Thank You

Luke 17:11-19 (New International Version)
Ten Healed of Leprosy
Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance and called out in a loud voice, "Jesus, Master, have pity on us!"
When he saw them, he said, "Go, show yourselves to the priests." And as they went, they were cleansed.
One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus' feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan.
Jesus asked, "Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Was no one found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?" Then he said to him, "Rise and go; your faith has made you well."


“Thank you” is a funny phrase. When we enter a new culture it’s one of the first words we try to memorize. In my home culture we say “Thank You” all the time. Back home I probably say “Thank You” 20 to 30 times a day. When I was a teenager we had an exchange student from Russia. We were a little surprised at how little he said “Thank You.” I mean, we were providing EVERYTHING for him, and yet if he managed to get out two or three “thank you-s” in a day it was a positive one. Then one day we were traveling together on a toll road. We pulled up to the window and handed the woman our money and dad said, “Thank you.” And we pulled away. Our Russian exchange student looked at me like my family was a tribe of Neanderthals that somehow survived extinction. With much pent up frustration he asked, “Why do you say ‘Thank You’ so much? Why do you say ‘Thank You’ to people who take your money?”

Now, we really didn’t have a good explanation. “Because that’s just what you’re supposed to do…?” Maybe we say “Thank You” too much in American culture? Maybe it’s lost its meaning? We thank people for taking our money. We thank people for doing their job – we’re even required to tip 10-15% if the service was “standard.” We cringe as celebrities start off acceptance speeches by thanking God and then continue with a string of expletives. We thank God for our daily bread at least 3 times a day – and always more pronouncedly when done in public! while we eat more than we should and others around the world go hungry. Comedies about nerds always include the line, “Thank you for not hitting me” at least once. Alfred Hitchcock retains the most famous and precise Oscar acceptance speech uttering just two words before re-taking his seat – “Thank you.”

So, Thank you for allowing me to preach this sermon this Thursday. Thank you for showing up. Thank you to everyone who participated in Pilgrims tonight. Thank you for not falling asleep yet. Thank you.

Perhaps this is one reason that people from my cultural background find this story a little strange. Why wouldn’t the other nine come back to say Thank you?

These people lived in forced community. Lepers were people with instantly obvious medical conditions. All that the “normal” people around them knew was that THEY didn’t want Leprosy and that it was highly contagious. Lepers were forced to announce their presence when entering a room – as if their scarred faces and missing limbs weren’t enough of an introduction.
Leprosy attacks nerve endings. People with Hansen’s disease lose feeling in their extremities. Leprosy does not cause limbs to fall off, but cuts and scrapes left untreated easily become infected. In poorer areas of the world, where treatment is less available, rats are a common cause of missing limbs. People with feeling in their hands and feet wake up when a rat begins to bite – people without feeling don’t have that luxury.

Although Leprosy has the reputation of being highly contagious, 95% of people in the world are naturally immune. To catch the disease a person would need regular contact – something like using the same sheets – to catch the disease. For those of us in modern times the conditions are even better.
A person is no longer contagious after 2 weeks of treatment and if caught early enough and treated well, Hansen’s disease is curable.

When I was in India the mission team I was on visited a leper colony. There are still over a thousand leper colonies in India. Now, being that our team was comprised of high school and college students and none of us had any medical training – I imagine we were not very helpful to the people we visited in any medical sense of the word. In all probability – our visit was much better for us than for the people we were visiting. I pray that our presence brightened their day at least a little. But, the visit changed our lives. Still to this day when I talk to other team members we bring up the leper colony.

In Jesus’ day the Lepers were required to live outside of the city. As Jesus entered the village, 10 men came toward him – the scripture is clear that they “kept their distance” and yelled toward Jesus asking him to cure them.

I wonder, how often did they cry out for a cure? Was this a common occurrence? Did they shout at every rabbi that walked by? Every magician? Every person? Was this a first time event? Most of these men were Jewish and they knew the law well. At least they knew the law as it pertained to them.

They knew what they were allowed to do and what they were not allowed to do. They knew the story of Naaman and his cleansing of leprosy. And most importantly they knew what they were supposed to do in case they were ever healed. They were to go to the priest and present themselves and wait for his stamp of approval. At that point they would be clean and they could go home. They could re-enter society. They dreamed of this day. They prayed over these verses.

As Jesus passed they called out to be cleansed. And Jesus tells these men to go to the Priest. This is the day they have been waiting for. They turn and run and along the way they are made well. For nine of these men, “being healed” would happen when the priest said that they had been healed. In a few short moments they would be “officially healed” by the priest and they could return to their families. For the Samaritan, when he saw that his scars were gone, that his limbs had re-grown, and that he had feeling in his feet he knew that he had been healed. He didn’t need a priest to tell him what he felt in his feet.

He knew that the priests in the temple had not been able – or willing – to cure him; so why should he go to them for their declaration. Jesus, this Jesus who had passed by like so many others before, was able to heal – and the Samaritan turned back and ran to Jesus. He fell on the ground in front of Jesus and thanked him from the very bottom of his heart. For truly, this was the Priest to whom he needed to show himself. His tears and his voice echoed out for the whole village to see – Thank You.

In the Leper colony I visited, the people had terrible scars, missing fingers, awful infections and the warmest hearts I have ever met. These people, who had every reason to curse the gods and turn their hearts to stone, were warm and welcoming. They smiled with crooked lips and held our hands in their stumps. They blessed us. When we would come into their huts they would quickly unscrew the light bulb, not noticing that the hot light bulb burned their hands, and replaced it with a light bulb of higher wattage so that we could see better inside their homes. They invited us to join them for worship, and it was one of the most inspiring services I have ever attended.


That day in the Leper colony I learned to give thanks to God for all things at all times. In the midst of my darkest days I need only to think of that little chapel in the leper colony and their grateful hearts and I am reminded to thank God in all circumstances.

This story continues with Jesus asking an odd question. Jesus asks this foreigner where the other 9 are. This question is bizarre because the other 9 have done EXACTLY what Jesus has asked. This tenth, he’s the one that broke the rules. Shouldn’t Jesus be yelling at him? Shouldn’t he get his leprosy back for not following directions?

Now, the story doesn’t say – but we assume that the other nine go to the Priest and are pronounced clean. We assume that they, even though they didn’t thank Jesus, return home. We believe that they hugged their wives and tucked their children into bed that night.
But this tenth … this tenth … not only was he healed, not only did he get to return to his family as a whole man; but he also had the blessing of having thanked Him who made him clean. He had listened intently to the words of Jesus and decided that the only Priest he needed to see was the One who healed the unclean.

We get dragged down with words so easily. Paul advises Timothy not to get stuck in times of “wrangling with words.” The other nine lepers were consumed by the words of the law that they missed the point. The priest and his declaration of cleanliness didn’t HEAL the lepers – but they believed with all of their hearts that they weren’t really healed until the priest said so.

We get so caught up in the words, in our traditions, in our own way of doing things that we forget the point. Like the nine healed lepers who missed the point and headed for the priests who couldn’t heal them – we feel that the words, traditions, and thoughts we are comfortable with are what save us. We forget that only Jesus Christ and Him crucified can save us from our sins. Our works and the expressions of our faith are a beautiful after-thought – they are not saving acts.


Like the nine – we all too often run to these things – that we need them to prove our salvation. When really all we need is a heart like the Samaritan leper. When he had feeling in his feet he knew he was healed. When we have feeling in our hearts – we must know that we are saved. And we must return to Jesus with thankful hearts.

For those in this room who know the goodness of Jesus Christ – I will leave you with a question to think about this week. How do we REALLY say thank you to Jesus? If we come from a culture where “Thank You” doesn’t mean a whole lot; how do we fall before Jesus and thank Him for all that he has done for us?

The Old

I'm working on a sermon based around two stories found in the Old Testament. Oddly enough, this will be my first Old Testament based sermon.

I've always had a rather tenuous relationship with the Old Book.

My first encounter with picking up a Bible and reading was the book of Esther. It was short and I knew my grandmother wouldn't be happy until I had read the entire book. I read it in one sitting ... probably when I was 6. I made Grandma explain what gallows were - even though I knew. I remember asking Grandma why they killed Haman ... AND HIS FAMILY!!! I had a nightmare that night about the gallows.

When I began to read the scriptures in earnest I was bored stiff throughout most of the Old Testament. There are many begotten and begetters in the first few books. Ultimately, the rules bogged down my mind as they have done to countless people. I didn't see the salvation of the people within the framework of their safety and security as described in the laws. I missed the constant re-direction of God from the prophets. I saw stale rules and long-dead bearded men pontificating snoozily.

In the sermon I'm writing now, I will speak of God as The One who met Moses in the desert in the burning bush. As the God who took Elijah (Elisha? Fact checking comes later!) up in a chariot of fire. And I will ask a lot of questions. Namely, "Where's my burning bush?" "Where's my chariot of fire?"

Sermon L'viv UMC October 3 2010

I'm preaching in the morning. Maryanna Venger will translate for me. This will be her first time translating a sermon and she's very nervous. Tomorrow will also hold our inaugural children's sermon. No pressure.


Luke 17:5-10
The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!"

The Lord replied, "If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you.

"Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, 'Come here at once and take your place at the table'?

Would you not rather say to him, 'Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink'?

Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded?

So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, 'We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!'"



Jesus spoke in parables and related the things he said to real life situations. I worked at a Christian summer camp for a while; and the first thing we learned was that children think in concrete ways. Children understand best when they can hold something in their hand.

When we would teach children about the trinity we would use water as an example. We would pass around an ice cube and a glass of water, and we would let the kids put their hands into a mist of steam. Water, ice, and steam are three very different things; but they are all the same thing. It was easy to teach children about the trinity – that God is three in one – using this concrete example.

Jesus used a lot of parables and many examples because almost everyone learns better this way. Very few people learn well by listening to a lecture.

How do we learn to fish? Do we sit in a lecture and take notes? No! We go out fishing and someone shows us how it’s done.

So when the disciples ask Jesus to increase their faith he doesn’t stand at the podium ready to lecture. He reaches down to the weeds growing beside the road and shakes out a few of the tiny seeds. He holds them out in his hands and he shares the good news that if the disciples had only this much faith that they could perform mighty miracles. In Luke it says that a tree will uproot itself and plant itself in the sea at our command. In other tellings of this story Jesus shares that with only this tiny amount of faith, we can move mountains.

Jesus is playing on a familiar tune. He’s already held the mustard seeds out to his disciples to prove a point. The last time he pulled this move, he was telling his disciples that the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed.

Mustard plants were everywhere in Jesus’ day. They were a weed of the most wicked kind.

Most plants are at least a little difficult to grow. You have to plant them in the right soil, and water them, and make sure they get enough sunlight. I don’t keep any plants in my house because I simply can’t keep them alive. Other plants are just the opposite. Some plants will grow anywhere, anytime, without any help. We call these plants weeds – even when they are really beautiful.

When Jesus held out the mustard seed and said that the Kingdom of God was like THIS, the people understood immediately. Even one tiny seed could grow very large. Not only would the plant be up to 2 meters tall, but it wouldn’t stop growing. It would spread like wildfire and would quickly take over the surrounding area. The roots of the mustard plant are so strong and stubborn that they can bust through brick walls.

If a mustard plant started to grow near your property and you didn’t take care of it when it was small it would surely ruin you when it became bigger.

We have a plant in America that is similar to this. The kudzu plant is really quite pretty. It has a pink or purple flower that is prettier than anything I’ve ever grown. But kudzu grows too quickly, and soon overtakes everything in its path. If you leave a car too close to kudzu for too many days the vines can grow up and into the motor and cause serious damage. The plant can work its way in between bricks and ruin foundations.

When Jesus told those around him that the Kingdom of God was like the mustard seed – they knew what he meant. It was starting small – but it would grow and it would topple governments and change the world. It’s no accident that Jesus uses the same metaphor for our faith as individuals. It starts small – and even in that small dose it’s still unbelievably powerful.


[[I tell you the truth – if you have faith the size of this match, you can tell a house to go up in smoke and it will. In the same way, the Kingdom of God – yes, even this very church meeting in this room – is like this match. Although it is small, it holds great and terrible potential. Even forest fires that consume whole nations can start with a match as small as this.]]


But it doesn’t have to. If I put this match back in the box there will be no fire. Why are these mustard seeds that I hold up still tiny seeds? Because they were never planted.

If you want a seed to grow, you must cover it with a little dirt. If a seed isn’t covered in dirt it will never be more than a little seed. It’s the same with us – with this church. We will always be a small group of believers until we decide that we’re willing to get covered in a little dirt. Until we decide to get our hands dirty, we’re nothing but little seeds waiting to be planted. I believe with all of my heart that God will move mountains – but I think we should bring shovels.


And this is the second point that Jesus makes in His answer. As followers of Jesus Christ, this is our obligation. We have been commanded to get our hands dirty. To serve others. To love when it’s difficult . To tell others the good news of Jesus Christ. We shouldn’t expect a special reward for doing that which is commanded of us. Even if we have small faith – even as small as a mustard seed or this match – our obligation is the same.

I am a person of small faith. I am sometimes filled with doubt. Sometimes when I pray I wonder if God is even listening. My faith is as small as a mustard seed. But I believe with all of my heart that even in my small faith, that God has a huge plan for my life.

Even in your small faith, God has a huge plan for your life.
Even in our small faith, God has a huge plan for this church.

Our faith, our church, and the Kingdom we strive toward are like this little match.

It’s so small – but yet it has so much potential.

Today this church meets in a small room – we are barely more than a small group. But I tell you today that if we will be faithful to the God who has called us – and that if we are ready to get our hands dirty in serving and loving others that we will not be small for long. Right now we are this little seed – will you join me in covering us with dirt and growing to become the huge plant that God wants us to be?

Please pray with me: Amen.

Faith

I'm confessing once more my small faith. This Sunday I'm preaching on having faith the size of a mustard seed.

It's painful, really; the accusations of perfection and holiness. People assume that because I'm a missionary I hold the corner on religiosity. I'm not very good at this whole "Christian" thing. I'm a poor example by any measure, but stick me up next to Mama T(eresa), Hudson Taylor, or Amy Carmichael and it's almost laughable.

It's hard to explain. I genuinely struggle to find words to convey my meaning. I'm not here because my great faith gave me the courage to get on a plane; I'm here because I'm trying to be faithful - in the big and the small. I try to remember to read my Bible every day (unless I feel that I'm doing it out of obligation, which I feel to be wrong in some way, and then I wait until I long for some word in my life, which seems better to me.)

But I really do believe that small faith has great potential. I don't think that we're supposed to be "all that good" at being Christian. I think it should always be a struggle. Twelve feet of snow. Uphill both ways. The whole nine yards. I think I'm doing something right.

I had a friend be very honest with me once. He told me that either my theology and missionary philosophy are correct and I will be celebrated in history as a great missionary - or I'll be wrong and I might just burn in Hell for it. While I don't see either outcome as even remotely possible (I'm not a relentless self-promoter, and I've got my "get out of hell free card")I appreciate his sentiment.

I'm going to keep living on my small faith. I'm going to continue taking shovels full of dirt until the mountain has been moved. And I'm going to call it a miracle without a hint of irony. I'm going to wipe the sweat off my brow and give thanks to God for having moved the mountain. That's just how I see it.

This I believe

I believe that religion should make you a better person.

I grew up in a religious home. I wasn't in the same room with a bottle of alcohol until I attended a non-religious wedding in my early teens. I assumed that rules were a big part of our religion. My mother would read our Holy Scriptures each morning while oatmeal cooked on the stovetop. Our kitchen was always very cold, and I remember sitting wrapped in a warm blanket, eating hot oatmeal, and listening to my mother's beautiful voice read words from the Psalms. I assumed that comfort was a big part of our religion.

In the first sermon I remember, our pastor told the story of the only Jewish family in a town. They put a Menorah in their window and someone punished them for this by throwing a brick through their window. The next day, every Christian home on the block had lit a Menorah in their window. I loved this story. I knew deep down in my little heart that my family would have put up a Menorah if we lived on that street.

As my little heart grew, I accepted the religion of my family as my own. For a long time I lived a religious life in order to be religious. I told a girl that she was going to hell, once. I regret those words more than any other I have ever spoken.

My understanding of religion was making me a worse person. I assumed that religion was about rules and my own comfort. As I began to read the words of Jesus more closely I realized that I had misunderstood almost everything. The Christian religion wasn't about rules and it wasn't about my comfort.

Religion has made me a better person. It has taught me to love people - even people who don't look, act, or think like me. Even people who don't make as much money as me. Even people who believe a different religion than me. I'm no longer worried about my own comfort - I would be happier if the homeless kids I work with were to find comfort than if I had it myself.

Religion continues to make me a better person. I still have a lot of room for improvement! In this world of terrorism and Quaran burnings and hate-speeches coming from the mouths of the religious elite; I am reminded every day of my strongest held belief. I am reminded that religion should make you a better person.

What a crummy cross.

In our "Youth to Jesus" student center, we keep a cross on one of the walls. It's two pieces of old wood that are tied together. I don't know where it came from, or how it came about - but I love it's presence in our space.

About two years ago we had a small explosion in our stairway. We had to replace our large door, and apparently this event signaled a welcome to the community to come and inspect our space and see what we were all about. I've been told that dozens of people streamed through our space. And one comment was consistent. "What a crummy cross." "What kind of church would have a cross like that?" "Couldn't you find a nicer cross to hang up than that one?"

Apparently dipping the thing in gold for the last 2000 years has made a number of people forget that the cross was an execution device of severe cruelty. But I love the idea of the crummy cross.

The headlines blare out more scandalous gossip. It's a familiar song and all the kids have the dance moves down pat. Right-wing Pastor of mega-church is accused of wild, sexual misconduct. I don't know anything about this pastor, and while I assume I would probably stand in opposition to some of his views; I genuinely feel bad for the guy.

Being a spiritual leader is tough. Being a spiritual leader to 30,000+ people is impossible. He might be a good CEO and he might be able to control his image and empire well - but at 30,000 congregants, you are no longer providing spiritual care. One downside powerful people face is the fact that vulnerable people surround them and expect them to show all restraint. The stress and pressure combined with the power make a downfall almost inevitable. What a crummy cross.

Olya and I had just finished our meeting. We closed in prayer and she volunteered to help me exchange some train tickets and purchase new ones at the ticket office. There's a lot of complicated language in such an event and I was thankful for the help. Olya co-leads the language ministry at our center and she's passionate and strong. When we got to the train station I didn't think and I opened my wallet and handed her some money to buy the tickets. I immediately got "the look" from three on-lookers. The "you're a dirty old man" look. Olya wears a bit too much eye make-up and she was wearing heals and I look older than I am and we were speaking English. Everyone who saw me hand her money immediately assumed that they were witnessing a familiar transaction. They assumed that I was giving money to the prostitute I had managed to find in L'viv. What a crummy cross.

Christine O'Donnell doesn't think that people should masturbate. Her logic is debatable, and she really has to reach around for scriptural support - but she genuinely believes it and is willing to put her neck on the line for it. What a crummy cross.

Mother Teresa was filled with doubt. Christopher Hitchens has gone to the Vatican to fight against her canonization. He believes that Mama T was a shameless self-promoter who managed to trick the world into believing in her false piety. I imagine that if she were alive, those accusations would throw her into another bout of depression she was so used to. What a crummy cross.

These are the faces of Christianity. Whether this is how we would like the world to see us is completely not up to us. These are people whom God has forgiven and whom God loves uncontrollably. These are people whom others identify as followers of Christ.

In the end, we must remember that the cross was not shiny and perfect - the cross was ugly and scarred and disgusting. The cross was only made beautiful through the resurrection. Our lives are ugly and scarred and disgusting. Even our Christian lives. Even our forgiven lives. They can only be made beautiful through the resurrection.

Amen.

I look forward to this ...

I am already writing a story or theological treatise to keep up with the next phase of technology.

Sermon St. Luke's UMC Kyiv.

I'm preaching this Sunday at St. Luke's UMC in Kyiv. This was a very difficult sermon to write. The lectionary scripture for the week tells the story of the rich man and Lazarus. It deals with socio-economic issues - and the church in Kyiv is comprised of people in poverty. Because I come from America I am instantly categorized as being wealthy - so this creates quite a strange dynamic. The rich man will preach to Lazarus about why being rich isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Essentially.

Also, the translator isn't super confident so the language is simple. Maryanna Yatsik and I have created a magazine to tell the story. On the cover is a rich person to grab people's attention, but inside is the story of Lazarus and the rich man in paintings, photographs, and drawings. It will help to give another layer to the story.


Lazarus
Luke 16:19-31
16:19 "There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.

And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man's table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores.

The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side.

He called out, 'Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.' But Abraham said, 'Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.

Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.' He said, 'Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father's house-- for I have five brothers--that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.'

Abraham replied, 'They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.' He said, 'No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.' He said to him, 'If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.'"


Jesus begins this story with a hook. “There once was a rich man.”

We love stories about rich people. The gossip columns only talk about poor folk if they were rich at one point. Magazines feature stories about rich people, pictures of their houses, and even information about their pets. Stories about rich people sell magazines and get people’s attention.

But then Jesus turns the story upside down.

This is a story about two people, but only one of them is important – and it’s not the one we would think. We never learn the name of the rich man. This is a story about Lazarus. Poor, poor, Lazarus.


Yes, there’s a really rich man in this story – but his name’s not important. The hero of our story is Lazarus. Poor, poor, Lazarus. The man who lies on the street in front of the mansion and begs for scraps of food – he’s our hero. The man with sores all over his body, the man who can’t afford medical care, the man who is so pitiable that even the dogs lick his wounds. He, Lazarus, is the hero of this story.

For Lazarus lived a good life. He loved God and he loved people. Lazarus probably even cared for the dogs that licked his wounds. Lazarus didn’t have anything in the world, but he had treasure in heaven. The people who were listening to Jesus were Pharisees – and they were lovers of money. They were people who would see Lazarus on the ground and would step over him in order to go and sit and visit with the rich man.

Our story begins with the death of two men. First poor Lazarus dies and enters his reward in heaven. Then the other guy, the rich one, also dies … and ends up in hell.


The rich man in hell asks Abraham to send help. But Abraham refuses. In life, the two men had lived very different lives. The rich one had already lived his reward. And Lazarus had only wanted the scraps off of the rich man’s table. The rich man asks that Lazarus be allowed to dip his finger and cool his tongue with it – the equivalent of giving scraps off the table.

Abraham says that it’s too far – no one can cross from heaven to hell. So the rich man asks that Lazarus be sent to warn the rich man’s family. Abraham also says no to this. The rich man’s family has the law and the prophets – they wouldn’t listen even if someone should rise from the dead.

When we read stories of rich people – we usually know the outcome. Rich people get whatever they want. Their money makes their crimes disappear, their children get jobs they could never earn, and even the roads they drive on are nicer than the roads we ride on.

But in this story the rich man is told no. No. No. No. He offers different solutions, and each time Abraham tells him no.

Now, this story isn’t an original story that Jesus told. It was a common story 2000 years ago. People were familiar with this story. But, Jesus changed the ending. In the story that people knew the rich man got what he wanted and Lazarus went to his five brothers to warn them. In Jesus’ version Abraham says “no” even to that request. They have the law and the prophets. They wouldn’t listen “even if someone should rise from the dead.”

And this is the big finish. Because, who rises from the dead? Jesus rises from the dead. And even if someone should rise from the dead – some will still ignore him.


This is a story of faithfulness. Yes, Lazarus was a poor man - but he wasn't in paradise because of the smallness of his checkbook. He was in paradise because of the largeness of his heart. He was faithful to the law and the prophets and heaven was his reward. The rich man wasn't in he'll because of his wealth. He was in hell because his wealth made him forget that he needed God.

It’s easy to forget where everything came from. Statistics tell us that most people feel they would be happy if ONLY they earned 30% more than they did. They did a survey in which they asked people how much money they would have to make in order to be truly happy. Most people said about 30% more than they were making at the time. If someone was making 1000 UAH, they probably felt they could be truly happy if they were making 1300 UAH. If someone was making a million UAH, they felt they could be happy at 1.3 million UAH. There’s something in all of us that just wants a little more than what we have.

Even a small amount of wealth can make us forget our need for God. There was a man in West Virginia who had always been rather poor. He had a wife and two children who loved him very much. Then one day he won the lottery – and he was sure that his life would finally be better. He couldn’t have been more wrong. His life did change. He suddenly had money and he ended up using it to buy expensive drugs and prostitutes. His wife left him and took the children. He was arrested and sent to prison. After he got out of prison he quickly spent millions of dollars on things he didn’t need. The only people who would talk to him were people who wanted access to his money. Soon enough he ran out of money and quickly found himself in the exact same spot he had been just a few years before – except now he had no job, no family, and no faith in God.

How quickly would we forget God if we felt that we provided our daily bread instead of God?

It’s easy for us to think that our problems would go away if we had more money. But that’s a lie. That’s a lie that too many of us believe. Our scripture today teaches that we will be doing a lot better if we are faithful. If we listen to the law and the prophets – yes, we will still be poor- we will be rich in faith and in love for one another. And really, could there be anything better than that?

Barber Shop

I don't let anyone cut my hair who didn't also personally cut Stalin's hair.

There are two types of places where men can get a hair cut in Ukraine.

The first is a place like "Very Modern." It's where men go who want their hair dyed, styled, or groomed. Scruffy looking men go in and exit with fabulous Bieberesque quaffs. The owner/manager looks out of place in any place. His clothes could walk down a runway in Milan but his hair could saunter out of a trailer in Alabama. Men can either explain which style their would enjoy, or just entrust the responsibility to the vision of the maestro.

The second option is a place like "Men's Hall." Men go there to get their hair cut. Like, they go in with hair and they leave without it. Only one style escapes the Men's Hall; and that style is ready for war or skinhead parades. The barber is ancient. He uses a strait edge razor to clean up around your ears and then rubs pure alcohol onto the razor burns - all with shaky hands. I go there because I don't have to explain what I want. I mean, that's not an option at this place. You sit down, shut up, and enjoy your damn haircut.



Now, I think this is interesting because these two very different hair cut experiences are both making money in this city. Men who go to one would never go to the other. I like my barber to be 80+ and I wouldn't be caught dead getting my hair styled by mullet-man at "very modern." But for a lot of people, the idea of having a very old man shave their head sounds like a horrific experience.

We are quick to assume that what works for us is best. We even come to the conclusion that it is the only valid option. We think that if we are doing something new that it is the trend of the future and everyone should get on board. This is especially true in the church. We either assume that the other group is sacrilegious or stuffy. I think that both of these views are wrong.

In the same way that I hope neither place for a men's haircut puts the other out of business, I hope that neither style of worship or church "wins" out. I hope that they both succeed together and learn from each other.

Because in the end, either way, the result is what matters. Did a scruffy looking guy end up with better hair? Good - he had a haircut. Did a group come together to help each other connect with God? Good - we've had church.

Baby

Oddly enough, I feel quite small when I hold Jesse. At four months old, he is the perfect age to be held. His neck is strong and I'm not afraid of hurting him, but everything in his eyes screams the word "Precocious!" While David and Shannon and I munch on Ukrainian food worth far more than we pay, our facial expressions go from serious to gloopy as we catch eyes with Jesse sitting on our laps. From angry face to cooing sounds in the twinkle of an eye - someone's very special eyes.

I feel so small - to know that I was at one time just as small as baby Jesse. To know that once I needed EVERYTHING done for me. To know that God still catches eyes with me, and that God's face lights up in the same way that mine does - but for reasons far beyond mine.

Standard Umbrella Height

I only resent my height when it rains. While most prominently noticed while living in Korea - it is a common fact that my eyes reside at Standard Umbrella Height(SUH). SUH is an international phenomenon. It seems that when rain appears, any level of decorum vanishes like the Wicked Witch of the West. On a normal day in Ukraine, only 4 or 5 people would physically push me in an attempt to jockey for better position. On a rainy day - with the full force of umbrella tentacles in my eyes - at least a dozen people feel free to push through me. Even though I am defenseless against the rain, umbrellaed people feel no moral qualm in pushing me out of their way or, at the very least, poking me in the eye with the points of their umbrella.

Ally, Ally, in come free.

Luke 15:1-10
15:1 Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him.And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, "This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them."
So he told them this parable:

"Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders and rejoices. And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and neighbors, saying to them, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.'

Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.

"Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not light a lamp, sweep the house, and search carefully until she finds it? When she has found it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.'

Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."

I’ve never raised sheep. I grew up in the village, and I spent summers on my Aunt and Uncle’s farm – but we only ever had a few sheep at a time. I remember them as dirty animals and rather stupid. We raised cows. I really love cows. They are smart and have great personalities.

Aunt Sharol and Uncle Terry had about 80 cows for most of my childhood. We would milk them every day and feed them twice a day. When we first arrived every summer I would be terrified of the cows. When you’re a little kid – cows are HUGE animals. Uncle Terry relished in sharing stories of cows gone wild – always ending with a little boy getting trampled for not minding the adults around him. I was also disgusted by the smell. Farms smell really bad.

But after the first week or two of returning to the farm, I would get used to the animals again. I wouldn’t mind the smell and I would begin to get to know the cows. On our farm, cows are named using the first letter of the first name of their mother.
Lady was the mother of Lucky who was the mother of Lucy. It’s a good system to keep things organized. The summer I was 7 Lucy was pregnant and Aunt Sharol and Uncle

Terry promised me that I could name her baby calf. It had to start with an L.
This was a very important task and I spent my days with Lucy getting to know her personality. I would sing to Lucy at night to make sure she was comfortable. One night Uncle Terry sent me to bed and told me that Lucy would probably have her baby the next day.

It was like Christmas morning – I woke up at 5 AM giddy with excitement. After feeding the cows and eating a big breakfast, though, I began to get sleepy. I fell asleep on the dining room floor. I woke up to the sound of Uncle Terry stomping through the house. Something was wrong.

It was time for Lucy to deliver, but she wasn’t in the barn. Maybe she had wandered off, maybe the dogs or a wolf had chased her off, but she was somewhere in the pasture and she was having her baby. We called and we called, but she didn’t come in. She was lost. And without help she would lose her baby as well.

We gathered together and made a plan. Our families would go out and search the entire farm. We spread out and walked through the pasture. I was with my cousin Kimberly. She was 11 years older than me and practically an adult. Kimberly walked quickly through the pasture – she knew how to avoid the “mud pies” , a skill I hadn’t developed yet – and I tried to keep up. After an hour or more, we saw some movement off in the distance. Kimberly began to run, and I began screaming with excitement.

Lucy had given birth to her baby, but it wasn’t doing well. Cousin Kimberly threw the calf over her shoulders and ran to the barn. My sister, mom, and I walked with Lucy back to the barn – just hoping that the baby would live.

We got back to the barn and Uncle Terry came to meet us. He said, “Well, Michael, what are we gonna name it?” I was thrilled. The calf had survived and I finally had my chance to name a cow; even if it was a little sickly. I named her Liberty Bell.

My family had been to Philadelphia the week before, and I was so impressed by the bell that had been wrung at the moment of my countries independence - wrung so loudly that it cracked. Even though the Bell was cracked, it still represented our freedom. So, her official name was Liberty Bell – but we all called her liberty.

There’s a sense of freedom in being found.

We read these stories and they remind us of lost and found moments in our own lives. That time that a wallet was returned after a very scary week without money. We read these two stories in a row and we think, “yes – God searches out what is lost” and we move on with our lives. We should slow down. These stories are very different and they tell us very different things about God and our relationship with God.
The woman and her silver coins appears to be a straightforward “lost and found story.” We’ve all lost money – it’s a terrible experience. But when we look at the story in depth; some questions arise. Why is it a woman and not just a person? Why the specific number? Why?

These silver coins are more than money – these were the adornment of coins that women wore. This was her dowry. She would have never removed these 10 coins from her body – even when she was asleep. These 10 coins defined who she was. They defined her future and her present purity. Losing one of these coins was a very big deal.

My mother once lost the diamond out of her wedding ring. For days she was agitated and upset. She searched the house from top to bottom several times. The diamond in her ring is probably not so valuable – my parents aren’t wealthy and they certainly were not wealthy 30 years ago when they got married. The diamond was valuable to my mother because it was a symbol – it was a symbol that her marriage vows are forever – like a diamond. The diamond had been with her for all the years of her marriage – it represented who she was as a person. When she saw a sparkle out of the corner of her eye she rejoiced as she picked the diamond out of a rug where it had fallen almost a week before.

She regained her identity as a wife.

The story of the woman and her 10 coins tells us that God will search for us – but it tells us so much more. Jesus tells us that God finds identity in the act of finding us. We are valuable to God – we symbolize who God is. We are a symbol of who God is.


The story of the 99 is even more intriguing.

Which one of you who has 100 grieven, finding that he only has 99 leaves the pile of money behind to search for the 1.

(At this point, I will set 99 UAH down on a table and begin to search for the 1. I will have a few people ready to begin taking some of the money from the stack.)

Okay, maybe I left it in the office (have more people take more money).

Found it. I found it. Everything is good! I found the UAH! Hooray!

"Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?”
Which of us? Really? None of us would do this! We would never leave 99 perfectly good sheep to the threats of nature in order to save 1 lamb that got away.

In the story of the woman and her 10 silver coins we learn that God will clean the house to search for us when we are lost. God will search in the same ways we would to get back that which is lost. In this story we learn that God will go much further than we would.

We enjoy safety and comfort. God is willing to take risks.

God is willing to risk everything for the salvation of the world.

Everything.

Even his only son.

So we can compare these stories with our own moments of lost and found - buy we must
go much further. Not only will God search like we will - God will search much deeper. God will find meaning and purpose in our salvation.

Jesus, by eating dinner with sinners and tax-collectors is showing the level of risk that God is willing to take. Jesus is willing to let go of any status and prestige he has. My parent’s constantly reminded me that they had worked hard to build a good name for our family and that I was not to destroy it by hanging out with the “wrong people.” Jesus cares enough about the lost that he is willing to risk his standing with those who have already been found.

The Jewish leaders lost any respect they had for Jesus as they watched him eating and drinking with sinner. No one who loved God would do this.

Jesus knew that everything had to change. Until this point, the Jewish community only reached out by allowing others in. They never went out and told others about God. Only when an inquirer came in would a Jewish person be willing to tell them about the good news of God. With Jesus this changed. We are directly commanded to go out – to leave these four walls behind – and to tell people the good news.

We’re not supposed to wait until interested people show up at Pilgrims and then tell them about God. We are supposed to take risks. We are supposed to go out and eat and drink with sinners and share the good news of the God who is searching for them. Of the God who takes risks for them.

I don't know where you are in your life - but I know where God is. God is searching. God is searching for his little lost lamb. God is searching for her tenth coin. God is searching for you and your heart. Your safety and your salvation.


When I was young the neighborhood kids would play flashlight tag. We would wait until dark and one person would be "it" and, with flashlight in hand, would try to find everyone before they made it back to "home base."

As a kid, when I heard these stories of lost and found – or of the idea that Jesus was searching for me- I would always think of this game - that I was hiding in the dark and afraid that Jesus would find me. I thought that God wanted to punish me for my sins. I was so afraid that the shepherd would find the lamb and punish it for running away – that God would find me and punish me for my sins. My whole idea of God was wrong.

Our game had one other rule. If you wanted the game to end for some reason – maybe it had gone on for too long because someone had a really good hiding spot, or maybe someone’s mother had called them home, or for whatever reason - anyone could shout "ally, ally, in come free!". It meant that we could all come back to home - no running or penalties or fear. But it also meant that the person who called it automatically became “it” for the next round. Even if you were home safely – if you called “ally, ally, in come free” you were it.

This is closer to God searching for us. It’s not some attempt to find us and punish us. It’s an end to the game. You get to come home free and Jesus takes the punishment of having lost the game – even though he hadn’t lost the game.

Our busy lives seem to resemble a game gone terribly wrong. We work all day and night for goals that don’t really matter. We hide in all the wrong places and we misunderstand what God is all about. God feels its time that we stop playing the game and start living life to the fullest.

When God risked everything and sent his son - God finished the game. The cry goes out, ally ally in come free.

taxes

I think that everyone should go here and try this experiment to see how their political stances would affect the long term deficit.

It's interesting to see how things would work if you were in charge.

Jesus as Anti-Hero

Superman had a single weakness. Kryptonite could bring him down. He was eternally good; kind, caring, sympathetic, strong, masculine, etc. Superman was a hero. My grandfather and father read the comics. They received their notion of what a hero was from the man of steel. Of course, He had many imitators. There were many heroes for their generations. Hundreds of men (and a handful of women) who were heroes. Who were essentially infallible, minus one small flaw.

In the earlier portion of the 20th century the Christian faith had few qualms with tweaking Jesus here and there to make him more Superman-like. By this point, Jesus already glowed in the pictures. The scene of Him overturning the money-changers' tables in the temple became more prevalent. We sing cheesy up-tempo lyrics "Jesus is my super-hero" without a hint of sarcasm or shame. And, of course, Jesus is the savior of the world ... so this shouldn't be a problem.

If you're watching TV or reading books today, you'll see something a little different. Our superstars play anti-heroes. The biggest shows center on highly-conflicted protagonists.

Dexter is a serial-killer who only kills other serial killers. You find yourself rooting for him, hoping that the kill is clean and that he doesn't get caught. True Blood is filled with anti-heroes. People that you love and hope for, but people who are also conflicted. Almost every popular show touches on this phenomenon. Characters are no longer all-loving heroes. It's no longer black and white. Everything is gray.

Christians who lived through the 1950s still cling to the black-and-white world that Superman dominated. But what is left for those of us who have grown up in the gray?

When Jesus arrived on the scene, the people felt that they finally had their Messiah. But Jesus had a major flaw in the eyes of the people. Jesus refused to give the people what they wanted. They wanted a strong political and military leader - and Jesus, who would have been more than capable of such a feat, absolutely refused.

He squandered opportunities to incite uprisings. He disbanded crowds when they got too large. He healed miraculously, but he didn't heal those whom the people wished that he would. He healed poor beggars, women, children, racial-misfits, and even the young lover-boy of a Roman centurion - one more victim of the enemies rule - because of the Roman guard's "great faith!" He never found His Lois Lane. When he had his chance to ride in on a white stallion and make His declaration, he chose a young donkey instead.

Jesus was not Super-man. This is most shocking because Jesus could have been. As fully God, Jesus could have used the full weight of His divinity in any number of ways (and the devil tried to get him to do it...) but Jesus refused the role of Superman. Jesus chose the role of Anti-Hero.

He lived in dark shadows, ate with sinners, talked with the untouchables, and loved to the point of death without receiving love in return.



Christianity hangs in the balance. The church is dissolving because Superhero Jesus is failing to deliver, and my generation is turning it's back because we simply don't believe (or really want to believe) in superhero stories anymore. We want a savior, fully God and fully man.

And, oddly enough, that's exactly how the Gospel narrative has read all along.

Cackle.

Nina cackles when she wins a head-to-head game of Uno. Her high-pitched head laugh reverberates around the room. It sounds like the laugh of the crypt keeper from the TV show I wasn't allowed to watch as a child. If you met her and her laugh was anything else you would be disappointed.

Sometimes Nina seems impossibly old. And impossibly fierce. Not only did she survive WWII, but probably the first one. She held on to the Unsinkable Molly Brown in the lifeboat off the Titanic. She walloped Ivan the Terrible on the back of his head for smarting off to her when he was a kid.

Nina is the "grandmother" of the center for street kids. In reality we think she's early 60s, but the math is always fuzzy at best. She's tough with the kids so that the rest of us (workers and volunteers) don't have to be. Which is nice. She treats me like one of the unruly kids. Which is not so nice.

And they ARE unruly. As a rule. There' a whole lot of crazy, a lot of crying, and screaming, and tantrums ... and the kids are bad, too. Our goal at the center is to model the idea of a healthy family to kids/young adults who live on the streets and at risk families who pass through our doors.

We offer warm meals and a safe environment. And a grandmother who very well could smack the silly right out yo mouth if you push too far.

Hahahahahahahahah.

The church according to Alan Ball

Alan Ball is the genius behind some of HBO's biggest hits. His credits include writer/produce of Six Feet Under and True Blood. If you haven't seen these shows - I apologize in advance. These are not "christian" shows. These are not even shows which can be viewed un-edited on basic cable TVs during daylight hours.

Six Feet Under follows a family of undertakers through the lens of the people they are burying. True Blood is about vampires.

I know, I know. It sounds pretty ridiculous, right? It's not. They are amazing shows - well written, filmed, acted, and produced pieces of art that reflect and shape our culture. I hope that my children study the impact Alan Ball left on the world.

I am absolutely fascinated by Alan Ball's treatment of Christianity. Ball is openly gay and grew up in the south. In the wealthy suburbs of Atlanta. Of any American experience - surely his would lead to open hostility to the church.

Let's take True Blood for example:

Yes, some characters are stock religious nuts. Terra's mother, Lettie May, makes Jesus look like a jerk sometimes. And, yet, she is at least a real example. She is a complicated person who would like to make Jesus and the Christian faith an integral part of her life and the lives of those around her. Which of us isn't conflicted ... dare I say, hypocritical ... sometimes?

The "Fellowship of the Sun" is a "church" based on the idea that all Christians should hate vampires. It's full of nuts - and not too loosely based on some televangelist ministries.

But the real surprise is the good and faithful Christians sprinkled throughout the story. There's an old country church in Bon Temps, LA which could hold it's own against any church in history.

The main characters grandmother is a faithful member. She is a loving, caring Christian who ministers to all around her. She raised her grandchildren after their parent's death. She risks the ire of the town to invite Vampire Bill to come and speak at the Bon Temps historical society which meets at the church.

Hoyt Fortenberry is a committed Christian. He stands up to his mother for not following the teachings of Jesus - he calls her out for hating everyone, including Methodists. In one recent scene, a main character, Jason, calls out Hoyt "You're a Christian Hoyt, it ain't cool to judge." after he makes a judgmental comment about a girl. Hoyt waited until he was in love before he had sex (the show hadn't really brought up the possibility of human/vampire marriage at that time) - and he even joined Jessica, his vampire girlfriend, in a synthetic blood substitute beverage to show his love for her. Sex wasn't the expression of love, it was an after effect.

Now, the genius of Alan Ball, and the thing that I appreciate most is that there is a dichotomy between these two groups. There are crazy, ridiculous religious figures and then there are the Christians. There are those who make a mockery out of religion and there are those who follow Christ.

Six Feet Under deals with death. Every episode begins with someone's death. The rest of the episode features the inter-personal relationships of the dysfunctional family who runs the funeral home - through the eyes and life experience of the recently deceased.

Death and religion go hand in hand. This series offered no sanitized views on faith - there was nothing palatable; but it showed real and frank discussion on the topic of religion.

Angry people who hate God for taking their loved ones.

Christian people who couldn't survive without their faith.

The main family, as dysfunctional as any in America, attends church together infrequently. The mother lives out Christianity by trying to find joy in a setting that lacks any sense of joy. Let's just say that they wouldn't play it on the Hallmark Channel. But - it's real. It's an honest look at a (more or less) American family interacting with religion. It isn't the core of who they are - it's a fringe issue in their lives. And, ultimately, viewers get the idea that they might be much happier if they re-prioritized a little bit.

I'm glad that Alan Ball has provided these three things; an honest view of church and how it relates to an average family, specific indicators of what a crazy religious setting would look and feel like, and a tone that creates genuine appreciation for the gentle faith of characters who lead full lives and also happen to be followers of Jesus Christ.

Thank you.

Easy

I would like to start out by saying that I think Jon Stewart is a very funny man. The Daily Show is my greatest source of news (this is true for many people of my generation).

Recently he said this, "Being a Methodist is easy. It’s like the The University of Phoenix of religions: you just send them 50 bucks and click “I agree” and you are saved.”

Now, luckily, I'm a United Methodist so I'm allowed to have a sense of humor. I find this quote very funny. Just like everything else he says.

Just because it hurts doesn't mean it's not funny.

Maybe we've made it too easy to be a United Methodist. Maybe the criticism is accurate. Of any denomination, we're the least likely to take a strong dramatic stance on a hot button issue. Some might consider this a bad thing. But I think it's a good thing. >> Our decades of social justice work have accomplished pretty much every goal we all agreed on. The hot button issues we face today are fringe issues on which the Bible is not incredibly clear.

We believe strongly that God loves all peoples. Even people on the other side of the aisle. We count Hillary Clinton and George W. Bush as members. Dick Cheney is a member, too - and we are a church where both of his daughters would feel comfortable worshiping with their families - traditional or not.

We are a church that believes that God is not always black and white. And we can join hands and rejoice that some of our theology is in a state of gray. A polarized society might find this a huge detractor of the level of our faithfulness; but as a community of Christ followers who vow to live in the tension of the mystery of Christ, I can't imagine any theology being more faithful to God.

I think that religion should be easy. After one of my friends had been proposed to, I asked if saying yes was a hard decision. She said it was the easiest decision she had ever made. I think that religion should be easy.

Jon Stewart's statement is a little ironic, because in the same news cycle, Jon Stewart could have reported on Dan Terry, a United Methodist who found it easy to give his life for the cause of Christ, who died in Afghanistan during a medical aid mission.

Is it easy to be a United Methodist?

You bet. It's the kind of decision, the sort of religion that defines everything else you ever do. It makes every choice you'll ever make easier.

Thank you Mr. Stewart - we'll take your comments into consideration at our next General Conference. I'd nominate you to be a speaker, even! Well, as long as you've checked the box and sent in your check.

Best Commencement speech ever. Ever.

Here I stand :: Erica Goldson

There is a story of a young, but earnest Zen student who approached his teacher, and asked the Master, "If I work very hard and diligently, how long will it take for me to find Zen? The Master thought about this, then replied, "Ten years . ." The student then said, "But what if I work very, very hard and really apply myself to learn fast -- How long then?" Replied the Master, "Well, twenty years." "But, if I really, really work at it, how long then?" asked the student. "Thirty years," replied the Master. "But, I do not understand," said the disappointed student. "At each time that I say I will work harder, you say it will take me longer. Why do you say that?" Replied the Master, "When you have one eye on the goal, you only have one eye on the path."

This is the dilemma I've faced within the American education system. We are so focused on a goal, whether it be passing a test, or graduating as first in the class. However, in this way, we do not really learn. We do whatever it takes to achieve our original objective.

Some of you may be thinking, "Well, if you pass a test, or become valedictorian, didn't you learn something? Well, yes, you learned something, but not all that you could have. Perhaps, you only learned how to memorize names, places, and dates to later on forget in order to clear your mind for the next test. School is not all that it can be. Right now, it is a place for most people to determine that their goal is to get out as soon as possible.

I am now accomplishing that goal. I am graduating. I should look at this as a positive experience, especially being at the top of my class. However, in retrospect, I cannot say that I am any more intelligent than my peers. I can attest that I am only the best at doing what I am told and working the system. Yet, here I stand, and I am supposed to be proud that I have completed this period of indoctrination. I will leave in the fall to go on to the next phase expected of me, in order to receive a paper document that certifies that I am capable of work. But I contest that I am a human being, a thinker, an adventurer - not a worker. A worker is someone who is trapped within repetition - a slave of the system set up before him. But now, I have successfully shown that I was the best slave. I did what I was told to the extreme. While others sat in class and doodled to later become great artists, I sat in class to take notes and become a great test-taker. While others would come to class without their homework done because they were reading about an interest of theirs, I never missed an assignment. While others were creating music and writing lyrics, I decided to do extra credit, even though I never needed it. So, I wonder, why did I even want this position? Sure, I earned it, but what will come of it? When I leave educational institutionalism, will I be successful or forever lost? I have no clue about what I want to do with my life; I have no interests because I saw every subject of study as work, and I excelled at every subject just for the purpose of excelling, not learning. And quite frankly, now I'm scared.

John Taylor Gatto, a retired school teacher and activist critical of compulsory schooling, asserts, "We could encourage the best qualities of youthfulness - curiosity, adventure, resilience, the capacity for surprising insight simply by being more flexible about time, texts, and tests, by introducing kids into truly competent adults, and by giving each student what autonomy he or she needs in order to take a risk every now and then. But we don't do that." Between these cinderblock walls, we are all expected to be the same. We are trained to ace every standardized test, and those who deviate and see light through a different lens are worthless to the scheme of public education, and therefore viewed with contempt.

H. L. Mencken wrote in The American Mercury for April 1924 that the aim of public education is not "to fill the young of the species with knowledge and awaken their intelligence. ... Nothing could be further from the truth. The aim ... is simply to reduce as many individuals as possible to the same safe level, to breed and train a standardized citizenry, to put down dissent and originality. That is its aim in the United States."

To illustrate this idea, doesn't it perturb you to learn about the idea of "critical thinking." Is there really such a thing as "uncritically thinking?" To think is to process information in order to form an opinion. But if we are not critical when processing this information, are we really thinking? Or are we mindlessly accepting other opinions as truth?

This was happening to me, and if it wasn't for the rare occurrence of an avant-garde tenth grade English teacher, Donna Bryan, who allowed me to open my mind and ask questions before accepting textbook doctrine, I would have been doomed. I am now enlightened, but my mind still feels disabled. I must retrain myself and constantly remember how insane this ostensibly sane place really is.

And now here I am in a world guided by fear, a world suppressing the uniqueness that lies inside each of us, a world where we can either acquiesce to the inhuman nonsense of corporatism and materialism or insist on change. We are not enlivened by an educational system that clandestinely sets us up for jobs that could be automated, for work that need not be done, for enslavement without fervency for meaningful achievement. We have no choices in life when money is our motivational force. Our motivational force ought to be passion, but this is lost from the moment we step into a system that trains us, rather than inspires us.

We are more than robotic bookshelves, conditioned to blurt out facts we were taught in school. We are all very special, every human on this planet is so special, so aren't we all deserving of something better, of using our minds for innovation, rather than memorization, for creativity, rather than futile activity, for rumination rather than stagnation? We are not here to get a degree, to then get a job, so we can consume industry-approved placation after placation. There is more, and more still.

The saddest part is that the majority of students don't have the opportunity to reflect as I did. The majority of students are put through the same brainwashing techniques in order to create a complacent labor force working in the interests of large corporations and secretive government, and worst of all, they are completely unaware of it. I will never be able to turn back these 18 years. I can't run away to another country with an education system meant to enlighten rather than condition. This part of my life is over, and I want to make sure that no other child will have his or her potential suppressed by powers meant to exploit and control. We are human beings. We are thinkers, dreamers, explorers, artists, writers, engineers. We are anything we want to be - but only if we have an educational system that supports us rather than holds us down. A tree can grow, but only if its roots are given a healthy foundation.

For those of you out there that must continue to sit in desks and yield to the authoritarian ideologies of instructors, do not be disheartened. You still have the opportunity to stand up, ask questions, be critical, and create your own perspective. Demand a setting that will provide you with intellectual capabilities that allow you to expand your mind instead of directing it. Demand that you be interested in class. Demand that the excuse, "You have to learn this for the test" is not good enough for you. Education is an excellent tool, if used properly, but focus more on learning rather than getting good grades.

For those of you that work within the system that I am condemning, I do not mean to insult; I intend to motivate. You have the power to change the incompetencies of this system. I know that you did not become a teacher or administrator to see your students bored. You cannot accept the authority of the governing bodies that tell you what to teach, how to teach it, and that you will be punished if you do not comply. Our potential is at stake.

For those of you that are now leaving this establishment, I say, do not forget what went on in these classrooms. Do not abandon those that come after you. We are the new future and we are not going to let tradition stand. We will break down the walls of corruption to let a garden of knowledge grow throughout America. Once educated properly, we will have the power to do anything, and best of all, we will only use that power for good, for we will be cultivated and wise. We will not accept anything at face value. We will ask questions, and we will demand truth.

So, here I stand. I am not standing here as valedictorian by myself. I was molded by my environment, by all of my peers who are sitting here watching me. I couldn't have accomplished this without all of you. It was all of you who truly made me the person I am today. It was all of you who were my competition, yet my backbone. In that way, we are all valedictorians.

I am now supposed to say farewell to this institution, those who maintain it, and those who stand with me and behind me, but I hope this farewell is more of a "see you later" when we are all working together to rear a pedagogic movement. But first, let's go get those pieces of paper that tell us that we're smart enough to do so!

[My Hero]

At the hight of the apartheid struggle in South Africa - when white South Africans held all the positions of power and black South Africans appeared to be roundly defeated - Bishop Desmond Tutu stood up in a room full of white men in positions of power. Elected a Bishop in the Anglican church in his 50s he was not allowed to vote in South African politics. He wasn't white. He stood up in front of this room full of voting men and he said, "It's not too late. It's not too late to join the right side."

I don't really have a hero. I have a hero-type. I love people who stand up at the wrong moment and say the right thing.

I love when people say something that makes the room grow silent and cold; when people find themselves in the statement.

This is so much more than a good speaker. It takes a certain person - a certain life - to have the moral authority to speak such words.

The Pharisees were always on Jesus' case about the issue of authority. They wanted an establishment to have granted credibility to this preacher - Jesus had the authority of God, and His life to back that up.

Jimmy Carter had the courage to say that he would rather be a good Christian than a good president.

My Godfather apologized in the middle of a sermon for a joke he had made earlier in the day that, upon reconsideration, was probably a little bit racist. He just stopped mid-sentence and began his apology.

Mother Teresa left no sacred cows unscathed as she tore apart the brutal world after it awarded her its Nobel Peace Prize.

Jonathan Graham Pound stood up to the administration and fought for the rights of students on our campus.

Sophie Scholl smoke, drank, and loved Jesus in the same conversation. She was also a communist. She gave her life trying to topple the Nazis - she confessed her guilt in order to refute the idea that the mentally challenged don't deserve to live.

Corrie Ten Boom shook the hand of an SS guard and offered him the forgiveness of Jesus Christ.

My mother taught me to love these people. Debbie Airgood is shy and reserved. Throughout our childhood she worked tirelessly to insure that my sister and I would not inherit that quality. She taught us to love the Truth and to speak boldly. She laughs some times at the monsters she has created - but deep down she knows that we will leave our mark on the world.


I don't want to have a lot of money.

I don't want a big house.

I hope that I always remain in weird shadows, off the radar, ministering to people who need to know that Jesus Christ loves EVEN them.

But someday I want to stand up and speak words that will change the world.

I want to be my hero.

Last night I went for a walk with a friend from English camp. Yana and her brother Dima are really fun to be around.

We went for a walk.

In Ukraine, going for a walk is a normal activity for friends hanging out. It's even a pleasant date idea. The correct translation of "hang out" in Russian is literally "to walk." We walked for four and a half hours.

We had planned to end with dinner. At hour two it was decided that McDonald's would be a nice end to the evening. I decided on my usual - a hamburger and an ice cream cone. At hour four I supersized to a Big Mac, fries, and a Coca-Cola (with ice!).

When we began to eat, Yana noticed that I didn't pray before eating. At camp we had prayed before every meal, and she was a little surprised that I didn't pray before my meals. I told her, "It's okay - it's easier to ask forgiveness later than to ask permission now.

Any theology that considers smoking cigarettes a sin would be incomplete and insincere if it didn't also include trips to McDonald's as sinful.

We're quick to label things as sinful - as long as their not the things we do. This is odd, primarily because a lot of what we hold quite dear is actually sinful.

Yes, Virginia, prayer chains are just gossip loops.
Yes, the fact that American Idol has the word "idol" in the title should tip us off that Christians shouldn't be flocking to it.
No, you shouldn't live in a house with more bathrooms than people.
No, you shouldn't eat food that kills you (because, like the case against cigarettes, your body is a temple of the Lord).

The real reason I didn't pray before eating at McDonald's is because Jesus taught his disciples to not pray in public or to make a show of their prayers - and perhaps doing so is also a sin.

political in nature

Generally speaking, progressive types tend to shy away from missions. People happen to view missions and missionaries as the prerogative of “holy rollers” and “Bible thumpers.” Usually people of a conservative persuasion are more thoroughly convinced that others must believe exactly as they in order to obtain eternal life.

Conservative missionaries tend to attract conservative people from the host culture. Those people in turn become even more conservative under the influence of the conservative missionary – or at least they find value and reason behind their conservative views.

This has happened all throughout Eurasia. Baptist missionaries targeted Russia and the former soviet countries after the fall of communism. Thousands of conservative Russians became Christians and quickly fell into the mold of conservative Christianity. But, oddly, the missionaries never made any attempt to enculturate the political views – they simply supplanted American political views. We have thousands of Jerry Fallwell conservatives all around Eurasia. It’s really bizarre.

They aren’t opposed to their own politicians – they dislike Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. Even Christians who don’t speak English know that the KJV is a superior translation of the English Bible. Even after leading Evangelicals dismissed the works and finding of Ron Wyatt, an “archeologist” who managed to “prove” almost all of the Old Testament, Christians in this part of the world still cling to his findings.

Now, I’m rather progressive. As useful as titles are, I’m thoroughly Wesleyan but close enough to Mainline Protestant. I’m conservative enough that people say they can “still work with” me, but liberal enough that I make them uncomfortable when people ask me questions on social issues.

First and foremost I try and learn a lesson from the mistakes others have made. I work hard to remind myself that there is no political viewpoint that is as important as the Gospel message. Missionaries should never convey a political opinion with the same gusto and fervor as they do the good news of Jesus Christ.

When I do discuss politics, I try to offer my viewpoint as one possibility. I try to ask questions and offer feedback. I challenge easy answers as often as they are given. I change the subject when confronted with conversations about American politics.

A good case study is GLBT rights. Eurasian Christians have been taught all of the Jerry Fallwell rhetoric on this issue. They know the Focus on the Family Facts. They know that they do not support gay rights and that GLBT people are not welcome in their churches. But our countries, governments, and cultures are at two very different places on this issue – and our churches should react in two very different ways. In our culture, GLBT people are readily accepted and our churches must deal with how we will show loving acceptance and tolerance without showing that we accept their sin. It’s a high wire act for sure. In Eurasian culture, GLBT people face a living hell. Openly gay people are routinely targets of hate crimes. Lesbians are raped with some regularity by men who feel that they “can turn them straight”. These governments offer no protection (and some former soviet states were still executing homosexuals well into the 1990s!), no rights, and no equality. The churches here face a very different side of the issue and should respond very differently. The church here has an amazing opportunity to be on the forefront of a movement calling for greater human rights for an oppressed minority. But, sadly, we taught them to view the issue through the lens of our American political situation.

Often when discussing politics, I tend to overcompensate.

It disgusts me that missionaries who entered after the Cold War have taught a new generation of Christians that war is good and profitable. This is one “political” topic which I make no bones about sharing. I routinely remind those around me that it is because of my Christian belief that I am strongly opposed to war.
Ultimately I feel that Christian belief should transform the way in which people view politics. We should have the full realization that political thought pales in comparison with the richness of Jesus Christ and is but a small facet of the diamond that is Christianity. A flat side of a diamond can’t cut glass – you need an edge where several sides come together to form a point in order to cut glass. If our religion is really supposed to transform cultures, politics will play a small but important part.

I was having a discussion with a progressive friend here in Ukraine. She asked me if my Christian friends here would accept and welcome her. I would hate to sell my friends short, but I don’t think they would. They have been taught one (extremely-politicized) angle of Christianity and they would probably reject her based on that viewpoint.

As a missionary who happens to be a progressive Christian, I feel a very strong sense of call to reach out to those on the other side of the aisle. I’m here to let progressive people know that Jesus came for them, too. Jesus lived and died for all people, regardless of political persuasion. And the churches we leave behind should follow to Golgotha and also show no regard for political persuasion.

Sometimes the fear paralyzes my courage.

Their arms, scarred unfathomably deep, remind me that I have lived a life of privilege. I have slept outside only for the fun of it. Only after purchasing expensive equipment to do so safely. I can count the number of nights I have lived in transition; always from one bed to another. I have never known a night without a promise of morning.

My greatest fear is that my heart will grow hard - that their pain will become routine. That I will stop noticing the scars. But perhaps that is all they want.

Maybe they are counting on my courage to kick in and for me to see them as normal.

It seems I can't ever find enough down time to write all the things I want to write. And that when I do have down time, I can't think of the things I have thought to write.

When I was at my college, it seemed that no one could find a pastor who preached a good sermon. The sermons weren't exegetical enough - "He only tells stories" - or they were too boring - "It wouldn't kill him to tell a joke every now and then" - or anything else on the list of complaints.

I was quite critical of my pastors' sermons. This was a reflection of my theological education. There's something about learning the Bible that makes you feel vastly superior to everyone else.

Now I feel differently. I feel that a pastor who cares about his or her congregation really can't preach a bad sermon. A caring pastor might not hit the needs of every member ever week - but he or she will work to meet the needs of the people through the spoken word. And ultimately, I think that's all that matters.

I preach somewhat regularly at Youth to Jesus. I enjoy this role. It's a creative outlet - it's difficult, but in a good way.

I imagine my college peers would feel that my sermons aren't exegetical enough (meaning that I don't go through and explain the Greek word by word and explain every custom of the Hebrew people to extract the exact meaning as originally given) (but, I mean ... I've read Jesus' sermons and it seems to me that he told a lot of stories, too)

I think that some pastors are really great public speakers. And good for them. But, I don't think that should be understood to make them great pastors. Fancy words don't make a pastor great.

Our lives are the sermons we preach most often. I would rather have a pastor who consistently preaches 5s and 6s from the pulpit, but knocks it out of the ballpark with 9s and 10s in daily life sermons.

Healing

My hand suffered a small cut on December 5, 2009. It was a big day and the cut was an insignificant part of it. The cut happened to be only a centimeter or two, but it took months to heal. The emotional damage of that day was significantly more severe - and I don't know how long it will take to heal.

Goodbyes hurt for a lifetime. While my cut was still scabbing over in March, it eventually healed and only left a small scar. I don't know if the rest of me will be so lucky.

An old man was once telling me about his wife. She had died years before, but he described her and his love for her in such words that it seemed that she had passed during the night and the ambulance was still sitting in the driveway.

It's safe to assume that goodbyes don't get easier with age. Just more numerous.

Dad told me that I had to talk louder. I was already yelling, but dad told me that I had to yell louder. I didn't understand, because Aunt Carol wasn't hard of hearing. Only a few weeks before I had shared the joke [How do you make a hanky dance? You put a little boogie in it!] with her. She had shared it with everyone at the hospital. Staff and other patients. She told us about one patient who had escaped from the cancer ward to go drink at a local bar. It was clear from her description of his shots that she may have also escaped for a few drinks. And when she wanted a hug I refused because I was scared. She had so many machines hooked up to her and she was screaming to be heard. I was only 8. I never said goodbye.

[What's harder than saying goodbye? Not saying goodbye!]

Sermon July 15th

Mary and Martha.
Luke 9:38 - 42 As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!"
"Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her."


We enter into a situation of sibling rivalry in our story today. We find ourselves with Jesus seeing an all too common side of human life. There were other sibling rivalries in the Bible – Cain and Able, Jacob and Esau – and they didn’t end so well. We enter the lives and we think we know the story – we think we have lived this story.

My sister and I are four years apart. When we were in school my sister was perfect. I say this not out of spite or in exaggeration, but simply as a fact. It’s _____ insert current weather______ outside today and my sister was perfect. My sister was a natural leader and an obvious teacher’s pet. She would grow up to be a doctor, and her academic resume reflect her future career path. She visited teaching hospitals throughout High School and sang and played her instrument in regional competitions.

I was not perfect. I was awkwardly shaped and couldn’t do many things well. I wasn’t a leader. I didn’t like school and my teachers knew it. I didn’t play an instrument well and I didn’t sing well yet. I did my own thing. I was artsy and thought outside of the box.

It was sometimes a miserable experience to grow up in the shadow of my big sister. I can’t count the times teachers explained to me how much smarter my sister was and how much better she was.

When I read today’s story I immediately tense up. He visited “Martha’s home.” Not the home of Mary and Martha … or even the home of Martha and Mary … but the home of Martha.

We find value in busyness. In offices we jokingly "look busy" when the boss walks through the room. Martha is a busy person. As head of the household it is her responsibility to ensure that everyone is healthy, happy, and well fed. There is always a roast in the oven and dishes to be done. Martha feels as though she simply can't get ahead.

I dislike all repetitive tasks. I always try to get out of doing dishes. Washing, hanging, and folding laundry is tedious. Making my bed is pointless. The same dishes will be dirty and stacked in the sink tomorrow, the clothes will just get dirty again, and no one will see my neatly pressed sheets before I mess them up again the next night.

I tell people that I hate doing these things because I'm a boy - but I think it goes deeper than that. I think I'm a Mary person.

Perhaps the whole world can be broken down into Martha people and Mary people.

We don’t value Mary people the way we should

Mary was an afterthought. Mary could never measure up to her big sister. Perhaps she was a little lazy and maybe not as bright or put together as her sister.
Maybe Mary was all of these things – but at least she had her priorities straight. When she was interested or intrigued she followed her gut. When Jesus of Nazareth came through Mary realized that the dishes in the sink didn’t matter.
Jesus had just come from teaching. He had been out and about and a religious leader asks “Who is my neighbor.” He tells the story of the good Samaritan. In the familiar story, 2 good people pass by one of their own and only the last, a political enemy stops to help the injured man. In David’s telling of the story, the Russian politician is the one who shows mercy.

The question is aked - who is my neighbor? Whom do I have to love? And Jesus resoundly answers … EVERYONE.

And in this setting, the all too familiar setting of sibling rivalry, the question is posed again - whom do I have to love? EVERYONE, even your sister. How often do I have to love? ALWAYS.

As a Christian, I need to love everyone. Even my perfect sister.

They say that sharing your faith with a family member is hardest. Witnessing to a stranger on the street is SO much easier than telling a family member that Jesus loves them. I think that Christians sometimes do street evangelism because they’re too scared to share real life with people.

I was taught once that if you have a hard time telling others about Jesus that you should look at yourself in the mirror. Say, Michael, I love you, and Jesus does too.

The gospel transitions from the abstract to the concrete. Whom do I have to love? “my neighbor”
Ok … what does that mean …. A political enemy and a perfect sister. Yep. Got it.
… How often do I have to love? Always.

I always read this story as though Martha finally got what she had coming. Final vindication for all the awards and diplomas my sister had earned.

I read the story wrong.

Jesus isn’t putting Martha down – he’s lifting Mary up. He’s teaching them to love one another and making them equals. I believe he’s teaching Martha to learn from Mary and Mary to learn from Martha. He’s teaching them to not jockey for position as leader; but to walk side by side – hand in hand as friends.

We see these sisters later on in the Jesus narrative and they are described as inseparable friends. They learned their lesson and began to love one another.
In college my sister stopped being so perfect and I grew up a whole bunch. Jesus has taught us to learn from each other and to walk side by side. I’m not in my sister’s shadow and she’s not in mine.

Some people see this story as an admonition that it’s better to sing praise hymns than to wash dishes. I don’t believe this is the case. Jesus doesn't speak out against the Martha people. Jesus speaks out against trying to change others to fit our mold.

Jesus commends Mary because she has lovingly accepted her sister for who she is. We all show love in different ways – Martha showed love by preparing the house and Mary showed loved by sitting and listening to Jesus – but Mary showed love to her sister by humbly accepting Martha for who she was. Martha had to take that step and accept her sister for who she was.

When we love others we accept who they are. We love our roommates even though they snore at night. We love our friends even though they do so many weird things. We love our families even though they are a little crazy. We love our sister even though she’s perfect.

Jesus doesn't want us to make people more like US - he wants us to make people more like HIM.

This is the essence of the Gospel message. Love God, Love others. Love your brother, love a commie pinko, hug a hippy, share a meal with a stranger, live with less and give the rest away, worship God daily. This is the core of the message.

Do you know that you are the Gospel?

You are the good news of Jesus Christ living in a sad world hungry for something more. Our lives open the Bible to thousands who will never crack the cover. To a hungry man, bread is good news. To a world that has never experienced unconditional love, your kindness is good news. You are the Gospel. You are the proof that Jesus rose from the dead 2000 years ago. Your life of loving service proves His divinity.

Go into all the world and love – even when it’s hard.

In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

[Get creative!]

"...creative people, for the most part, exhibit active moods and positive affect. They’re not particularly happy — contentment is a kind of complacency creative people rarely have. But they’re engaged, motivated, and open to the world." - Newsweek, The Creativity Crisis - Bronson and Merryman

I'm a creative person. Hundreds of ideas swirl inside my mind during any second.

I feel that this makes me superior to you.

Rather, I feel that creative people are superior to non-creative people. I imagine that some of you are also creative.



I was sometimes punished for being creative.

Math classes were always boring. Once, I decided to create my own method of solving one type of problems. While my answers were correct, the work was different than everyone else. The teacher failed me for cheating. My mother took the test in to the teacher to show that I had arrived at the answers in a different way - and couldn't possibly have cheated. The teacher yelled at my mother for teaching me at home. I now realize that I had incredible potential in math and science, but that the education system failed me.

Every time I walk into a room I immediately see 10 ways in which the experience of the room could be improved. Churches drive me crazy because they lack creativity and I just sit and think of hundreds of improvements.

I live with other creative people. Our walls should be made of white-board so that we could write down all of our creative ideas. We use scraps of used paper. Sometimes our ideas are even too bizarre for each other. Sometimes I wonder if we are brilliantly creative or insane. One of my flat-mates designed a super-high ant hill this week.

I scrap most of my blog ideas because they are too "out-there." I hate the fact that I have to constantly reign in my creativity.

I'm constantly frustrated that I can't articulate my ideas. Not even that I have to censor myself, but that my artistic capabilities simply don't match up with my creative potential. I don't write well enough to capture the stories in my mind. I can't draw the pictures I see.

I'm a happy person by nature - but I'll never be content. I've never been anywhere I didn't want to leave eventually. I've never had a job that fulfilled me as a person or that satisfied my need to create.

Sometimes I'm incredibly happy and terribly depressed at the same time. I lack contentment because I have creativity in spades.

So maybe I'll help my flat-mate build his ant hill. Perhaps I'll have the dirt-moving skills to build it really high and really great. Maybe it will make me happy and maybe I'll be content. Maybe it will be our masterpiece.

perhaps the human spirit cannot be broken