The Fisherman's Pentecost

Texts: I Kings 19:9-18 and Matthew 14:22-33

So, I have a confession to make. I don’t know much about fishing or being on a boat. Which is a little sad, since my family has a history of maritime adventures—my grandfather served in the merchant marines during WWII, my dad built ships after he got out of the Coast Guard and my aunt spent 15 years living on a boat and running a seafood business. Me? I’ve never been on anything bigger than a canoe or a little motor boat on a very small, very quiet lake.

I’ve never been in a storm on a boat.

 Did you notice that all of our texts this morning are in the middle of storms/ Elijah stands on a lonely mountain, hiding for his life, in the middle of a storm and an earthquake. And Jesus, Jesus, is walking on water in the middle of a storm.

We haven’t had much stormy weather lately. Except that our world is full of it. I cannot but notice that the news these past few weeks is full of dire news. I feel bombarded with stories of death and tragedy and war. In Aberdeen, in my ministry, I hear stories of tragedy constantly. I hear about missing children and suicide, desperation and loss—the storm of being caught between lack of adequate jobs and deep, grinding poverty. I toured Olympia yesterday and heard the same stories of people struggling to survive in our communities.

And, this past few weeks, we hear of hundreds, thousands dead in Gaza—caught between a powerful army and overcrowded desperation. Because I have worked in many immigrant congregations, I can’t help but hear the stories of the thousands of children fleeing across our southern borders —caught between economic devastation, the intense violence of their homelands, and US border policy.  Everywhere, there are storms. Everywhere, the clouds seem ready to block out the sun, and we see pain and despair and struggle of people forced to flee, forced to live in economic struggle, forced to watch loved ones die. Forced to do so by those more powerful than they are. Unable to stand up against a world where jobs are hard to find, or armies are powerful, or gangs have taken over.

Did you notice something else about our texts? Into each of the storms in our text, God walks in. Elijah stands in the desert on his lonely mountain, sent into hiding for speaking the truth. He is grieving the deaths of those killed by the king of Israel. Ahab was an abusive king, a man who robbed the people of Israel of land and life. Elijah is at the end of his rope. He is vaguely suicidal—only a few verses before, he begs God to let him die. The storms are too much.

And God comes to him in a still small voice. And gives him hope and courage and a promise for the future.

And Jesus. Our text begins as Jesus sits alone on a hillside, praying. Grieving too; he has just received word that Herod has executed John the Baptizer. In a drunken party, the king had ordered John’s death. John had spoken truth to power too and now he was dead. Perhaps Jesus was thinking about himself too—he must have known that his ministry will not end well or peacefully either. He must have known that he too might die quite soon. I imagine Jesus too was grieving. And it was in his own grief, he walks out on the storm of the Sea of Galilee.

The disciples see Jesus walking on water and they imagine he is a ghost, some thing of legend or folklore.

God walks in as the storm threatens to overwhelm his people. It is the disciple’s baptism. Or, as Irene Martin says, this is the Fisherman’s Pentecost—the time when the Spirit is revealed to them in power and they see God in power.

It is a demonstration of power.

Power over the sea, power greater than Rome, than Herod, power greater than the worst enemy his disciples can imagine.

It is that power that gives God’s people hope.

It is that same power that rescues Noah and his family in the ark and rescues the ancient people of Israel from Egypt and from slavery when they cross the Red Sea. That same power that gives freedom and liberation.

It is that power that gives us hope. Today, in the middle of the Pentecost season, it is our Pentecost.

How many storms have you endured in your life? Or are you in the middle of a storm right now? Of loss of those you love? of ill health, of trying to find a job or pay the rent, of dealing with a loved one you just can’t quite reach, or of confronting injustice? Are you looking for Pentecost, for the coming of the Spirit of God in your life and your community?

Today, when I think of the children on the border, or in Gaza, or in Aberdeen, I shudder at how powerless they are. How powerless we find ourselves so often. How powerless our communities can be, as I look at so many storms in our world, storms that threaten to break us apart, storms that kill so many—from Aberdeen to Gaza, from Honduras to Lacey and Olympia.

And I think too of Peter, amazed to find Jesus on the water, who jumps out of the boat. Now, I might not have too much experience in these matters, but jumping out of the boat in the middle of a storm really, really does not seem like the smartest move. I mean, Peter has fished his whole life, right? And now he jumps OUT of the boat?

The moment that strikes me the most, however, is when Peter, realizing his monumental mistake, reaches out for Jesus’ hand.

The hand of his grieving, tired, wounded healer. And they get into the boat together.

In the middle of our storms, we still take Jesus’ hand and we face down, together as a community, a world that seems to grow more dangerous and more uncertain and more difficult.

As I toured Olympia yesterday, I was privileged to visit Quixote Village. Back when I was a student here in Olympia Quixote was a tent city, moving from church parking lot to church parking lot. Now, this community has designed about 30 homes in community. The folks I met yesterday were eager to give me a tour of the homes they designed and the flowers and the gardens they have planted. As I looked around and heard these stories, I could not help but think—this is Pentecost. That they, together, as a community, have faced down the powerful forces against them—job loss, homelessness, an economic crisis, and a world that does not value them. They have claimed the power of the Spirit of God. This is Pentecost.

We may not always be saved from the difficulties and storms of life. But we can claim the power of Jesus, the power of Pentecost and live in light of that. In the face of Ahab, in the face of Herod, in the face of Caesar, in the face of Hamas and Israel, in the face of the Honduran federal police and their gangs, in the face of all that threatens to overwhelm and destroy God’s people.

We can claim the power that Jesus gives us—the power that lets Peter, if only for a moment, walk on water, holding Jesus’ hand.

When we feel powerless, we can hold on to Jesus’ hand, we can remember a promised kingdom, where justice is found.

I remember that old hymn that I sung all the time as a kid;

Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on, let me stand

I am tired, I am weary, I am worn.

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on, to the light.

Take my hand, Precious Lord, lead me home.

Home to God, home to the kingdom of God, home to a safe shore, home where all are loved and protected, home where Gazans and Hondurans, Mexicans and Aberdonians, Olympians and Laceyites, were all the oppressed and the tired and the powerless find freedom together in the kingdom Jesus promises…

That, my friends, is the call of the Fisherman’s Pentecost.

Rejecting the Shame

 So, I talk a lot about the need for the church to both recognize its working class and poor members and to actively build worshipping community in working class and poor communities. I always root this call in personal experience, as a person who grew up in and remains deeply connected to working class and poor communities.

Today, however, I’m going to get a little more personal. I talk every day to people who are struggling. Who are living with parents or kicked out by parents or couch surfing with family members. Who are living on the streets or sleeping in cars. Who have lost jobs and end up losing homes. Who have never worked a steady job because they have grown up in a community where steady jobs are hard to find.

I talk a lot about that.

But I don’t always talk about me. My life. My experience.

Partly because I don’t want to appear as if I am begging for sympathy. I’m not. I’m not sorry for myself that I’ve experienced poverty and I don’t want you to be either.

The other reason, though—is more insidious. It is shame.

If I admit that almost all the jobs I have ever worked have paid minimum wage, will you think I am unambitious?

If I admit that I have lived with family members for several years of my adult life, will you think less of me? Will you think of me as a failure?

If I tell about my years in seminary, when I’d skip more meals than I could count (especially if my meal card was getting low) and visit academic book signings just for the free food, will you laugh?

If I mention that my shoes often wore out before I had money to replace them—will you think of me as “poor white trash”?

If I tell you I finally quit my multiple jobs in seminary because I got myself so sick I could hardly stay awake, will you call me lazy? I still got great grades. But I nearly destroyed my health—mental and physical.

Some of these stories are still tender.

I write about this, because I want to write about shame. I want to fling my story in the face of shame.

I’ve got funny stories too. The apartment I rented dirt cheap. I came home from my diaconal ordination to a sink overflowing with sewage. Because, apparently, the cheap apartment plumbing was such that when my neighbor turned on their garbage disposal, it forced sewage up my pipes. I was mad as hell then, but I laugh now. Then there was the kindly church custodian who would let me sneak in the church after hours when I didn’t have anywhere to stay. I’d always be up and gone (after washing my hair in the sink) before anyone caught me. Man, people, I have stories!

I also have family members who have been homeless. I have friends and family who have spent years couch surfing or have moved back with parents or been foreclosed on or who can’t find a decent job (by this I mean I job that will actually pay enough to cover food, shelter, and clothing).

It sucks being poor.

Our culture teaches us to turn that inward. Its my fault. I didn’t work hard enough, I didn’t plan well for the future, I did something wrong.

If we turn our anger inward, if we allow ourselves to be ashamed, then that keeps us from seeking—from claiming our collective liberation.

So, all you out there who are 25 and 30 and 40 and have moved back home. Who have lost your home. Who have lost your job. Who have to go back to work after retirement because you can't afford not to work. Who don't make enough money to buy the good food or rent a decent place. Who are too tired after working multiple jobs to do anything but watch TV. Who are angry with yourself for not being able to work that third job and still take care of the kids. Who are trying to go to college and to work and to still scrape enough money to feed yourself at McDonalds. Who cringe when you stand in line with food stamps or WIC vouchers. Who live in that damn trailer parked in your friend’s driveway.

Stop. The. Shame. Stop blaming yourselves. Stop asking over and over what you did wrong.

The reasons that more and more of us our poor has nothing to do with our lack of work ethic or our poor planning.

We are in this together. And if anything is going to change in this nation of ours or this world of ours, it is going to be because all of us come together and reject the shame. And instead claim our dignity and our worth. And fight for it.

Thoughts on a Parable

Matthew 13:34-30, 36-43
The Parable of the Weeds and Wheat

I am fascinated by the Bible’s reflections on the land. This is partly true because I grew up on a small farm here in the northwest and I learned very early to love and to respect the land. I think that is true for a lot of us, whether or not we farm, here in the Northwest. This is a land of great beauty and, whether we have lived here for a long time or for a sort time, I think most of us feel deeply connected to creation here, to this place.

Jesus, too, in the parables that we are reading in this section of the lectionary, speaks often about the land and the people who work it. His stories are all about planting and harvesting, buying fields, and fishing. Jesus wanders through Galilee, the place he grew up, preaching from village to village to a bunch of farmers and fisherfolk about the kingdom of God.

In our gospel this morning, Jesus is continuing his series of parables. This chapter, chapter 13, in Matthew, is sometimes referred to as the Sermon by the Lake, because Jesus sits in a little boat on the sea of Galilee and preaches to the crowd that has gathered on the shore. Telling a series of stories.

He tells a story of a landowner whose slaves plant a field and tend to it, and then they find that weeds are growing up along with the wheat in great abundance. Finding that a rival has ruined his field, has ruined his crop, the man orders his slaves to wait until the harvest. He tells them to salvage what he can and burn the rest.

It is important when reading this story, to recognize the social context in which Jesus is speaking.

Under the Roman Empire, the old Jewish law of land distribution was no longer in effect. Land that once belonged to the people, once were small family farms, was taken over by the empire. They did this in several ways: Through conquest and heavy taxation, which would lead to debt slavery (for example, during the time of Jesus, Herod the Great collected 30% of the grain crop and 50% of the fruit and grapes), the majority of the land becomes the property of an elite group of slave owners and landholders. One of the deepest roots of injustice in Galilee was this—people went hungry, people were forced to sell themselves or their children into debt slavery, people were deeply impoverished, in a land of plenty.

Most of the people listening to Jesus probably worked as tenant farmers—sharecroppers—or even as debt slaves of this small elite group. So they knew what Jesus was talking about when he told this story. Jesus himself is a poor artisan, a craftsman—he also would not have access to land.

Now, Jesus has already proclaimed his opposition to this system of landholding that was so prevalent. Jesus is speaking in a long tradition of Hebrew prophets like 1^st Isaiah, like Jeremiah, who talk about using the land justly, and in a long tradition of Jewish teaching. During the time of Jesus, there were many people talking about the Kingdom of God and what it meant. There are a series of books written about the time of Jesus called the books of Enoch that talk in great depth about the kingdom of God and the judgment of God on these landholders, and on the religious and political leaders that made this system possible. Jesus, in the Sermon on the Mount, makes this stunning statement; “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.” That is, in God’s kingdom, the land belongs to you—the slaves, the poor, the peasant sharecroppers. In Luke, as he quotes the prophet Isaiah in Luke 4, he proclaims that part of his mission will be freeing debt slaves.

Jesus represents himself as the sower of the seed in this passage; he is not quite clear, but he might even be representing himself as one of the slaves that sows the seed. But he also claims the title Son of Man, a messianic title. He is the judge and speaks for the God who truly owns all land. And all the causes of sin and all those who oppress God’s people—against these things, Jesus enters into judgment. This is not some parable where Jesus says if you don’t believe the right thing or behave a certain way, you will go to hell. Not at all. It is simply Jesus promising the struggling men and women of Galilee that the kingdom of the world, that the Roman empire, would end—even if it felt that it never would— and God would judge those who enslaved them.

The Sermon on the Lake

Text: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

This past week, I lost a dear friend of mine, a priest in this diocese, Carol Ludden. She died after a long struggle with brain cancer. She was many things—a dear friend, a mentor. She was also one of the first priests in this diocese to dedicate her ministry to working on the streets.

She spent part of her time in Nicaragua, where she worked with small Christian communities there. She introduced me to the story of the community of Solentiname. Solentiname was a small village on an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua and in the 1970s, the priest there started a Bible study. Every Sunday, the campesinos would gather together by the shores of the island and read the gospel together. They would ask what the gospel was saying to them, what the word of God meant for them. Years later, after the community was destroyed by their government during Nicaragua’s civil war, the notes from these Bible studies were published as a book called “The Gospel in Solentiname.” It’s a book I use often for sermon writing.

The premise of that study--and of the book as well-- is that the campesinos of Solentiname were just as qualified and just as called to read and to interpret the Bible as a seminary professor at Yale. That is, that every single one of us is called to ask what the Bible means for our time and place--in community. I, as the trained and (now) paid professional, am not the person who gets to tell all of you what the Bible means. We have to do that together, all of us, in community.

So, to the passage that we read this morning. Just a little background. We are beginning Matthew Chapter 13, at the height of Jesus' ministry in Galilee. You have heard of the Sermon on the Mount, earlier in Matthew's gospel? Well, this is the Sermon by the Lake. And this sermon is a series of wise stories, actually--what we call parables. They are really like folktales or folk stories.

Two things strike me about this passage:

First, who Jesus hangs out with. He sometimes talks with the religious leaders and debates the finer points of the law, but he really doesn't spend much time in those circles. Jesus hangs out instead with the peasants, the fisherfolk, the small farmers--the ordinary people--of Galilee. And, of course, Jesus is a peasant himself, right? He is a peasant Rabbi of peasants, as I heard someone say this week.

Second, what Jesus talks about. Jesus doesn't go on long tangents about important, weighty theological matters. Jesus doesn't try to sound educated and smart. He sits down by the side of the lake and says; "Hey, you know, there was this farmer who wanted to plant a field...." He talks about ordinary things in ordinary life.

He talks about planting fields and fishing, about the land people lived and worked. About housecleaning. About trying to save up enough to buy a field to support your family. About looking for jobs. About desperate women begging a judge for justice. About a landlord who cheated all these people. About everyday life and its struggles.

WHY? Because--and listen carefully to this--the kingdom of God is concerned with the value and worth of ordinary people and with the importance of ordinary things. Jesus is not spending a lot of time talking about a faraway heaven somewhere and telling people to focus on higher, mysterious things. Jesus cares about everyday life for everyday people. Because that is where the kingdom of God happens.

Let me say it again. The kingdom of God is concerned with the value and worth of ordinary people and with the importance of ordinary things.

And, with this, Jesus tells a story. And Matthew gives us an interpretation of this story. Jesus has been travelling around the towns and villages of Galilee, he is at the height of his ministry, and he says-- you know, my work is a little like planting a field. Any of us who have planted a garden or a field or even a lawn know a little about this. I wander around these towns and villages and I preach about the kingdom of God. I say; "The kingdom of heaven is at hand." And sometimes--you know how it is, when you are planting a lawn and the some of the seed you are broadcasting hits the gravel road or the path? Sometimes people just don't want to listen and go on their way.

Sometimes people get really excited about what I say and then they get scared. Lets not forget--just thirteen chapters down the road, Jesus is arrested and executed for what he is saying. Some people are scared of being associated with Jesus. When Jesus preaches that every single person has dignity, that ordinary people are children of God, this challenges the empire. It is hard to keep people slaves when they believe that have dignity and worth.

And sometimes, you know how it is, the thistle and the dock and the darn dandelions grow faster than the grass? Sometimes people are excited, until they realize what the kingdom will cost them. When they are told they have dignity, that's great (we all love that!), but when they are told that other people do too, that is a different story.

People made money off treating people poorly. The tax collectors, at least some of them in the gospels, collect toll taxes for the Romans and often extorted extra money from the people and some people got pretty darn wealthy doing it. Landowners oppressed those working the land, people they believed to be less than they were. The kingdom of God, for some people, meant they had to live differently. For some people, it was bad for business.

But, for the rest, the soil was good. They heard this word of God--this word that every one of us, that ordinary people, had worth and value--that their ordinary lives were important--that the kingdom of heaven was lived by ordinary people doing ordinary things. And they were glad.

That's the story.

So, I have a question for you. Today, in Aberdeen, WA, in the year 2014, in this community, in this time and place--what does the gospel mean for us? What does it mean for us to hear Jesus' message; "The kingdom of God is at hand"?

I'd bet that those three challenges are still in our way. Some of us maybe are too busy to answer that question-- I certainly have been there. Or maybe not interested.

Some of us are afraid of what it might mean to claim our dignity. To stand up and say; "I am a person of value." For some of us, that is a hard thing to do. It can make other people angry at us, even. Its a scary thing.

Some of us are ok with saying WE have dignity--but we struggle when it means that other people in our lives and communities have equal dignity. We are taught in our society to look after #1 above all. That anything is justified as long as we get ahead. But the gospel challenges our culture. Maybe it means our relationships have to change or how we relate to the world and the people around us must change. It might even be bad for business.

So, again. What does the gospel mean for us today, here and now in this place? I cannot answer that question, not alone. We have to answer it together, as a community. I will ask it this afternoon. You all know about my ministry under the bridge and this afternoon, we will start a small Bible study with a group of people, asking just this question. And we all need to ask it. We all need to find ways to answer it, in community.

I leave you with that question. Today, in Aberdeen, WA, in 2014, what does it mean that; "The kingdom of God is at hand?"

That is our work. We all, together, must answer that question.

Before I'd Be a Slave

Text: Matthew 10:28

“Whoever does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

These are hard words, are they not?

I think we often misinterpret them. The first thing we should keep in mind is that Jesus’ talk about a cross is literal.

Jesus's words are not meant to be symbolic. Not meant to represent our everyday life burdens. Jesus is not talking about staying in a bad situation or a bad marriage and accepting our suffering.

Jesus is not glorifying suffering. Jesus is not telling us to be happy in suffering.

Jesus is not telling us to keep our head down and take whatever comes to us with grace. All these different ways we have interpreted this passage—that is not Jesus’ point.

A cross was, quite simply for Jesus and for everyone who was listening to him, a symbol of execution. Today, we might say the “electric chair.”

What Jesus is asking is—

What are you willing to die for?

That, my friends, is a scary question.

I took the title of my sermon from an old gospel spiritual:

Oh, freedom, Oh, freedom,
Oh freedom over me.
And before I`d be a slave
I`d be buried in my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free.

"Before I'd be a slave, I'd be buried in my grave." Willing to die for freedom. We have a long tradition in our history—as a church and as a nation too—for being willing even to lay down our lives to be free. We often quote the words from Patrick Henry: “Give me liberty or give me death.” Harriet Tubman, that courageous woman who led dozens of people out of slavery 150 years ago in our country, said; "I had reasoned this out in my mind; there was one of two things I had a right to, liberty, or death… I should fight for my liberty as long as my strength lasted."

Harriet's words are rooted in the message of Jesus.  “I have come,” remember those words Jesus says in Luke 4, “to proclaim liberty, to proclaim freedom to the oppressed.” To give us freedom. Soul freedom. The knowledge deep within ourselves that no matter what anyone said or did to us, we would know that God loved us and that God was on our side. Actual freedom too. Freedom from oppression and slavery and poverty.

So, what are we willing to die for?

When I read these words, as I’ve prayed on these words, I think of how we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. A cloud of people, of ordinary everyday people like you and me, in our history who were willing to die for Jesus and for Jesus’ message.

I think of Harriet Tubman again. A woman who was born a slave in the American south and was determined to be free, because she knew that she was a child of God and she was determined to demand her dignity and her freedom. But she didn’t just work for her own freedom. She operated the underground railroad, leading her friends and family to freedom out of slavery, risking her life over and over for the freedom of her people. She was called the Moses of her people.

“Before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave.”

I think of the words of Martin Luther King Jr, who said; “I choose to identify with the underprivileged. I choose to identify with the poor. I choose to give my life for the hungry. I choose to give my life for those who have been left out of the sunlight of opportunity. This is the way I’m going. If it means suffering a little bit, I’m going that way. If it means sacrificing, I’m going that way. If it means dying for them, I’m going that way.” And he did, didn’t he?

I think too of a whole host of ordinary men and women who have been committed to Jesus mission. Have you ever heard of John Wycliffe? In England, hundreds of years before the printing press, a group of young preachers under Wycliffe transcribed the Bible and they travelled, like Jesus’ disciples, from town to town and village to village, reading people the Bible. Telling them, these thousands of serfs and peasants, living in unimaginable poverty and under unimaginable oppression, that they were loved of God. Telling them that they were people of dignity and worth. Many of these young preachers were persecuted and executed, especially as people began to rise up and demand their liberty.

“Before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave.”

You’ve seen the pictures from Brazil and the protests around the world cup? Well, this protest has been led in part by a group called Movement of Homeless Workers. This group had its root in several movements that began several decades ago, when men and women around Brazil started reading their Bibles together and asking questions. About what it meant to be free. About what it meant to claim their dignity as children of God.

“Before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave.”  

So, what are we willing to die for?

It has been said that only those who know what they would die for know what they are really living for.

In our world—in this time and this place—what are we willing to die for?

We live again in a world growing increasingly dark. In a world increasingly struggling. In a world where people don’t always have enough to eat or a place to sleep and many of us are only a paycheck away from that.

Are we willing to take up Jesus’ message of good news—of freedom for the oppressed?

Are we willing to stand on the side of our friends and neighbors who are struggling?

Are we willing to ask what freedom would look for us now? To do what those English peasants and those Brazilian groups did—to read our Bibles together, to read the gospel together—and then act on it? Claim our dignity and the dignity of our neighbors?

If we know what we are willing to die for, my brothers and sisters, we will know what we should be living for.

Dancing with the Trinity

Texts: Genesis 1; Matthew 28:16-20

So, its Trinity Sunday. A few of you facebooked me and joked that I should explain the Trinity to you all this morning. So I’m going to start off with an apology. I won’t be explaining the Trinity this morning.

But, I am going to talk about what I think is important about the Trinity. Why I think its important to our understanding of our faith.

In our first reading, we read that beautiful poem, the first account in the Bible of creation, of God creating the heavens and earth. When we read that great poem, I think that we are conditioned to think of God is a certain way. As some king in the sky, who is creating and orchestrating everything. “You, tree, go there.” “You, human, go there.” Whoops, time for a storm. God as acting alone, some sovereign deity pushing buttons in the sky.

There is another way to think of God, and the Trinity helps us with that. In the Trinity, God is not alone; God exists in relationship. God exists in relationship, between Father, Son, Holy Spirit, between Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer, existing in all of life.

There’s a great big Greek word early church theologians used for the relationship of the Trinity: Perichoresis. It’s a word that can mean a lot of things, but I like to think of it as “a big hug”. Or it can mean a dance.

It is my favorite metaphor for the Trinity: a dance! Its funny, because I can’t dance and I’ve got too left feed. But I love the idea that Pentecost is an invitation for us to take the hand of Jesus, of God, of the Spirit, and dance! It’s the dance of life—the dance of abundant life —that we are invited into. The dance into a restored creation.

So, in light of this idea, lets look at our gospel text for this morning.

Jesus, in this very final passage of the gospel of Matthew, is saying goodbye to his disciples. He’s come home, to Galilee, and he is giving his closest disciples his last farewell. He shows up with a command and with a promise.

There is the command first. “Go, make disciples of all nations.” Invite other people to follow me, baptize them, and build a movement. Invite everyone to join us, to join God, to join Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in a divine dance. And what kind of dance is this?

The Jesus Movement started in Galilee with a bunch of tired out farmers and fishermen and tax collectors. Jesus taught them that they were worthy; Jesus helped them recover their dignity and self-respect. Jesus taught them to live in a new way—with love and dignity, relating to the world in a new way. Jesus, in essence, was mobilizing the Galilean and then the wider Jewish community, mobilizing them for liberation.

Mobilizing them to take back their dignity. Mobilizing them—the tax collectors who had made a killing off of other people’s desperation, the farmers who didn’t have enough to eat, the fishermen who were tired of paying more taxes than they could bear. The women who were so often invisible in that culture.

Mobilizing them to stand up against an empire that brought death—actual death as the empire crucified so many of them, and social death as the empire told them they were nobodies, slaves. Mobilizing them to hold their heads high. To claim their status as children of God.

2000 years later, we are still invited into that dance, toward liberation, toward freedom, toward fullness of life.

We get to dance away from our culture that tells us to look out only for ourselves. To dance away from a world that tells us we are not good enough or smart enough. To dance away from a culture that often glorifies greed and power, at any cost. To dance away from hatred and cruelty.

We get to dance toward each other. Toward God. Toward dignity and self respect. Toward loving our neighbors. Toward life.  

In our community, in our time, what does that look like?

Since I know you all so well, I am going to share with you something that is weighing on my heart this week.

Recently, I have noticed, in both Aberdeen and Elma, more and more efforts to bar people from public space. To make people invisible. In both places, there are many young people who either live on the street or spend a lot of time on the street. Recently, I heard a city official in Elma refer to these young people as “undesirables” and, as more and more cities are doing, they are coming up with strategies to keep people out of town. To ask people to leave.  

That broke my heart. That is how our society chooses death. We look at our young people—people who on the harbor have few options for jobs, people who are struggling, people who have few places left to go, most kids who have grown up here—and say “we don’t want you around. We don’t care what your struggles are—we just want to pretend you don’t exist.” They are us—our neighbors, our young people, our future. If are going to join God’s dance, we must reject this way of death.

Jesus’ message instead invites our young people to join in the dance of God. To celebrate their worth and their dignity. To fight for their right to life. We, the young people of the harbor, must claim our future. We, the 800 children who experience homelessness in our county, long for life. We, the hundreds of young adults who are told they are worthless, we long for dignity. And, sometimes, all we can say is what a man told me a few weeks ago; “At least Jesus is on our side.” Jesus is on his side and we are all called to join Jesus in demanding life. In dancing for life. In welcoming our neighbors. In affirming our common dignity. In choosing life.

And, as we choose life, we remember the second part of our text—the promise.

Jesus left us with this great promise: “Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the world.”

I am with you when things get hard, when there is nowhere left to go, when cities choose a way of death, when the struggle is hard.

I am with you when things change, when life gets hard. When sickness comes. When uncertainty comes. When it seems nothing is getting better. When ankles are sprained and health fails. I am with you.

I am with you. You are surrounded by the Holy Trinity. Surrounded by the love and care and comfort of God in Christ through the Spirit, of a God who exists in relationship.

When the lights seem to go out. When the world seems to get darker and more frightening. When it feels like the end of the world as we know it. When those in power fail us. When systems of greed and power overwhelm us. When our young people seem to have no future. I am with you.

And, so, this day, let us remember that we are held in the arms of a God who dances in relationship. Let us remember that we live surrounded by the life of God in creation, that God cared for each of us. And, my brothers and sisters, lets dance! Even with two left feet.

Pentecost 2014: The Spirit Comes in Dreams

“I have a dream.”

“I have a dream.” Don’t you think of Martin Luther King, Jr when you hear those words? A man who dreamed of a world of opportunity and hope, a world where his people would be free, a world that confronted the evils of racism and of materialism.

“I have a dream.”

Pentecost is a time for dreams. In our reading, as Peter stands before the crowds gathered in Jerusalem, he quotes from the prophet Joel;

In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh,and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.

 

The Spirit is the bringer of dreams. The Hebrew word for Spirit is Ru’ah, a feminine word—the power that was present at creation hovering over the face of the water, the force that in Psalm 104 gives life to all things. This Spirit—she comes in fire, she comes bringing dreams, bringing life, bringing creative power.

This is Pentecost, of course, the day we celebrate the birthday of the church. The church was born in a dream. A dream of the disciples to spread Jesus’ message, to be his witnesses to the ends of the earth.

The disciples had found their dignity, found their hope in the message of Jesus. These Galilean fishermen and tax collectors and women, people who were never meant to amount to anything much—they heard the words of Jesus that said; “Come, follow me. You are my witnesses, my ambassadors. You are called of God to bring the word of God.”

And they dreamed. They dreamed of a gospel that was spoken in many languages, that communicated to all people and all nations that they were loved of God—to Arabs and Jews, to Galileans and Ethiopians, to that list of nations we read of in Acts 2. They dreamed of the story of Jesus told to all people, the story of God who met us in the person of Jesus, who lived among us and loved us, who preached good news to the poor, who died on behalf of his people, who rose again in power, victorious over empire.

They dreamed of people rising up in dignity to care for one another, to build the church—to build a movement of people coming together to meet each other’s needs, to forge a new world. A world where every person was acknowledged as a child of God.

So what do you dream?

There is so much that holds us back from dreaming, isn’t there? Some of it is fear of change. Transition and change is uncomfortable. But I think it goes deeper than that.

Sometimes what holds us back is fear of hope. It is dangerous, it is risky to imagine new things. It is safer to stay without hope than to risk hope, especially if that hope might be dashed. Haven’t you ever done that in your life? Decided you were not going to take the risk because you were too afraid of how much it might hurt if it failed? How hard it would be to open yourselves up to hope, only to find your dreams fall down around you?

It is safer to stay in the upper room. It is safer to stay in hiding. It is safer to say; “look, Jesus, I know you want to call us and you have this mission for us,” but I’m just going to keep fishing, thank you very much. It is hard to open ourselves up to hope.

There is another reason. We live in a world that can constantly eats away at your dignity, at your self-respect, a world that tells you over and over that you are not good enough. Sometimes we start to believe this ourselves; that we are not worth it. We don’t deserve to hope.

That is where the Spirit comes in. Bringing Life. Courage. Hope.

Again I ask you; what do you dream? What dreams is the Spirit stirring in your heart, my brothers and sisters? What kind of dreams do you have for your community?

Do you dream of a cure for cancer, or dream of honoring all those we have lost, as you just have done in Rely for Life?

You who just graduated or you who know someone who has just graduated, what do you dream? We need your dreams—this community, this world needs your dreams.

I remember, just before I went to seminary, I visited Oaxaca, one of the poorest states in Mexico and met with communities there. It was a struggling place—indigenous communities desperately trying to survive in the midst of globalization. Getting poorer and poorer, with more and more people forced to migrate. What struck me, however, was not how much they struggled. It was how much they hoped. It was the elders of the community who came up with ways to revitalize their water systems; young people who started farming collectives or community art programs; the women who created training centers. Everywhere I went, I saw people daring to hope. People who took that risk—who dared to choose life. Who dared to choose to live into the life that Jesus promises; “I have come that you might have life and you might have it more abundantly.”

What would that look like here, in our community? What would Pentecost look like here in Aberdeen, on the harbor?

What would the text read? We’re even a people of many languages just like that ancient Pentecost beginning. We are a community that comes from many places—people who speak or once spoke German, and Swedish, Norwegian, French and Finnish, Spanish and Trique, and the old languages of our First Peoples, that languages that some of my Native friends try to teach me.

What do we dream, my brothers and sisters, what do we dream?

I dream of a fire lighted in our community. That we come together as a community and care for each other. That we build a new future for ourselves. That we claim our dignity as children of God. That we treat everyone with dignity, following through on our baptismal vows to “respect the dignity of every human being.”  

Let us dare to dream here on the harbor. Dare to imagine a transformed community. Dare to love and trust our neighbors. Dare to embrace all of who we are.

Let us pray for the coming of the Holy Spirit in our midst!