill with new wax each time the inner candle burns down.  It includes a spring loaded mechanism that allows the flame to constantly burn at the top of the candle, where it's prominent and can be seen from everyone gathered in the sanctuary.  Normally, this is a handy way to ensure that the candles are always burning, beautifully and boldly.

Today, however, it meant that candles were randomly jumping off tables as we were trying to open ourselves up to the somber darkness of our faith.

I share this story because it strikes me that this is what the Christian life is all about: it's about journeying with Jesus through dark places, through valleys of shadows, through the tough stuff, while knowing--the whole time--that the unexpected might occur, that something different than we could ever plan for, totally out of the reaches of even our wildest imagination, might unfold in front of us before we take our next step.

So it was today at University Christian Church: candles propelled themselves off tables, we walked with Jesus through the darkest of valleys, and we moved forward.

During this time of Holy Week, as we accompany Jesus from the gates of Jerusalem, through the loneliness of the garden, to the cross, the tomb and ultimately to the resurrection, my prayer is that we will be ready for the unexpected.

Not just be ready for it, but be open to it.  Open to receiving anything and everything that might happen when we agree to journey with Jesus.  It can be unpredictable; it can even be comical; it will certainly be something different than we ever would have planned. 

But it is the journey we have set ourselves on...it's the journey we walk together.

Thanks be to God.

-Ephesians 5:8-14

Several years ago I began working with an organization called Interfaith Worker Justice (IWJ).  The members of  IWJ believe that as people of faith, it is our call to name places where injustice is happening--where folks are being abused, where workers are not being treated fairly, where labor practices and procedures are standing in the way of human flourishing and the ability for a laborer to be happy, healthy and whole.  

As a part of my involvement with IWJ, I joined a group of 50 seminary and college students in Chicago a few years ago in order to protest a hospital's failure to provide its workers with adequate health care coverage.  As people of faith we stood outside of this hospital and we prayed. We sang songs such as "We Shall Overcome" and "Down by the Riverside;" we held signs with messages like "all religions believe in justice" and "Jesus was a low wage worker" to remind the folks in positions of power at the hospital that we are called to care for one another, to love one another, to provide for one another.

When we read this Scripture from Ephesians earlier today during our weekly prayer team meeting, I couldn't help but think of the work of Interfaith Worker Justice--the work of all those who gather together in order to expose places of hurt to the light, who work together to make sure that those places of destruction and damage in our world are revealed.  

This passage from Ephesians teaches us that to bring unhealthy things to light, to offer the hard places, the destructive patterns in our lives and in the lives of our organizations up to God and publicly name them, to do this is to actively and intentionally love. It might seem counter intuitive that holding a protest and calling people to account for mistreating their workers is loving them--but in bringing the truth to light, we are offering love.  It might not be our first instinct to name that which is harmful in our own lives or in our communities but if we are truly going to "rise from the dead" and invite "Christ to shine on us" then this naming of the dark places, the hurting places, this is what we must do.

It's not always easy to be a person of faith but it is always good; it is always meaningful. Faithful voices speaking the hard truths are always necessary in our world.  Holding those hard places up to the light, naming injustice, exposing hurt, bringing dysfunction to the light, this is hard work but it's important.  It's Christ like. It's loving.  It is our call. 

During my day of silence in Tampa I did what any Seattle resident would do: I laid a big blanket out in the grass and curled up under the Florida sun, for hours upon hours. I soaked up as much sunshine as I could (and, unfortunately, gained a bit of a sunburn in the process). It was absolutely stunning.  Between the warmth of the sun, the incredible network of colleagues I had around me, and the deep prayerfulness that surrounded me all week, my time with the Bethany Fellows was truly a week of renewal and re-creation. 

In a world where we are constantly on the go, checking items off our to-do lists without ceasing, unfailingly bombarded with requests for our time and our space, I give thanks for University Christian Church and its willingness to grace me with the gift of time, true Sabbath time, where I was able to rest, be renewed, and resettle myself in the goodness of God's grace.  While I was not with you here in Seattle during my week of retreat I was with you in prayer and in thought.  I was with you and I was able to find renewal and restoration that will allow me to continue walking with you as a whole and rested child of God.  

So thank you University Christian Church: thank you for the opportunity to spend time wtih my colleagues in minstry, thank you for blessing my journey of Sabbath and renewal, thank you for walking with me on the journey.  

Below are some pictures from my time with the Bethany Fellows:

Because not everyone makes it downstairs to our Learning Community each Sunday, here are some pictures of a typical Sunday.  On any given day there is praying, playing, jumping into Biblical stories, and learning what it means to be community, to be the church, together in loving and respectful ways.  This past Sunday we lit candles for the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Rosa Parks, and others who have taken courageous steps in the name of prophetic justice. We worked together to come up with ways we can live lives of love and service in our own communities, with our own friends and families.  We also heard the story of the Good Samaritan. And, as you can see from the pictures below, we took lots of time to play!

The fear, for an introvert, comes from the knowledge that the person sitting in the seat beside you might not just sit beside you, they might also want to talk with you--have a conversation with you--get to know you.  And this, this is quite possibly an introvert's worst fear.  Trapped on a plane, for who knows how many hours, held captive by a "fasten seat belt sign" while someone much more enthusiastic and gregarious than you works to get to know you.  What's an introvert to do?

This introvert's worst fear, the fear of sitting next to someone who makes conversation, was realized this past week while flying back to Seattle from Florida where I had been visiting my family.  And while I felt an initial wave of uncertainty as my seatmate began to talk to me, it was quickly replaced with overwhelming joy and thanksgiving because it turns out that the conversation I had between the Sarasota/Bradenton airport and my layover in Atlanta, Georgia was enriching and spirit filled.

You see, the man sitting next to me was a chiropractor.  I had never thought much about this line of work.  I had never really considered what a day in the life of a chiropractor entails...but as I listened to him talk about his job, I realized that he truly loved it.  It was his calling.  He spoke of giving thanks that in his practice he had journeyed with some of his patients for over 20 years, not only treating them for their pain but also listening to their stories, watching them grow and change.  He shared stories of children turning to teenagers and then young men and women right there in his office, as the years passed, and how privileged he felt that he was able to walk with them, in some small way, on their journey through life.

He then looked down at his hands and noted that those hands were his instruments.  Unlike many other professions where we might use tools or other implements to do our job, for this chiropractor it was his own hands, his touch, that brought healing and a sense of relief to those who came into his office.  He spoke of his job, of his work, with such passion, with such commitment and joy, that it was clear to see that God was moving in the work he did.

I never expected to see the hands of God on a flight from Bradenton, Florida to Atlanta, Georgia.  Not once in a million years would I have guessed that someone speaking to me on an airplane would reveal a glimpse of the divine.  But in our conversation with one another I was reminded that God moves within us, through us, and around us in mysterious ways, in unexpected ways, through people and in places we never would have dreamed.

And so this morning I give thanks for catching a glimpse of the hands of God, the call of God, while crammed into a tiny airplane seat, thousands of miles in the air.

And I renew my commitment to look for God, to look for the Spirit, in what might seem like the most unlikely of places.

As a part of the worship service Janetta and I offered up a shared reflection based on two verses:

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,”even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.   -Psalm 139:11-12

We walk by faith, not by sight.-2 Corinthians 5:7

Janetta read the portions in bold and I read the rest.  Here again, I offer you our words, in honor of the longest night:

We walk by faith, not by sight.

To walk by sight is to know that you’re headed in the right direction—it is the ability to
look at the horizon, to see that you are safe. To walk by sight is to be on steady ground.

But we walk by faith, not by sight.

Our eyes do not work in the dark. In the absence of light our human frailty prevents
us from plotting a path, from creating a map of just where to walk and so when the
darkness comes—when sadness settles on our hearts, when there is brokenness in our
lives, in our relationships, when we cannot see what is in front of us and it is far too
dark to look behind us, when the dark is at its darkest it is then that we must remember,
must sense deep down in our gut,

that we walk by faith, not by sight.

we walk by faith and so we move, we place one foot in front of the other, again, and
again, and again, and we walk even though we cannot see. We bump up against our
own fears, we run into deep sadness, we collide with anxiety and doubt, and through all
of this

God calls us, beckons us, begs us to walk by faith, not by sight.

and so it is enough. It is enough to muddle through. To do the best we can. It is
enough and it is faithful to feel our way in the darkness—to place one foot in front of
the other even though, in the darkness, we have no idea where we’re headed.

Because even darkness is not dark to God. Even darkness is not dark to God. And so
we are never truly without light, never completely broken, never totally lost, because
we walk by faith. In the darkness we walk, in the darkness we muddle through, by
faith.

Lately, the song I cannot keep myself from playing (and from singing in the shower) is "You Are the Sun" by Sara Groves.  There's something about the lyrics, the music, something about the way the notes pour out of my speakers, my headphones, my computer, that grabs my soul and won't let it go.  And so, it's of no surprise that as I walked down the stairs here at University Christian Church and made my way into the Learning Community this morning, lyrics from this song immediately came to my mind.  "You are the sun, shining down on everyone. Light of the world, giving life to everything I see. Beauty so brilliant I can hardly take it in..."

In our Learning Community this morning approximately 13 children, ranging in age from seven to thirteen, gathered to learn about Jesus, to play together, to be community, to be the church.  As I took my first step into the presence of these children this morning, the scene before me could have easily been dismissed as "chaotic."  There was glitter on the floor, glitter in hair, glitter on faces.  Bits and pieces of the beautiful Advent calendars the kids made today were strewn about, on the table, the floor, on chairs.  Christmas carols were playing loudly in the background on a stereo but not everyone was listening and so "Joy to the World" mingled with the loud, energetic, joyous voices of children.  I walked in on this scene in our Learning Community this morning and immediately I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all and the words of the song I have been singing for what feels like forever flowed into my consciousness yet again:  "Beauty so brilliant, I can hardly take it in...".  

Today is the first Sunday in Advent, Hope Sunday, where we begin the beautiful journey of waiting for a savior to be born.  We hold our breath; we eagerly anticipate; we know that love is about to pour out into our world yet again.  With promises like this how can we not simply stop for a moment, overwhelmed by the goodness and beauty of it all?   "Beauty so brilliant, I can hardly take it in...".  

There are so many places to see the hope of Jesus, the meaning of Advent in our lives.  As a community of faith here at University Christian I saw Advent hope in our children this morning.  In their laughter; in the way they are comfortable and feel that they "belong" here in this church; in their beautiful play; even in their shouts and the glitter they had so brilliantly scattered on the floor and on themselves... "Beauty so brilliant, I can hardly take it in...".  

My hope, for myself and for us as a church community, is that during this season of Advent we will allow ourselves to see the beauty of it all, to notice the ways the hope of this season is already present and working in our midst.   "Beauty so brilliant, I can hardly take it in...".  Thanks be to God. 

A few days ago I experienced one of these moments here at University Christian Church.  I was frazzled.  It was Children's Sabbath Sunday and so both Janetta and I had lots of extra things to do: blankets to put down for the children to sit on in the sanctuary, crayons and coloring books to arrange, pictures to add to the PowerPoint, and the list goes on.  My mind was racing in a million different directions, I was making mental lists of the things that still needed to get done, the things that should have been done, the things that there just wasn't time to do when...out of nowhere...I felt a tug on my skirt.  One of the children in our Learning Community had patiently been waiting to catch my attention.  I asked the child what they needed and in a very sweet, very hopeful voice they asked me if they could take home a copy of the music for "Jesus Loves Me" because they wanted to share it with their family.

In that instant I was reminded of what this odd and wonderful thing we call "church" is all about.  A young person in our Learning Community was so excited about learning to use a hymnal, she was full of so much energy because she now knew all four verses to "Jesus Loves Me," that she just had to share it with her family.  She couldn't contain it any longer. She was happy; she was proud.  She wanted to share Jesus, to share church, to share one of the ways she has learned to praise God, with the people she loves most in the world, her family.  

In that moment I was reminded that it's not always about the to do lists, the meetings, the agendas.  It's not always about getting things done or about making lists.  It's about those moments when the Spirit breaks through and reminds us that God's energy and excitement, God's goodness, is always in our midst.  I give thanks for the many ways the Spirit chases us, just trying to catch our attention, to give us a brief moment where we see and know the goodness of the kingdom of God. 

I give thanks for children tugging on skirts, for seemingly simple hymns like "Jesus Loves Me," for all the ways we meet Jesus each day.