A QUIET THING
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
December 4, 2022
Matthew 3: 1-12
On my recent trip to northern Spain, I visited the famous Guggenheim Museum in the city of Bilbao. While the building’s architecture was certainly interesting, I thought the contemporary art in it was just awful. Much of it was ugly, in my opinion, and the few things I found interesting to look at, were hardly (again in my humble opinion) very inspiring. While I do like much modern art---Picasso, Braque, Mondrian, to name a few, contemporary art turns me off. When I commented about this to a few of my fellow travelers, one reminded me that sometimes art must struggle to be accepted. And that is true. The Sistine Chapel, by Michelangelo, surely one of the greatest creations of western art, was criticized for too much nakedness in the scene of the Last Judgment. And indeed, artists were later hired to cover up some of the more explicitly naked creatures depicted in the fresco, though the painted coverings were in time carefully removed.
And then I recall maybe 10 years ago or so, when the Canadian sculptor by the name of Timothy Schmalz had trouble getting his statue of a homeless Jesus accepted. St. Patrick’s in New York and St. Michael’s in Toronto both rejected it, so the sculpture went to Regis College, part of the University of Toronto, where it sat for a while, until finally going to Rome, where it was blessed by Pope Francis.
The sculptor conceived the idea of portraying Jesus as homeless after he spotted a homeless person sleeping on the corner of one of Toronto’s busiest streets. It was Christmastime, and while the rest of the city was bustling with the holiday spirit, this person lay wrapped up in a sleeping bag. Schmalz did not know if the person was male or female, because all he could see was a mass of cloth lying still on the bench. And so, he sculpted Jesus as a homeless man with the wounds from his crucifixion on his bare feet. Apparently, a number of people found the sculptor offensive---until Pope Francis gave it his blessing---though there were still some who thought it was an insult to Christ to portray him as homeless.
Religious sensibilities can easily become hurt when the normal conventions are transgressed. Can you imagine what most of us would think if someone like John the Baptist marched into our church and started calling us a brood of vipers because he deemed us insufficiently repentant. Of course, we would be defensive, and might even point out to him that his accusatory style hardly seems the way to win friends and influence people. And yet, in his day, as insulting as John was, he still was quite popular among a certain group of people, like the outsiders, which would include the poor, the sick and the just plain weird, those who simply did not fit in. But it is also true that some Pharisees and Sadducees came---the Pharisees teaching some progressive ideas such as the oral interpretation of the law and the bodily resurrection, while the Sadducees were the established, wealthy class from which the temple priests came.
The strange clothing worn by John, the camel haired shirt and the leather belt around his waist, is actually code language, a reference to Elijah, that Old Testament prophet, who did battle with King Ahab and his queen, Jezebel. The story goes that Elijah never died but was taken up into heaven and would return at the end of history, when God would create a new heaven and a new earth. Now Elijah had it tough, because Jezebel was out to get him, and so in fear and anger, Elijah ran away. Furious with God for putting him in this untenable situation, he hid in the crevice of a rock, while God went by, and Elijah heard God not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire, but in the still, small sound of silence. Quite interesting, because here we have in Matthew’s gospel this eccentric John, yelling at people, calling them a brood of vipers and threatening them with eternal fire, and yet here is a coded reference to Elijah, who found God in the stillness of silence, a quiet thing.
Now Elijah and John did have a lot in common. They both demanded repentance, which means to change, to turn around, to move in a new direction. Both of them wanted change, a turning away from the past toward a new future. And like John, Elijah could yell and threaten, and he also had his own bag of tricks, including making fire that would consume both the offering of the Baal worshippers as well as their priests. No wonder Jezebel was out to get him. And John, well, he had a loud voice, announcing the drama of baptism, the dying to the old life and a rebirth to a new one. He told the people that another one would come, greater than he, and while he, John, baptized with water, the one to come would baptize with fire. Notice what John said about this one in verse 12: His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire. You don’t get much more dramatic build up than that.
Then in verse 13, which immediately follows this morning’s text, it simply says, Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. He came without fanfare; he came without yelling or accusing; he came without threats. He came quietly---like that still, small sound of silence, heard by Elijah. Oh, the story goes that at his birth there was a star, shining in the heavens, symbolically announcing that he would be the light of the world. But how many really paid that star any heed? Some poor shepherds out in the fields, Herod, jealous for his power and three gentile kings, who studied the movement of the stars and thought it must portend something significant. No one would have expected anything from a baby born to poor parents, a teenage mother, whose pregnancy was shrouded in scandal, and a man, named Joseph, about whom we know almost nothing, and who never spoke one word in the Bible. Such a birth would hardly have been considered of great significance. It was a quiet thing, and even the baby was said to be quiet, according to that lovely carol, Away In a Manger---“the little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.” Yes, he came quietly without pomp and circumstance.
Of course, Jesus would later speak. He would teach and yes, in Matthew he sometimes did speak tough words to the rich and powerful and those who wielded religious authority. But when you consider the whole sound of his story, it was a quiet thing, so quiet, in fact, that the sound and drama of his life were easy to ignore, not unlike the way we so often ignore and dismiss the homeless, which is why the Canadian sculptor cast Jesus as a homeless man that we might pay closer attention to both Jesus and the homeless.
John the Baptist came with noise and drama. His strange clothes and diet and threats certainly turned heads in his direction. He was not so much trying to call attention to himself, but rather to point the way toward another, who would come quietly and unobtrusively, and yet without the might and force of either an army or riches, he would change history. It was a quiet thing, at least in comparison to all the world’s noise, and yet sometimes quiet does change the world.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
December 4, 2022
Matthew 3: 1-12
On my recent trip to northern Spain, I visited the famous Guggenheim Museum in the city of Bilbao. While the building’s architecture was certainly interesting, I thought the contemporary art in it was just awful. Much of it was ugly, in my opinion, and the few things I found interesting to look at, were hardly (again in my humble opinion) very inspiring. While I do like much modern art---Picasso, Braque, Mondrian, to name a few, contemporary art turns me off. When I commented about this to a few of my fellow travelers, one reminded me that sometimes art must struggle to be accepted. And that is true. The Sistine Chapel, by Michelangelo, surely one of the greatest creations of western art, was criticized for too much nakedness in the scene of the Last Judgment. And indeed, artists were later hired to cover up some of the more explicitly naked creatures depicted in the fresco, though the painted coverings were in time carefully removed.
And then I recall maybe 10 years ago or so, when the Canadian sculptor by the name of Timothy Schmalz had trouble getting his statue of a homeless Jesus accepted. St. Patrick’s in New York and St. Michael’s in Toronto both rejected it, so the sculpture went to Regis College, part of the University of Toronto, where it sat for a while, until finally going to Rome, where it was blessed by Pope Francis.
The sculptor conceived the idea of portraying Jesus as homeless after he spotted a homeless person sleeping on the corner of one of Toronto’s busiest streets. It was Christmastime, and while the rest of the city was bustling with the holiday spirit, this person lay wrapped up in a sleeping bag. Schmalz did not know if the person was male or female, because all he could see was a mass of cloth lying still on the bench. And so, he sculpted Jesus as a homeless man with the wounds from his crucifixion on his bare feet. Apparently, a number of people found the sculptor offensive---until Pope Francis gave it his blessing---though there were still some who thought it was an insult to Christ to portray him as homeless.
Religious sensibilities can easily become hurt when the normal conventions are transgressed. Can you imagine what most of us would think if someone like John the Baptist marched into our church and started calling us a brood of vipers because he deemed us insufficiently repentant. Of course, we would be defensive, and might even point out to him that his accusatory style hardly seems the way to win friends and influence people. And yet, in his day, as insulting as John was, he still was quite popular among a certain group of people, like the outsiders, which would include the poor, the sick and the just plain weird, those who simply did not fit in. But it is also true that some Pharisees and Sadducees came---the Pharisees teaching some progressive ideas such as the oral interpretation of the law and the bodily resurrection, while the Sadducees were the established, wealthy class from which the temple priests came.
The strange clothing worn by John, the camel haired shirt and the leather belt around his waist, is actually code language, a reference to Elijah, that Old Testament prophet, who did battle with King Ahab and his queen, Jezebel. The story goes that Elijah never died but was taken up into heaven and would return at the end of history, when God would create a new heaven and a new earth. Now Elijah had it tough, because Jezebel was out to get him, and so in fear and anger, Elijah ran away. Furious with God for putting him in this untenable situation, he hid in the crevice of a rock, while God went by, and Elijah heard God not in the wind or the earthquake or the fire, but in the still, small sound of silence. Quite interesting, because here we have in Matthew’s gospel this eccentric John, yelling at people, calling them a brood of vipers and threatening them with eternal fire, and yet here is a coded reference to Elijah, who found God in the stillness of silence, a quiet thing.
Now Elijah and John did have a lot in common. They both demanded repentance, which means to change, to turn around, to move in a new direction. Both of them wanted change, a turning away from the past toward a new future. And like John, Elijah could yell and threaten, and he also had his own bag of tricks, including making fire that would consume both the offering of the Baal worshippers as well as their priests. No wonder Jezebel was out to get him. And John, well, he had a loud voice, announcing the drama of baptism, the dying to the old life and a rebirth to a new one. He told the people that another one would come, greater than he, and while he, John, baptized with water, the one to come would baptize with fire. Notice what John said about this one in verse 12: His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor and will gather his wheat into the granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire. You don’t get much more dramatic build up than that.
Then in verse 13, which immediately follows this morning’s text, it simply says, Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. He came without fanfare; he came without yelling or accusing; he came without threats. He came quietly---like that still, small sound of silence, heard by Elijah. Oh, the story goes that at his birth there was a star, shining in the heavens, symbolically announcing that he would be the light of the world. But how many really paid that star any heed? Some poor shepherds out in the fields, Herod, jealous for his power and three gentile kings, who studied the movement of the stars and thought it must portend something significant. No one would have expected anything from a baby born to poor parents, a teenage mother, whose pregnancy was shrouded in scandal, and a man, named Joseph, about whom we know almost nothing, and who never spoke one word in the Bible. Such a birth would hardly have been considered of great significance. It was a quiet thing, and even the baby was said to be quiet, according to that lovely carol, Away In a Manger---“the little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.” Yes, he came quietly without pomp and circumstance.
Of course, Jesus would later speak. He would teach and yes, in Matthew he sometimes did speak tough words to the rich and powerful and those who wielded religious authority. But when you consider the whole sound of his story, it was a quiet thing, so quiet, in fact, that the sound and drama of his life were easy to ignore, not unlike the way we so often ignore and dismiss the homeless, which is why the Canadian sculptor cast Jesus as a homeless man that we might pay closer attention to both Jesus and the homeless.
John the Baptist came with noise and drama. His strange clothes and diet and threats certainly turned heads in his direction. He was not so much trying to call attention to himself, but rather to point the way toward another, who would come quietly and unobtrusively, and yet without the might and force of either an army or riches, he would change history. It was a quiet thing, at least in comparison to all the world’s noise, and yet sometimes quiet does change the world.
December 6, 2022
Dear Friends,
As I write this, I am aware that it is St. Nicholas Day, a day we remember and celebrate a saint from Turkey, who spent his life doing kind and compassionate deeds. Though he became a bishop, he was never interested in the power of his office as much as he cared about the power of doing good. So, on this day, I was overjoyed to read about a Children’s Choir from Ukraine, who will be singing in Carnegie Hall this coming Sunday.
The Shchedryk Choir, founded in 1971, is composed of 56 members, 51 girls and 5 boys, ranging in age from 11 to 25. At Carnegie Hall they will perform traditional Ukrainian songs and carols as well as music from other Ukrainian artists in a program called, Notes From Ukraine, sponsored in part by the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry. Money raised from the concert will go to United24, an organization, dedicated to repairing damaged infrastructure.
These young people sing with a great deal of hope, since many of them have suffered the loss of loved ones, and they look to their music as healing. When the war began, the choir was practicing for a Christmas program, and suddenly the air raid sirens began to sound, and they rushed with their sheet music in hand to a nearby bomb shelter. Using the light from their cell phones, they continued to sing, filling the coldness and the fearfulness of the shelter with song that lifted the spirit of not only the singers but also others, gathered there for safety. Some of the choir members left Kyiv for other Ukrainian cites with their families, while others scattered abroad. But the choir continued to practice virtually, and though meeting in person was very difficult, the choir director was determined to keep the choir going.
When you read what some of these youngsters say, you are filled with deep sadness as well as admiration for their determination to heal from the war. One 15 year old said, “Now when I sing, I see the faces of five people I knew and loved, who have died in the war. I sing for them and to them.” Another 15 year old said she was living in a constant state of fear and she had a hard time seeing friends and relatives deal with physical injuries. But still she sings. A 13 year old commented she had suffered great psychological trauma, which she cannot even talk about, because it makes her trauma worse. And so, she too sings, and for now, at least, that is her therapy.
In August the choir came together physically for the first time since the war began. They practiced for a series of concerts in Copenhagen, Denmark, and then in the fall the singers began to practice for the Carnegie Hall debut. For the first time since the war began, they practiced in Kyiv, which was hard for some of the youngsters, since it reminded them of the initial terror of the war. This choir is one of several Ukrainian ensembles to go abroad since the war began. The Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra is made up of an ensemble of refugees who fled Ukraine as well as those who stayed behind. Last summer they toured Europe and the United States. And the Kyiv City Ballet toured many American cities this past fall.
The Shchedryk Choir arrived in New York last week, and they have a busy schedule of rehearsing at local churches as well as visits to Times Square and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. On Wednesday of last week, they gathered at Grand Central Station to sing Carol of the Bells, composed by Ukrainian composer, Mykola Leontovych. In fact, the name of the choir comes from the Ukrainian title for the music.
The great Russian writer, Dostoevsky once remarked, “Beauty will save the world,” and when you listen to the choir sing and ponder their words about what it means for them to sing, you can believe that indeed, beauty is one of the instruments God uses to redeem a hurting and besieged humanity. And I think St. Nicholas would agree.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
As I write this, I am aware that it is St. Nicholas Day, a day we remember and celebrate a saint from Turkey, who spent his life doing kind and compassionate deeds. Though he became a bishop, he was never interested in the power of his office as much as he cared about the power of doing good. So, on this day, I was overjoyed to read about a Children’s Choir from Ukraine, who will be singing in Carnegie Hall this coming Sunday.
The Shchedryk Choir, founded in 1971, is composed of 56 members, 51 girls and 5 boys, ranging in age from 11 to 25. At Carnegie Hall they will perform traditional Ukrainian songs and carols as well as music from other Ukrainian artists in a program called, Notes From Ukraine, sponsored in part by the Ukrainian Foreign Ministry. Money raised from the concert will go to United24, an organization, dedicated to repairing damaged infrastructure.
These young people sing with a great deal of hope, since many of them have suffered the loss of loved ones, and they look to their music as healing. When the war began, the choir was practicing for a Christmas program, and suddenly the air raid sirens began to sound, and they rushed with their sheet music in hand to a nearby bomb shelter. Using the light from their cell phones, they continued to sing, filling the coldness and the fearfulness of the shelter with song that lifted the spirit of not only the singers but also others, gathered there for safety. Some of the choir members left Kyiv for other Ukrainian cites with their families, while others scattered abroad. But the choir continued to practice virtually, and though meeting in person was very difficult, the choir director was determined to keep the choir going.
When you read what some of these youngsters say, you are filled with deep sadness as well as admiration for their determination to heal from the war. One 15 year old said, “Now when I sing, I see the faces of five people I knew and loved, who have died in the war. I sing for them and to them.” Another 15 year old said she was living in a constant state of fear and she had a hard time seeing friends and relatives deal with physical injuries. But still she sings. A 13 year old commented she had suffered great psychological trauma, which she cannot even talk about, because it makes her trauma worse. And so, she too sings, and for now, at least, that is her therapy.
In August the choir came together physically for the first time since the war began. They practiced for a series of concerts in Copenhagen, Denmark, and then in the fall the singers began to practice for the Carnegie Hall debut. For the first time since the war began, they practiced in Kyiv, which was hard for some of the youngsters, since it reminded them of the initial terror of the war. This choir is one of several Ukrainian ensembles to go abroad since the war began. The Ukrainian Freedom Orchestra is made up of an ensemble of refugees who fled Ukraine as well as those who stayed behind. Last summer they toured Europe and the United States. And the Kyiv City Ballet toured many American cities this past fall.
The Shchedryk Choir arrived in New York last week, and they have a busy schedule of rehearsing at local churches as well as visits to Times Square and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. On Wednesday of last week, they gathered at Grand Central Station to sing Carol of the Bells, composed by Ukrainian composer, Mykola Leontovych. In fact, the name of the choir comes from the Ukrainian title for the music.
The great Russian writer, Dostoevsky once remarked, “Beauty will save the world,” and when you listen to the choir sing and ponder their words about what it means for them to sing, you can believe that indeed, beauty is one of the instruments God uses to redeem a hurting and besieged humanity. And I think St. Nicholas would agree.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
December 1, 2022
Dear Friends,
Chuck Collins writes about economic inequality. He has written a book, The Wealth Hoarders: How Billionaires Pay Millions to Hide Trillions, and he has co-authored a report, Gilded Giving: How Wealth Inequality Distorts Philanthropy and Imperils Democracy. Collins writes that right now our nation has 728 billionaires, holding a combined wealth pf 4.48 trillion, which is an increase of 1.5 trillion since March 2020, when the pandemic began. What to do with all this wealth?
It is “interesting,” to say the least, that many billionaires are encouraging their peers to be generous to various philanthropies. But the truth is, it can take years or even decades for these pledges of gifts from billionaires to reach the nonprofit destinations. And Collins is a big believer that philanthropy is no substitute for just taxation policies.
Consider, for example, the Giving Pledge, an initiative founded in 2010 by Warren Buffett, Melinda French Gates and Bill Gages as a means to encourage increased giving by the extremely wealthy. Apparently, more than 250 billionaires from 28 nations have pledged to give away the majority of their wealth. As Collins points out, this should mean we should be seeing a decline in billionaire wealth. But the opposite is true. As of 2020---ten years after the pledge---62 of the initial pledgers had not seen any decrease in their wealth. In fact, it had nearly doubled, adjusted for inflation.
While many billionaires do donate to charities, the biggest pledges are often made to family foundations or donor advised funds, which make up around 30% of all charitable donations by billionaires. And they can claim BIG tax donations for putting funds in these foundations or donor advised funds. Foundations are only required to pay out 5% of their assets each year, and most only dole out a bit more. And the donor advised funds have no minimum pay out, which means that many of them give out very small amounts.
Collins fervently believes that billionaire foundations should not be a substitute for fair taxation policies. For every dollar a billionaire gives to charity or a foundation, taxpayers pay up to 74 cents in lost federal tax revenues. In other words, tax dollars are subsidizing the system that billionaires use to avoid paying taxes! We need to be more vigorous in requiring transparency from charities and foundations---who gives what and when, and when does the payout actually reach the working charities. There are people like Mackenzie Scott, ex wife of Jeff Bezos, who gives away money directly to various chariities. Since 2019 she has given away $14 billion.
People become very nervous when politics enters the church grounds, let alone the pulpit, but we should think very carefully and deeply about the message that Jesus preached. We need to remember that he was executed as a political prisoner, someone who threatened the stability of the Roman Empire as well as the Jewish Temple. He spilled a great many words over wealth and money, taking about it more than any other single subject. He certainly taught and believed that what one did with one’s wealth was not a private matter, since how wealth is used has tremendous public consequences. He was also a supporter of the Jubilee, a celebration, occurring every 50 years, when property and wealth were returned to past owners. I don’t know how the process was administered, but certainly there were many who objected to this radical redistribution of wealth. While it is true that Jesus often accepted hospitality from the wealthy, he also told stories about how dangerous wealth could be and how it was easier for a camel to go through an eye of a needle than it was for a rich person to gain entrance into heaven. We don’t have to take his words literally, of course, but we should acknowledge that he had something important to say about wealth and how it should be used.
I don’t know exactly what Jesus would say to our nations’ 728 billionaires, but I don’t think he would tell them that the point of their lives is to continue to grow their wealth. What you give away does come back to bless you and others.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Chuck Collins writes about economic inequality. He has written a book, The Wealth Hoarders: How Billionaires Pay Millions to Hide Trillions, and he has co-authored a report, Gilded Giving: How Wealth Inequality Distorts Philanthropy and Imperils Democracy. Collins writes that right now our nation has 728 billionaires, holding a combined wealth pf 4.48 trillion, which is an increase of 1.5 trillion since March 2020, when the pandemic began. What to do with all this wealth?
It is “interesting,” to say the least, that many billionaires are encouraging their peers to be generous to various philanthropies. But the truth is, it can take years or even decades for these pledges of gifts from billionaires to reach the nonprofit destinations. And Collins is a big believer that philanthropy is no substitute for just taxation policies.
Consider, for example, the Giving Pledge, an initiative founded in 2010 by Warren Buffett, Melinda French Gates and Bill Gages as a means to encourage increased giving by the extremely wealthy. Apparently, more than 250 billionaires from 28 nations have pledged to give away the majority of their wealth. As Collins points out, this should mean we should be seeing a decline in billionaire wealth. But the opposite is true. As of 2020---ten years after the pledge---62 of the initial pledgers had not seen any decrease in their wealth. In fact, it had nearly doubled, adjusted for inflation.
While many billionaires do donate to charities, the biggest pledges are often made to family foundations or donor advised funds, which make up around 30% of all charitable donations by billionaires. And they can claim BIG tax donations for putting funds in these foundations or donor advised funds. Foundations are only required to pay out 5% of their assets each year, and most only dole out a bit more. And the donor advised funds have no minimum pay out, which means that many of them give out very small amounts.
Collins fervently believes that billionaire foundations should not be a substitute for fair taxation policies. For every dollar a billionaire gives to charity or a foundation, taxpayers pay up to 74 cents in lost federal tax revenues. In other words, tax dollars are subsidizing the system that billionaires use to avoid paying taxes! We need to be more vigorous in requiring transparency from charities and foundations---who gives what and when, and when does the payout actually reach the working charities. There are people like Mackenzie Scott, ex wife of Jeff Bezos, who gives away money directly to various chariities. Since 2019 she has given away $14 billion.
People become very nervous when politics enters the church grounds, let alone the pulpit, but we should think very carefully and deeply about the message that Jesus preached. We need to remember that he was executed as a political prisoner, someone who threatened the stability of the Roman Empire as well as the Jewish Temple. He spilled a great many words over wealth and money, taking about it more than any other single subject. He certainly taught and believed that what one did with one’s wealth was not a private matter, since how wealth is used has tremendous public consequences. He was also a supporter of the Jubilee, a celebration, occurring every 50 years, when property and wealth were returned to past owners. I don’t know how the process was administered, but certainly there were many who objected to this radical redistribution of wealth. While it is true that Jesus often accepted hospitality from the wealthy, he also told stories about how dangerous wealth could be and how it was easier for a camel to go through an eye of a needle than it was for a rich person to gain entrance into heaven. We don’t have to take his words literally, of course, but we should acknowledge that he had something important to say about wealth and how it should be used.
I don’t know exactly what Jesus would say to our nations’ 728 billionaires, but I don’t think he would tell them that the point of their lives is to continue to grow their wealth. What you give away does come back to bless you and others.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
EVEN THE SON DOES NOT KNOW
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
November 27, 2022
First Sunday in Advent
Matthew 24: 36-44
I recently returned from a trip to Spain and Portugal, which involved a walk along the Camino de Santiago, one of the great pilgrimages, still popular today as it has been for many centuries. There are a number of paths to take, and many walkers take five or six weeks to finally reach the great cathedral in Santiago, where masses are held for the pilgrimages. I attended one of the Masses, which was in Spanish, and the only time in the service English was used, was when the priest made it clear that no one except Roman Catholics, were welcome to take the sacrament of Holy Communion---no matter that many, if not most of the pilgrims these days, are not Roman Catholic. Still, it reminded me of another trip I took years ago, an ecumenical journey of Roman Catholics and Protestants to famous sites of the Reformation.
When I first read the lectionary choice for today from Matthew, my thoughts returned to a conversation I had with a Roman Catholic couple from Colorado. They were both very interested in history as well as ecumenical relationships. As our conversation progressed, the husband said something about the purpose of life being to get into heaven. Well, I said, I think the purpose is to be as fully alive as we can be, open to the world in all its wonderful diversity and be servants of truth and goodness and compassion. What comes after this life--- who knows? Jesus did not spend time talking about heaven as a final destination after death. He spoke of the Kingdom of Heaven, by which he meant a fulfillment of God’s intentions for the human community here on earth.
In today’s reading from Matthew, heaven is not the subject, but the end times are, the last things, technically known as eschatology. At the dawn of the 20th century, Albert Schweitzer---the same man who went to Africa as a doctor--- published a very important book called, The Quest of the Historical Jesus in which Schweitzer laid out the various understandings of Jesus, which Enlightenment thought—that is, critical, historical, and literary analysis--- had constructed. Toward the end of his book, Schweitzer then defended the conviction that Jesus was an eschatological figure, meaning that he lived in expectation of the end times. God, Jesus thought, was about to intervene in history and bring a climactic end to the normal run of events and establish a new kingdom, and he, Jesus, was the sign that the kingdom was imminent. This radical ending is what our Gospel reading this morning is concerned with. The end is on the way, Jesus said, so be watchful; be vigilant, because you do not know its time. But it will come like a thief in the night, and even the Son does not know the day or hour.
It is not a very comforting image, is it---some being left behind and others taken. And yes, there are a whole lot of Christians, who spend their time trying to insure that they will be among those taken rather than those left behind. Such anxiety about the end, like the anxiety about getting into heaven strikes me as too self concerned and even self defeating, for didn’t Jesus remind people that the one who would save his or her life will ultimately lose it.
We really do not know much, if anything about the end; even Jesus would not make exact predictions. Scientists tell us that just as the universe had a beginning in what they believe was a big bang, it will also have an end. Matter and energy will dissipate or collapse, imploding upon itself. And what all this means for our human destiny remains to us mere mortals a mystery, something best left to God. It is not in our hands. And so, we live, and I think this is precisely what Jesus would have us do. Live now; live fully in the present. But do not be like the people of Noah’s day, who ignored God’s commandments to do justice and love mercy. Do not be careless toward the future, but do not be overly anxious either. Change comes without our consent. Something ends and something new is born.
Last week I told you that one of my most moving experiences on my Reformation trip in Germany was visiting Wartburg Castle, where Luther hid from his enemies while translating the New Testament into German. Another moving experience was the night we spent in Nuremberg, where we heard a talk by a Lutheran pastor from what had been East Germany, communist Germany. He spoke about how hard it was to be the church before the end of the Soviet Empire in 1989. We clergy, he said, had to be so careful about what we preached in our sermons. After all, Christian ethics are not just what you do in your private life; they do have public and political consequences. We knew that, and so did the East German leadership, so it was not unusual to have spies in our midst.”
But despite the anxiety, in 1986 he, along with some of his colleagues, Protestant and Roman Catholic, began to hold prayer vigils for peace. “We decided to hold them in my church,” the pastor said, “because it was exactly in the town center. The vigils began with only a half dozen clergy, and maybe one or two others. But slowly more people came and by the end of the first year we had 50 people; by the second year, maybe 100, and then by the third year, it was 300. Then in 1989 on All Saints Day, a few days after Reformation Sunday, one evening without any planning on the clergy’s part, the church began to fill up beyond capacity. Suddenly one of my Roman Catholic colleagues came running into the church, breathless, with this announcement “There are thousands of people out in the square. They are demanding an end to Communist rule. What should we do? Surely, they will close down the churches! They will blame us.”
“There is no denying that we were afraid,” the pastor continued. “We did not know what to do. None of us relished the thought of being arrested. All of us knew the regime could be brutal. Some of us had lost family members and friends to its brutality. But then a young woman not more than 25, stood up in church and said, “This is God’s work, not ours. Let’s pray that we will not get in God’s way.” When the prayer meeting finished, we opened up the doors to over 100,000 people in the square. One week later the wall in Berlin came down. None of us saw the end of the regime coming. But it came--- without one shot being fired. Something ended, and a new beginning came upon us.”
If you think this is a story only about politics, think again. Or if you think that political reality has no place in the church, consider again. The pastor’s story, or so it seems to me, is not so far from this morning’s reading from Matthew’s Gospel. Both involved radical change, spiritual and political. Matthew was probably written sometime around the year 80---after the Jerusalem Temple had been destroyed. And some Jews as well as Christians, including those in Matthew’s community, looked upon the Temple’s destruction as a sign that the end was coming. Well, something did end---Judaism centered on the Temple--- but something new appeared---the synagogue movement, which kept Judaism alive and the church was born.
There are all kinds of ends--- political regimes end; eras like the Renaissance, the Reformation or even the 60’s have their time, and their end. Our lives will one day end, and so too will the universe. We human beings often do not see the end coming, but maybe that is a blessing, because the final end is not in our hands, but rather in God’s. And so all we can do is to cultivate hope and trust in the God in whose hands both endings and beginnings lie.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
November 27, 2022
First Sunday in Advent
Matthew 24: 36-44
I recently returned from a trip to Spain and Portugal, which involved a walk along the Camino de Santiago, one of the great pilgrimages, still popular today as it has been for many centuries. There are a number of paths to take, and many walkers take five or six weeks to finally reach the great cathedral in Santiago, where masses are held for the pilgrimages. I attended one of the Masses, which was in Spanish, and the only time in the service English was used, was when the priest made it clear that no one except Roman Catholics, were welcome to take the sacrament of Holy Communion---no matter that many, if not most of the pilgrims these days, are not Roman Catholic. Still, it reminded me of another trip I took years ago, an ecumenical journey of Roman Catholics and Protestants to famous sites of the Reformation.
When I first read the lectionary choice for today from Matthew, my thoughts returned to a conversation I had with a Roman Catholic couple from Colorado. They were both very interested in history as well as ecumenical relationships. As our conversation progressed, the husband said something about the purpose of life being to get into heaven. Well, I said, I think the purpose is to be as fully alive as we can be, open to the world in all its wonderful diversity and be servants of truth and goodness and compassion. What comes after this life--- who knows? Jesus did not spend time talking about heaven as a final destination after death. He spoke of the Kingdom of Heaven, by which he meant a fulfillment of God’s intentions for the human community here on earth.
In today’s reading from Matthew, heaven is not the subject, but the end times are, the last things, technically known as eschatology. At the dawn of the 20th century, Albert Schweitzer---the same man who went to Africa as a doctor--- published a very important book called, The Quest of the Historical Jesus in which Schweitzer laid out the various understandings of Jesus, which Enlightenment thought—that is, critical, historical, and literary analysis--- had constructed. Toward the end of his book, Schweitzer then defended the conviction that Jesus was an eschatological figure, meaning that he lived in expectation of the end times. God, Jesus thought, was about to intervene in history and bring a climactic end to the normal run of events and establish a new kingdom, and he, Jesus, was the sign that the kingdom was imminent. This radical ending is what our Gospel reading this morning is concerned with. The end is on the way, Jesus said, so be watchful; be vigilant, because you do not know its time. But it will come like a thief in the night, and even the Son does not know the day or hour.
It is not a very comforting image, is it---some being left behind and others taken. And yes, there are a whole lot of Christians, who spend their time trying to insure that they will be among those taken rather than those left behind. Such anxiety about the end, like the anxiety about getting into heaven strikes me as too self concerned and even self defeating, for didn’t Jesus remind people that the one who would save his or her life will ultimately lose it.
We really do not know much, if anything about the end; even Jesus would not make exact predictions. Scientists tell us that just as the universe had a beginning in what they believe was a big bang, it will also have an end. Matter and energy will dissipate or collapse, imploding upon itself. And what all this means for our human destiny remains to us mere mortals a mystery, something best left to God. It is not in our hands. And so, we live, and I think this is precisely what Jesus would have us do. Live now; live fully in the present. But do not be like the people of Noah’s day, who ignored God’s commandments to do justice and love mercy. Do not be careless toward the future, but do not be overly anxious either. Change comes without our consent. Something ends and something new is born.
Last week I told you that one of my most moving experiences on my Reformation trip in Germany was visiting Wartburg Castle, where Luther hid from his enemies while translating the New Testament into German. Another moving experience was the night we spent in Nuremberg, where we heard a talk by a Lutheran pastor from what had been East Germany, communist Germany. He spoke about how hard it was to be the church before the end of the Soviet Empire in 1989. We clergy, he said, had to be so careful about what we preached in our sermons. After all, Christian ethics are not just what you do in your private life; they do have public and political consequences. We knew that, and so did the East German leadership, so it was not unusual to have spies in our midst.”
But despite the anxiety, in 1986 he, along with some of his colleagues, Protestant and Roman Catholic, began to hold prayer vigils for peace. “We decided to hold them in my church,” the pastor said, “because it was exactly in the town center. The vigils began with only a half dozen clergy, and maybe one or two others. But slowly more people came and by the end of the first year we had 50 people; by the second year, maybe 100, and then by the third year, it was 300. Then in 1989 on All Saints Day, a few days after Reformation Sunday, one evening without any planning on the clergy’s part, the church began to fill up beyond capacity. Suddenly one of my Roman Catholic colleagues came running into the church, breathless, with this announcement “There are thousands of people out in the square. They are demanding an end to Communist rule. What should we do? Surely, they will close down the churches! They will blame us.”
“There is no denying that we were afraid,” the pastor continued. “We did not know what to do. None of us relished the thought of being arrested. All of us knew the regime could be brutal. Some of us had lost family members and friends to its brutality. But then a young woman not more than 25, stood up in church and said, “This is God’s work, not ours. Let’s pray that we will not get in God’s way.” When the prayer meeting finished, we opened up the doors to over 100,000 people in the square. One week later the wall in Berlin came down. None of us saw the end of the regime coming. But it came--- without one shot being fired. Something ended, and a new beginning came upon us.”
If you think this is a story only about politics, think again. Or if you think that political reality has no place in the church, consider again. The pastor’s story, or so it seems to me, is not so far from this morning’s reading from Matthew’s Gospel. Both involved radical change, spiritual and political. Matthew was probably written sometime around the year 80---after the Jerusalem Temple had been destroyed. And some Jews as well as Christians, including those in Matthew’s community, looked upon the Temple’s destruction as a sign that the end was coming. Well, something did end---Judaism centered on the Temple--- but something new appeared---the synagogue movement, which kept Judaism alive and the church was born.
There are all kinds of ends--- political regimes end; eras like the Renaissance, the Reformation or even the 60’s have their time, and their end. Our lives will one day end, and so too will the universe. We human beings often do not see the end coming, but maybe that is a blessing, because the final end is not in our hands, but rather in God’s. And so all we can do is to cultivate hope and trust in the God in whose hands both endings and beginnings lie.
November 23, 2022
Dear Friends,
When I was in the first grade, Mrs. Krauss’ class, we made pilgrim hats and cranberry sauce. Mrs. Krauss told us the story of the First Thanksgiving, describing how the Pilgrims and the Indians (We did not call them Native Americans back then) sat down and ate a meal together. She told us how helpful the Indians were to the Pilgrims and that without such help the Pilgrims would have starved. I was very impressed with this story. In fact, it was told as more than story. It was history, what actually had happened a long time ago.
We have crossed quite a bit of historical territory since then. And probably most of us are more than a bit confused about what really happened. Was there truly a Thanksgiving meal? While Thanksgiving is probably the most beloved American holiday, its history is a muddle. There is a letter from an English settler named Edward Winslow that never uses the word thanksgiving, but does mention a weeklong harvest celebration that included a three day celebration with King Massasoit and 90 Wampanoag men so that “we might after a more special manner rejoice together.” This was in 1621 in the Plymouth Colony. But some historians argue that the first Thanksgiving meal was celebrated in Florida, not Massachusetts, when in 1565, a Spanish fleet landed and planted a cross in the sandy soil of St. Augustine “to christen the soil.” The story goes that the 800 Spanish settlers shared a festive meal with the native Timucuan people. The Spanish had the food they brought with them from Europe, mainly hard rolls, and the Timucuan probably shared some fish and clams with the settlers.
Other historians claim that the first Thanksgiving was not at St. Augustine but on the St. John’s River, what is now Jacksonville. These were French Protestants, Huguenots, Calvinists like the Pilgrims, and they held a service of thanksgiving with the Timucuans to celebrate the 1564 establishment of Fort Caroline. The French explorer, Rene Goulaine de Laudonniere, wrote in his journal, “We sang a psalm of thanksgiving unto God, beseeching him that it would please his Grace to continue his goodness toward us.” Unfortunately, grace did not overcome hatred, because the Spanish attacked the French Protestants, accusing them of being heretics. The Spanish murdered 130 French Protestants, and two weeks later massacred an additional 200 French shipwreck survivors at an inlet near St. Augustine. The bloodshed undoubtedly helped to wash away the memory of any Thanksgiving meal.
James W. Baker, who wrote a book, Thanksgiving: The Biography of an American Holiday, notes that it was traditional for European explorers to give thanks after a safe trans-Atlantic crossing, but he claims these isolated instances bear no relation to the American Thanksgiving. He also claims that there was NEVER a single first Thanksgiving, neither in Plymouth for the three day harvest festival in 1621 nor in any other location. It was not until 1841, he claimed, that people began to talk about the Pilgrims hosting the first Thanksgiving.
A National Day of Thanksgiving was first called for to celebrate a victory over the British at the Battle of Saratoga, which took place in two stages on September 19 and October 7, 1777. In 1789 George Washington again called for a National Day of Thanksgiving to celebrate the end of the Revolutionary War and the ratification of the Constitution. And during the Civil War, both the North and the South issued Thanksgiving Day celebrations following major victories. It is interesting to note that President Thomas Jefferson NEVER called for a National Day of Thanksgiving, believing that a wall of separation between church and state precluded any such celebrations.
It was not until 1863, when President Abraham Lincoln called for an annual Thanksgiving celebration on the final Thursday in November. Sarah Josepha Hale was an impassioned advocate for the holiday, and she has become known as “The Mother of Thanksgiving.” Sarah Hale had written the children’s poem, Mary Had a Little Lamb, and she was a tireless advocate for women’s education, helping to found Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York. She also saw to it that a monument to the Battle of Bunker Hill was created, and she helped to save George Washington’s Mount Vernon home. For decades, Sarah Hale had written impassioned letters to various presidents, pleading for a National Day of Thanksgiving. Finally, Abraham Lincoln agreed.
As you can see, the history around Thanksgiving is extremely convoluted and multi-faceted. I must admit, however, that I still very much like what my first grade teacher told our class. The lesson back then was clear and a good one: cooperation matters, and human survival depends upon it. Jesus would certainly agree. It is a lesson that still needs learning as our nation continues to deal with hatred and prejudice.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
When I was in the first grade, Mrs. Krauss’ class, we made pilgrim hats and cranberry sauce. Mrs. Krauss told us the story of the First Thanksgiving, describing how the Pilgrims and the Indians (We did not call them Native Americans back then) sat down and ate a meal together. She told us how helpful the Indians were to the Pilgrims and that without such help the Pilgrims would have starved. I was very impressed with this story. In fact, it was told as more than story. It was history, what actually had happened a long time ago.
We have crossed quite a bit of historical territory since then. And probably most of us are more than a bit confused about what really happened. Was there truly a Thanksgiving meal? While Thanksgiving is probably the most beloved American holiday, its history is a muddle. There is a letter from an English settler named Edward Winslow that never uses the word thanksgiving, but does mention a weeklong harvest celebration that included a three day celebration with King Massasoit and 90 Wampanoag men so that “we might after a more special manner rejoice together.” This was in 1621 in the Plymouth Colony. But some historians argue that the first Thanksgiving meal was celebrated in Florida, not Massachusetts, when in 1565, a Spanish fleet landed and planted a cross in the sandy soil of St. Augustine “to christen the soil.” The story goes that the 800 Spanish settlers shared a festive meal with the native Timucuan people. The Spanish had the food they brought with them from Europe, mainly hard rolls, and the Timucuan probably shared some fish and clams with the settlers.
Other historians claim that the first Thanksgiving was not at St. Augustine but on the St. John’s River, what is now Jacksonville. These were French Protestants, Huguenots, Calvinists like the Pilgrims, and they held a service of thanksgiving with the Timucuans to celebrate the 1564 establishment of Fort Caroline. The French explorer, Rene Goulaine de Laudonniere, wrote in his journal, “We sang a psalm of thanksgiving unto God, beseeching him that it would please his Grace to continue his goodness toward us.” Unfortunately, grace did not overcome hatred, because the Spanish attacked the French Protestants, accusing them of being heretics. The Spanish murdered 130 French Protestants, and two weeks later massacred an additional 200 French shipwreck survivors at an inlet near St. Augustine. The bloodshed undoubtedly helped to wash away the memory of any Thanksgiving meal.
James W. Baker, who wrote a book, Thanksgiving: The Biography of an American Holiday, notes that it was traditional for European explorers to give thanks after a safe trans-Atlantic crossing, but he claims these isolated instances bear no relation to the American Thanksgiving. He also claims that there was NEVER a single first Thanksgiving, neither in Plymouth for the three day harvest festival in 1621 nor in any other location. It was not until 1841, he claimed, that people began to talk about the Pilgrims hosting the first Thanksgiving.
A National Day of Thanksgiving was first called for to celebrate a victory over the British at the Battle of Saratoga, which took place in two stages on September 19 and October 7, 1777. In 1789 George Washington again called for a National Day of Thanksgiving to celebrate the end of the Revolutionary War and the ratification of the Constitution. And during the Civil War, both the North and the South issued Thanksgiving Day celebrations following major victories. It is interesting to note that President Thomas Jefferson NEVER called for a National Day of Thanksgiving, believing that a wall of separation between church and state precluded any such celebrations.
It was not until 1863, when President Abraham Lincoln called for an annual Thanksgiving celebration on the final Thursday in November. Sarah Josepha Hale was an impassioned advocate for the holiday, and she has become known as “The Mother of Thanksgiving.” Sarah Hale had written the children’s poem, Mary Had a Little Lamb, and she was a tireless advocate for women’s education, helping to found Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York. She also saw to it that a monument to the Battle of Bunker Hill was created, and she helped to save George Washington’s Mount Vernon home. For decades, Sarah Hale had written impassioned letters to various presidents, pleading for a National Day of Thanksgiving. Finally, Abraham Lincoln agreed.
As you can see, the history around Thanksgiving is extremely convoluted and multi-faceted. I must admit, however, that I still very much like what my first grade teacher told our class. The lesson back then was clear and a good one: cooperation matters, and human survival depends upon it. Jesus would certainly agree. It is a lesson that still needs learning as our nation continues to deal with hatred and prejudice.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
A New Kind of King, A New Kind of Grace
The Reign of Christ Sunday, Nov. 20, 2022
First Church in Unionville, CT
Colossians 1: 11-20
Luke 22: 33-43
Some years ago, I went on an ecumenical Reformation trip through many of the Reformation sites in Germany and then onto Rome and the glory of St. Peter’s and the exquisite beauty of the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. But what moved me the most was seeing Wartburg Castle with this little dark room and its cold, stony walls, the place where Martin Luther in just 11 weeks translated the New Testament from Greek into German. If you looked very carefully at the wall you could see the ink stain, the mark Luther made when he threw his inkwell at the devil.
Luther doubted that he could really make God’s Word accessible to the common man and woman. Rome did not want the Bible translated into the language people spoke. He could feel, he said, the devil’s grip on his soul, and it was then that he threw his inkwell. “Be gone, Satan, you shall not tempt me away from God’s Word.” Luther’s world was one people understood to be filled with principalities and powers, powers not so unlike those to which Paul refers in his letter to the Colossians. These powers and principalities were the forces people believed influenced and even controlled their world and their destiny. A Roman soldier would think he would do well to placate the god, Mars, and both Jews and Christians would have believed in the power of angels and devils to influence earthly events. And though we might smile at such naivete, consider the powers that rule our lives---the market or the economy or politics or terrorism---principalities and powers that none of us can really touch or see, but we believe in their power to influence our lives. This is the way we talk about our reality, just as Paul and later Luther would talk about their reality. The language they used was different from ours, but they did mean what we mean--- there are forces operating outside our immediate control.
And yet what Paul is saying in Colossians is that as powerful as all these forces are, they are subservient to Christ. Christ has conquered them, but not through the traditional channels of power, not like a Caesar or a mighty warrior, but through what appears to be complete weakness and utter defeat---death on a cross, an excruciating, humiliating death. Some (including Luther) would say that Christ’s death satisfied an angry God for the insult of sin, and Christ, being the perfect human, could make the perfect sacrifice or pay the perfect payment.
But it is not God who demands blood; it’s human beings. You are going to pay, we say---pay for this and that terrible crime, like some of the parents, enraged because the young man, who killed their children at Marjorie Stoneham High School did not get the death penalty. And in Jesus’ case his “terrible” crime was the refusal to grant to the principalities and powers ultimate authority. They have their place---render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar---but not everything belongs to Caesar, or the Temple or the economy or the war. Our ultimate loyalty belongs to God, and when you live as if you really believe that (as Jesus did) you get into a lot of trouble. Now Luther was no Jesus Christ, but when he stopped ceding power to the Pope, his fate was sealed, and had it not been for Frederick the Wise, who hid Luther in Wartburg Castle, Luther would have been burned for heresy.
Now Luther made a brilliant distinction between a theology of glory and a theology of the cross. The church, he claimed, was very adept at cultivating the theology of glory. The glory was all around. You could see it, touch it, smell it, and even buy it. But the theology of the cross reveals grace in what appears as weakness and defeat. It does not look like the victories the successful want and get.
In the liturgical calendar today is called The Reign of Christ Sunday, the last Sunday in the church year with next Sunday being the first Sunday in Advent. On this Sunday Christ is crowned King. And kings are supposed to rule in power and majesty. Yet the Gospel reading the lectionary chooses is the story of Christ’s crucifixion as told in Luke. In other words, Christ’s kingship and power and victory are hidden in the humiliation and weakness and defeat of the cross. The theology of glory is easy to see. We know what success looks like, but what kind of king, what kind of grace comes in the form of a defeated crucified human being? That is not what we want, and it is not what we expect. But sometimes this is exactly how grace comes---in places and ways that have nothing to do with success or power.
As in the story of a 10 year old boy named Shay, mentally and physically challenged. His father and he were out for a walk one Saturday afternoon, when they came upon a baseball game of kids Shay knew. And Shay asked his father in his halting way if he thought the boys might let him play. His father thought he knew the answer, but still, he approached one of the boys on the field and asked on his son’s behalf. The boy looked around and said, “We’re losing by 6 runs and the game is in the 8th inning. I guess he can be on our team, and we’ll try to put him in to bat in the 9th inning.”
Shay struggled over to the team’s bench and with a broad smile put on a team t shirt. In the 8th inning, Shay’s team scored some runs but was still behind by three, and in the bottom of the 9th inning, Shay’s team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base, and Shay was scheduled to be at bat. There was some hesitation on the team, and one parent walked over, but before anyone could say a word, the team captain handed Shay the bat.
As Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher on the other team recognized what was going on---the team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay’s life, and so the pitcher moved in a few steps and threw the ball at Shay’s bat. Shay swung wildly and missed, and so the pitcher took a few more steps forward and once again threw the ball toward Shay’s bat. Again, Shay swung and missed. A third try and this time the ball made contact with the bat with a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher, who could have easily picked it up and thrown it to first base. Instead, he threw the ball right over the first baseman’s head, out of reach of all his team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, “Run Shay, run. Run to first.” Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. And then people began yelling, Run to second, run to second. Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded toward second base, the right fielder, the smallest guy on the team, had the ball, and he could have thrown the ball to the second baseman for the tag, but he understood what this game was really about, and so he intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head. Shay ran toward third base as the runners before him circled the bases toward home. All were screaming, Shay, Shay, go Shay, go. Shay reached third base only because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the right direction. When he touched third base, everyone began yelling, “Go for home, Shay, go for home. You can do it, Shay, you can make it. Shay could barely run now. His legs were shaking, and his lungs felt as if they would burst apart, but he gave it his all, limping and falling a few times before he finally reached home base, where everyone hailed him as the hero of the day.
Six months later Shay died, and Shay’s father told this story at his son’s funeral with the boys from both teams present, wearing their baseball caps and t shirts. Shay, in fact, was buried in the same pair of pants and team t-shirt he wore the day of the game. At the end of the story, the father looked out at the boys and said, “You helped to bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world that day.” And the minister added, “God throws out pieces of grace everyday, and sometimes people catch it and pass it on, as these boys did with Shay.”
We think we know what is important, what really matters. Our newspapers and television are filled with stories about big and important people and events. And yes, inflation matters and so do elections. But in Jesus’ day, his death on a cross would have hardly registered on Rome’s screen, because Rome executed thousands of Jews. What kind of king is this? And what kind of grace does this crucified king bring? As Protestants we might say it is the kind of grace that sometimes defies Popes and councils and changes the world—front page news. But sometimes it’s the kind grace that comes softly and quietly, appearing on a Saturday afternoon on a baseball field where a group of kids are playing. Who would have thought it? But then who would have thought that the man crucified at the place of the Skull was a king, a new kind of king, bringing a new kind of grace.
The Reign of Christ Sunday, Nov. 20, 2022
First Church in Unionville, CT
Colossians 1: 11-20
Luke 22: 33-43
Some years ago, I went on an ecumenical Reformation trip through many of the Reformation sites in Germany and then onto Rome and the glory of St. Peter’s and the exquisite beauty of the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. But what moved me the most was seeing Wartburg Castle with this little dark room and its cold, stony walls, the place where Martin Luther in just 11 weeks translated the New Testament from Greek into German. If you looked very carefully at the wall you could see the ink stain, the mark Luther made when he threw his inkwell at the devil.
Luther doubted that he could really make God’s Word accessible to the common man and woman. Rome did not want the Bible translated into the language people spoke. He could feel, he said, the devil’s grip on his soul, and it was then that he threw his inkwell. “Be gone, Satan, you shall not tempt me away from God’s Word.” Luther’s world was one people understood to be filled with principalities and powers, powers not so unlike those to which Paul refers in his letter to the Colossians. These powers and principalities were the forces people believed influenced and even controlled their world and their destiny. A Roman soldier would think he would do well to placate the god, Mars, and both Jews and Christians would have believed in the power of angels and devils to influence earthly events. And though we might smile at such naivete, consider the powers that rule our lives---the market or the economy or politics or terrorism---principalities and powers that none of us can really touch or see, but we believe in their power to influence our lives. This is the way we talk about our reality, just as Paul and later Luther would talk about their reality. The language they used was different from ours, but they did mean what we mean--- there are forces operating outside our immediate control.
And yet what Paul is saying in Colossians is that as powerful as all these forces are, they are subservient to Christ. Christ has conquered them, but not through the traditional channels of power, not like a Caesar or a mighty warrior, but through what appears to be complete weakness and utter defeat---death on a cross, an excruciating, humiliating death. Some (including Luther) would say that Christ’s death satisfied an angry God for the insult of sin, and Christ, being the perfect human, could make the perfect sacrifice or pay the perfect payment.
But it is not God who demands blood; it’s human beings. You are going to pay, we say---pay for this and that terrible crime, like some of the parents, enraged because the young man, who killed their children at Marjorie Stoneham High School did not get the death penalty. And in Jesus’ case his “terrible” crime was the refusal to grant to the principalities and powers ultimate authority. They have their place---render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar---but not everything belongs to Caesar, or the Temple or the economy or the war. Our ultimate loyalty belongs to God, and when you live as if you really believe that (as Jesus did) you get into a lot of trouble. Now Luther was no Jesus Christ, but when he stopped ceding power to the Pope, his fate was sealed, and had it not been for Frederick the Wise, who hid Luther in Wartburg Castle, Luther would have been burned for heresy.
Now Luther made a brilliant distinction between a theology of glory and a theology of the cross. The church, he claimed, was very adept at cultivating the theology of glory. The glory was all around. You could see it, touch it, smell it, and even buy it. But the theology of the cross reveals grace in what appears as weakness and defeat. It does not look like the victories the successful want and get.
In the liturgical calendar today is called The Reign of Christ Sunday, the last Sunday in the church year with next Sunday being the first Sunday in Advent. On this Sunday Christ is crowned King. And kings are supposed to rule in power and majesty. Yet the Gospel reading the lectionary chooses is the story of Christ’s crucifixion as told in Luke. In other words, Christ’s kingship and power and victory are hidden in the humiliation and weakness and defeat of the cross. The theology of glory is easy to see. We know what success looks like, but what kind of king, what kind of grace comes in the form of a defeated crucified human being? That is not what we want, and it is not what we expect. But sometimes this is exactly how grace comes---in places and ways that have nothing to do with success or power.
As in the story of a 10 year old boy named Shay, mentally and physically challenged. His father and he were out for a walk one Saturday afternoon, when they came upon a baseball game of kids Shay knew. And Shay asked his father in his halting way if he thought the boys might let him play. His father thought he knew the answer, but still, he approached one of the boys on the field and asked on his son’s behalf. The boy looked around and said, “We’re losing by 6 runs and the game is in the 8th inning. I guess he can be on our team, and we’ll try to put him in to bat in the 9th inning.”
Shay struggled over to the team’s bench and with a broad smile put on a team t shirt. In the 8th inning, Shay’s team scored some runs but was still behind by three, and in the bottom of the 9th inning, Shay’s team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base, and Shay was scheduled to be at bat. There was some hesitation on the team, and one parent walked over, but before anyone could say a word, the team captain handed Shay the bat.
As Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher on the other team recognized what was going on---the team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay’s life, and so the pitcher moved in a few steps and threw the ball at Shay’s bat. Shay swung wildly and missed, and so the pitcher took a few more steps forward and once again threw the ball toward Shay’s bat. Again, Shay swung and missed. A third try and this time the ball made contact with the bat with a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher, who could have easily picked it up and thrown it to first base. Instead, he threw the ball right over the first baseman’s head, out of reach of all his team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, “Run Shay, run. Run to first.” Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base. And then people began yelling, Run to second, run to second. Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second struggling to make it to the base. By the time Shay rounded toward second base, the right fielder, the smallest guy on the team, had the ball, and he could have thrown the ball to the second baseman for the tag, but he understood what this game was really about, and so he intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head. Shay ran toward third base as the runners before him circled the bases toward home. All were screaming, Shay, Shay, go Shay, go. Shay reached third base only because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the right direction. When he touched third base, everyone began yelling, “Go for home, Shay, go for home. You can do it, Shay, you can make it. Shay could barely run now. His legs were shaking, and his lungs felt as if they would burst apart, but he gave it his all, limping and falling a few times before he finally reached home base, where everyone hailed him as the hero of the day.
Six months later Shay died, and Shay’s father told this story at his son’s funeral with the boys from both teams present, wearing their baseball caps and t shirts. Shay, in fact, was buried in the same pair of pants and team t-shirt he wore the day of the game. At the end of the story, the father looked out at the boys and said, “You helped to bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world that day.” And the minister added, “God throws out pieces of grace everyday, and sometimes people catch it and pass it on, as these boys did with Shay.”
We think we know what is important, what really matters. Our newspapers and television are filled with stories about big and important people and events. And yes, inflation matters and so do elections. But in Jesus’ day, his death on a cross would have hardly registered on Rome’s screen, because Rome executed thousands of Jews. What kind of king is this? And what kind of grace does this crucified king bring? As Protestants we might say it is the kind of grace that sometimes defies Popes and councils and changes the world—front page news. But sometimes it’s the kind grace that comes softly and quietly, appearing on a Saturday afternoon on a baseball field where a group of kids are playing. Who would have thought it? But then who would have thought that the man crucified at the place of the Skull was a king, a new kind of king, bringing a new kind of grace.
November 16, 2022
Dear Friends,
Right after the recent election, I came across an interesting article about a walk across Maine, made in 1972 by a then 31 year old trial lawyer and mayor of Bangor. William Cohen was a Republican, interested in serving in Congress and so in 1972 he undertook a six week walk across Maine. The man who engineered the walk, now a retired professor of government from Bowdoin College, Christian Potholm, said that today such a walk would be impossible. Media is far too interfering and leaves no privacy at all. The conversations Cohen had occurred on sidewalks or on front porches and lawns, sometimes in factories and also in peoples’ living and dining rooms. There was no knocking on doors. Signs were posted along the path that Bob Cohen would be coming along around such and such a time, and anyone wanting to speak with him, was encouraged to be “there.” And people were “there”. They wanted to see this young guy, who was walking 20 miles a day for a job none of them could ever imagine wanting. Cohen did not have a lot of plans and no money to pay for hotels and food. But people always offered him a place to spend the night as well as plenty of food. Despite walking 20 miles a day, he gained 20 pounds over the six week period.
Cohen had a small group of campaign volunteers, four or five. They hardly had any budget, maybe enough to pay for one motel room for all of them, but money for food was their own responsibility. There was this one time when the one phone booth in this small town was vandalized, and the town was just in an outrage. Well, the volunteers let Bob know about the concern, and when he arrived at the town, he talked to them about crime and how it can make people feel assaulted, even if it does not directly happen to them. And that is exactly how people felt. That phone booth was a part of their little town, a part of them, and they could not imagine why anyone would want to vandalize their phone booth. And though it may to us sound trivial, to these townspeople it mattered!
Most of the people Cohen stayed with were on the lower economic scale, and since Cohen was from a working class family, he could easily relate. He would ask them what they were looking for and what he could do for them, if he ever got to Washington, DC, but he often had the feeling they were just looking for someone to hear them, to listen to them. Think back to 1972, if you can. Things were tightening up: inflation was on the rise and the energy crisis was beginning to make its harshness felt. It would not be long before people were waiting in line to buy gas for their cars and trucks. And in Maine there were and still are a great many trucks!
Cohen won that election and the next two as well. In the House he served on the Judiciary Committee, building an impeachment case against Richard Nixon, whom he would have voted to impeach, if it had come to a formal vote. In 1976 he won a Senate Seat, and served there until 1996, when he said he would not run for re-election, because of partisan gridlock. But President Bill Clinton had other plans for Cohen, and offered him the position of Secretary of Defense, which Cohen took, the first time a President of a different Party offered a position on his Cabinet to an elected official from another Party.
The Christian Science Monitor named William Cohen “a Renaissance Man,” educated at Bowdoin College in Latin and Greek classics, a writer of poetry and non-fiction and later trained in law at Boston University School of Law. But what many in Maine remember about Bill Cohen is his famous walk across Maine, when he visited ordinary citizens and their places of work. Maine back then was known as the shoe capital of America, and indeed he visited a lot of shoe factories, where he was often gifted with a new pair of boots. He still recalls putting on one of those new boots and barely being able to walk, his feet were so tired and blistered. There were a few times he had to seek medical attention for his feet. And then there was the time he and his team went to a drive in movie, and just went around, knocking on car windows to talk to people. People thought he was crazy and told him so!
Bars may be a place to meet voters, but Cohen did not find bars to be a good place to talk to voters. “People, who are drinking,” he said, “are usually either happy or very angry. They’re almost never happy to see a politician.” He remembers this one night at a bar, when he was shaking hands with people, and one man refused to shake his hand. “Do you know me?” Cohen asked. “Yea,” the man answered. “You’re the son of a bitch who put me in jail!” Cohen decided to leave and had no interest in returning to bars, looking for votes.
There’s a book about the walk: Bill Cohen’s 1972 Campaign for Congress. An Oral History of the Walk that Changed Maine Politics. People say you could not do this today. “Too much money washing around these days,” preventing the kind of simple honesty Bill Cohen’s walk led to. He really did walk, usually 20 miles a day, and there were times, when he was far out into rural Maine, he did not see a person or a car for hours. But people saw him, a trucker or two, who would later tell other truckers that they saw “this crazy guy, walking and walking, slapping flies off his neck and face. “I guess he really wants the job.”
I would not try to compare Bill Cohen to Jesus, but Jesus did spend a lot of time on the road, just walking, meeting people and listening to what they had to say as well as telling a story now and then. I do think Jesus had a lot of a skilled politician in him. He knew how to listen and he knew how to tell a good story.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Right after the recent election, I came across an interesting article about a walk across Maine, made in 1972 by a then 31 year old trial lawyer and mayor of Bangor. William Cohen was a Republican, interested in serving in Congress and so in 1972 he undertook a six week walk across Maine. The man who engineered the walk, now a retired professor of government from Bowdoin College, Christian Potholm, said that today such a walk would be impossible. Media is far too interfering and leaves no privacy at all. The conversations Cohen had occurred on sidewalks or on front porches and lawns, sometimes in factories and also in peoples’ living and dining rooms. There was no knocking on doors. Signs were posted along the path that Bob Cohen would be coming along around such and such a time, and anyone wanting to speak with him, was encouraged to be “there.” And people were “there”. They wanted to see this young guy, who was walking 20 miles a day for a job none of them could ever imagine wanting. Cohen did not have a lot of plans and no money to pay for hotels and food. But people always offered him a place to spend the night as well as plenty of food. Despite walking 20 miles a day, he gained 20 pounds over the six week period.
Cohen had a small group of campaign volunteers, four or five. They hardly had any budget, maybe enough to pay for one motel room for all of them, but money for food was their own responsibility. There was this one time when the one phone booth in this small town was vandalized, and the town was just in an outrage. Well, the volunteers let Bob know about the concern, and when he arrived at the town, he talked to them about crime and how it can make people feel assaulted, even if it does not directly happen to them. And that is exactly how people felt. That phone booth was a part of their little town, a part of them, and they could not imagine why anyone would want to vandalize their phone booth. And though it may to us sound trivial, to these townspeople it mattered!
Most of the people Cohen stayed with were on the lower economic scale, and since Cohen was from a working class family, he could easily relate. He would ask them what they were looking for and what he could do for them, if he ever got to Washington, DC, but he often had the feeling they were just looking for someone to hear them, to listen to them. Think back to 1972, if you can. Things were tightening up: inflation was on the rise and the energy crisis was beginning to make its harshness felt. It would not be long before people were waiting in line to buy gas for their cars and trucks. And in Maine there were and still are a great many trucks!
Cohen won that election and the next two as well. In the House he served on the Judiciary Committee, building an impeachment case against Richard Nixon, whom he would have voted to impeach, if it had come to a formal vote. In 1976 he won a Senate Seat, and served there until 1996, when he said he would not run for re-election, because of partisan gridlock. But President Bill Clinton had other plans for Cohen, and offered him the position of Secretary of Defense, which Cohen took, the first time a President of a different Party offered a position on his Cabinet to an elected official from another Party.
The Christian Science Monitor named William Cohen “a Renaissance Man,” educated at Bowdoin College in Latin and Greek classics, a writer of poetry and non-fiction and later trained in law at Boston University School of Law. But what many in Maine remember about Bill Cohen is his famous walk across Maine, when he visited ordinary citizens and their places of work. Maine back then was known as the shoe capital of America, and indeed he visited a lot of shoe factories, where he was often gifted with a new pair of boots. He still recalls putting on one of those new boots and barely being able to walk, his feet were so tired and blistered. There were a few times he had to seek medical attention for his feet. And then there was the time he and his team went to a drive in movie, and just went around, knocking on car windows to talk to people. People thought he was crazy and told him so!
Bars may be a place to meet voters, but Cohen did not find bars to be a good place to talk to voters. “People, who are drinking,” he said, “are usually either happy or very angry. They’re almost never happy to see a politician.” He remembers this one night at a bar, when he was shaking hands with people, and one man refused to shake his hand. “Do you know me?” Cohen asked. “Yea,” the man answered. “You’re the son of a bitch who put me in jail!” Cohen decided to leave and had no interest in returning to bars, looking for votes.
There’s a book about the walk: Bill Cohen’s 1972 Campaign for Congress. An Oral History of the Walk that Changed Maine Politics. People say you could not do this today. “Too much money washing around these days,” preventing the kind of simple honesty Bill Cohen’s walk led to. He really did walk, usually 20 miles a day, and there were times, when he was far out into rural Maine, he did not see a person or a car for hours. But people saw him, a trucker or two, who would later tell other truckers that they saw “this crazy guy, walking and walking, slapping flies off his neck and face. “I guess he really wants the job.”
I would not try to compare Bill Cohen to Jesus, but Jesus did spend a lot of time on the road, just walking, meeting people and listening to what they had to say as well as telling a story now and then. I do think Jesus had a lot of a skilled politician in him. He knew how to listen and he knew how to tell a good story.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
THE STORIES WE TELL AND REMEMBER
Preached by Sandra Olsen
FIRST CHURCH OF CHRIST IN UNIONVILLE, CT
November 13, 2022
Isaiah 65: 17-25
Luke 21: 5-19
Just last month I was having a conversation with my oldest grandchild, Siena, who turned 17 last summer. I reminded her how at the age of 3 she was fascinated with her memory. She wanted to know why it is she could remember all these things in her head. I guess I was a very advanced child, she said, but now I realize that I don’t remember things in the same way. When I was five, I thought it was terrible when at my birthday party my cake fell on the floor, but now I think it’s funny. And I wonder, as I apply to colleges and if I don’t get into Georgetown or Yale or some other prestigious school, I will probably be very upset. But 10 or 20 years from now, I will most likely think, “How silly of me! All that prestige does not matter in the least! But that is not how I think and feel now! So, she said, I guess looking back can change everything---even our memories.
Siena’s comment reminded me of something my father said. He landed on one of the Normandy beaches, but over a month after D-Day. And all these local French people were on the beach sunbathing or swimming in the mid July ocean. My father certainly knew what happened on June 6, and so he told me he carried in his mind two images---one of the brutal landing, but the other of people swimming, and because he had personally witnessed the latter, it changed his viewpoint. I found myself thinking at the time of my landing, he told me, that life goes on, and even the horror has an end, but I am not sure I would have felt that way, had I landed on June 6. I spent the war behind a desk at the Headquarters of the 101st Army, and though I read the communications that described the battles and the losses, still I did not see it face to face, and so my memories of war are quite different from those who actually did the fighting.”
Indeed, how we remember and what we remember are often a function of the position we find ourselves in---and our position sometimes changes as my granddaughter already realizes. I visited one of my brothers a few weeks ago in New Jersey, and he and I both remembered how our parents used to say that life was getting worse and worse. School shootings, lack of civility, diminishing church attendance---all these things would elicit comments about how things are going to hell. I would argue, reminding them that they lived through a war that saw 3% of the world’s population perish. 55 million civilians died alone, 20 million from disease and starvation and another 25 million military dead. And we had genocide on a grand scale, practiced by the same nation, which gave us Bach and Beethoven, Goethe, and Kant. Your day was a lot worse than now, I would insist. But I made no headway with them, because when they remembered their past, they remembered a time when the nation was united and agreed on what the goals were. Oh, the agreements were probably not as strong as they recalled, but they had made their memories of the past, and there was no way I was going to change them. And sometimes memories are more important than the reality. Our two readings from the Bible today are really about memories---about looking back on the past, but also forward to a future.
Consider the very difficult position in which Isaiah and his people had found themselves. The unthinkable had happened in 587 B.C. Jerusalem had fallen to the Babylonian Empire, and the leaders were taken away to Babylon. First Isaiah had talked about the coming catastrophe because the people had failed to honor the Covenant with God; Second Isaiah had tried to comfort them in their time as captives, but now Third Isaiah faced a new situation. The Jews were now no longer captives in Babylon, and those who wanted to return to Jerusalem were allowed to do so.
Cyrus of Persia had destroyed the Babylonian empire, and he was the one who offered the Jews the option of returning. Yet not all the Jews wanted to return. A little more than 50 years had passed. Many of the original exiles had died; people had been born, who had no memory of Jerusalem, and though there were those who remembered the story, the glory of Jerusalem and the beautiful Temple and the Law God had given them---not all enthusiastically embraced that story. Some had a new story to tell themselves about their new life in Babylon. But there was a remnant, who returned, and what they found was devastation. It looked as if nothing had been done in 50 years, and it probably had not, since skilled labor was carried off to Babylon along with other forms of leadership and competence. Rebuilding was so much harder than they had imagined, and so bitterness and resentment set in. While they remembered the past they had lost, they had no new memory to sustain them. And this is exactly what Isaiah tried to give them, a new story to live for and by. The promise was that God would create a new Jerusalem, where pain and sorrow and distress would be no more. The wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox, and no one shall hurt or destroy on God’s holy mountain. This is the new creation, the promised future, something for which the returned Jews could hope as they tried to rebuild their lives.
And the new creation had not yet arrived for the people, hearing Luke’s gospel, written 40 or 50 years after Jesus lived. They were living in tough times. The Temple had been destroyed by the Romans in the year 70, and the followers of Jesus were being brought before the authorities, both Jewish and Roman. They too had their memories. Some probably remembered Jesus in the flesh, others remembered him through the stories that were told. They had seen so much change, and they were trying to make sense of it all, just as the Jews, who returned from Babylon tried to make sense of it. And in the midst of all that turmoil and change, they remembered a story of a new beginning, the promise that if they would endure, God would make the new creation.
We all struggle to make sense of our lives and our world. We all have memories, our personal stories. But our personal stories are also part of a wider story, the story of history, the story of God in history. Both Isaiah and Luke were trying to help people see their lives in a larger context, as part of God’s story, God’s history. This is why religious traditions have texts. These stories become part of the collective memory; they tell us who we are, where we come from and where we might go. They remind us that we are not the center of the story, but we are part of the story.
When my husband and I went to Poland five years ago, we visited the concentration camps, Auschwitz and Birkenau. I have spoken of my experience before and some of the people I met there. One was the daughter of a man, who had survived the camp. He had lost his first wife and two children, but after the war, he moved to Israel and remarried and had another family, two daughters and a son. The daughter I met told me the most amazing thing about her father was his lack of bitterness. I never could figure out why he was not angry or bitter, she told me. He went on with his life, and though he remembered the past, he was not stuck there. I always wondered how was it possible to get over something that traumatic. When I turned 40, I finally got up the nerve to ask him. And he told me he saw himself as part of a remnant, the survivors, who went home, which is what Israel is for him, and made a new life for themselves and their children.
I left Israel in my 20’s, moving to the United States to make a new life for myself, eventually becoming a history professor. And my father was never angry or upset with me for leaving Israel, though some of his friends thought I was terrible for doing so. But he told me, “You have your own life to live, your own story to make, so live it and make it, but remember that your story should be part of something larger than yourself.” And that is good advice for us all.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
FIRST CHURCH OF CHRIST IN UNIONVILLE, CT
November 13, 2022
Isaiah 65: 17-25
Luke 21: 5-19
Just last month I was having a conversation with my oldest grandchild, Siena, who turned 17 last summer. I reminded her how at the age of 3 she was fascinated with her memory. She wanted to know why it is she could remember all these things in her head. I guess I was a very advanced child, she said, but now I realize that I don’t remember things in the same way. When I was five, I thought it was terrible when at my birthday party my cake fell on the floor, but now I think it’s funny. And I wonder, as I apply to colleges and if I don’t get into Georgetown or Yale or some other prestigious school, I will probably be very upset. But 10 or 20 years from now, I will most likely think, “How silly of me! All that prestige does not matter in the least! But that is not how I think and feel now! So, she said, I guess looking back can change everything---even our memories.
Siena’s comment reminded me of something my father said. He landed on one of the Normandy beaches, but over a month after D-Day. And all these local French people were on the beach sunbathing or swimming in the mid July ocean. My father certainly knew what happened on June 6, and so he told me he carried in his mind two images---one of the brutal landing, but the other of people swimming, and because he had personally witnessed the latter, it changed his viewpoint. I found myself thinking at the time of my landing, he told me, that life goes on, and even the horror has an end, but I am not sure I would have felt that way, had I landed on June 6. I spent the war behind a desk at the Headquarters of the 101st Army, and though I read the communications that described the battles and the losses, still I did not see it face to face, and so my memories of war are quite different from those who actually did the fighting.”
Indeed, how we remember and what we remember are often a function of the position we find ourselves in---and our position sometimes changes as my granddaughter already realizes. I visited one of my brothers a few weeks ago in New Jersey, and he and I both remembered how our parents used to say that life was getting worse and worse. School shootings, lack of civility, diminishing church attendance---all these things would elicit comments about how things are going to hell. I would argue, reminding them that they lived through a war that saw 3% of the world’s population perish. 55 million civilians died alone, 20 million from disease and starvation and another 25 million military dead. And we had genocide on a grand scale, practiced by the same nation, which gave us Bach and Beethoven, Goethe, and Kant. Your day was a lot worse than now, I would insist. But I made no headway with them, because when they remembered their past, they remembered a time when the nation was united and agreed on what the goals were. Oh, the agreements were probably not as strong as they recalled, but they had made their memories of the past, and there was no way I was going to change them. And sometimes memories are more important than the reality. Our two readings from the Bible today are really about memories---about looking back on the past, but also forward to a future.
Consider the very difficult position in which Isaiah and his people had found themselves. The unthinkable had happened in 587 B.C. Jerusalem had fallen to the Babylonian Empire, and the leaders were taken away to Babylon. First Isaiah had talked about the coming catastrophe because the people had failed to honor the Covenant with God; Second Isaiah had tried to comfort them in their time as captives, but now Third Isaiah faced a new situation. The Jews were now no longer captives in Babylon, and those who wanted to return to Jerusalem were allowed to do so.
Cyrus of Persia had destroyed the Babylonian empire, and he was the one who offered the Jews the option of returning. Yet not all the Jews wanted to return. A little more than 50 years had passed. Many of the original exiles had died; people had been born, who had no memory of Jerusalem, and though there were those who remembered the story, the glory of Jerusalem and the beautiful Temple and the Law God had given them---not all enthusiastically embraced that story. Some had a new story to tell themselves about their new life in Babylon. But there was a remnant, who returned, and what they found was devastation. It looked as if nothing had been done in 50 years, and it probably had not, since skilled labor was carried off to Babylon along with other forms of leadership and competence. Rebuilding was so much harder than they had imagined, and so bitterness and resentment set in. While they remembered the past they had lost, they had no new memory to sustain them. And this is exactly what Isaiah tried to give them, a new story to live for and by. The promise was that God would create a new Jerusalem, where pain and sorrow and distress would be no more. The wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox, and no one shall hurt or destroy on God’s holy mountain. This is the new creation, the promised future, something for which the returned Jews could hope as they tried to rebuild their lives.
And the new creation had not yet arrived for the people, hearing Luke’s gospel, written 40 or 50 years after Jesus lived. They were living in tough times. The Temple had been destroyed by the Romans in the year 70, and the followers of Jesus were being brought before the authorities, both Jewish and Roman. They too had their memories. Some probably remembered Jesus in the flesh, others remembered him through the stories that were told. They had seen so much change, and they were trying to make sense of it all, just as the Jews, who returned from Babylon tried to make sense of it. And in the midst of all that turmoil and change, they remembered a story of a new beginning, the promise that if they would endure, God would make the new creation.
We all struggle to make sense of our lives and our world. We all have memories, our personal stories. But our personal stories are also part of a wider story, the story of history, the story of God in history. Both Isaiah and Luke were trying to help people see their lives in a larger context, as part of God’s story, God’s history. This is why religious traditions have texts. These stories become part of the collective memory; they tell us who we are, where we come from and where we might go. They remind us that we are not the center of the story, but we are part of the story.
When my husband and I went to Poland five years ago, we visited the concentration camps, Auschwitz and Birkenau. I have spoken of my experience before and some of the people I met there. One was the daughter of a man, who had survived the camp. He had lost his first wife and two children, but after the war, he moved to Israel and remarried and had another family, two daughters and a son. The daughter I met told me the most amazing thing about her father was his lack of bitterness. I never could figure out why he was not angry or bitter, she told me. He went on with his life, and though he remembered the past, he was not stuck there. I always wondered how was it possible to get over something that traumatic. When I turned 40, I finally got up the nerve to ask him. And he told me he saw himself as part of a remnant, the survivors, who went home, which is what Israel is for him, and made a new life for themselves and their children.
I left Israel in my 20’s, moving to the United States to make a new life for myself, eventually becoming a history professor. And my father was never angry or upset with me for leaving Israel, though some of his friends thought I was terrible for doing so. But he told me, “You have your own life to live, your own story to make, so live it and make it, but remember that your story should be part of something larger than yourself.” And that is good advice for us all.
THE RIGHTEOUSNESS OF GOD: MARTIN LUTHER SPEAKS
PREACHED BY SANDRA OLSEN
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 23, 2022
Romans 1: 16-17
The black preaching robe: Do you have any idea what the significance of this is, what a long journey it was to arrive at the point where many ministers (not priests) choose to wear the black preaching robe in place of the white Alb? You see the preaching robe was the dress of academics, and to wear it in the pulpit was to acknowledge that the preaching of the Word required study, disciplined prayerful study. I, Martin Luther, was a teacher, a professor at Wittenberg University, and it was in the preparation of my lectures on scripture that I understood what Paul in his Letter to the Romans meant: we are justified not by our goods works but by faith. Faith alone. And so, until very recently your clergy always wore the black robe as a symbol of their commitment to study. It is only in the last 50 years, in an effort to be ecumenical that they now also wear the Alb and stoles. Such dress in the Reformed tradition (though not in the Lutheran tradition) would have been considered papist rot, the stinking excrement of Rome.
Strong language, yes, very strong language. But the 16th century was a time when strength was required. The issues meant life or death. Civility meant nothing; you could be civil and yet be burned at the stake. I continuously asked Rome and its representatives to show me where my ideas were wrong. Show me, I said, where Jesus said you can buy your salvation through the purchase of indulgences. Show me that you are saved by your works. But all they did was speak of authority, the authority of the Church, which meant the authority of the Pope. And what of scripture? I asked. The Pope decides such matters, I was told. And so, on April 18, 1521 at the Diet of Worms I stood before those gathered and said: “Unless I am shown by the testimony of scripture that I am wrong, for I do not believe in councils or Popes, I cannot and will not recant. My conscience is captive to the Word of God, and to act against conscience is neither right nor safe. Here I stand; I can do no other, so help me God.” Some say this was a turning point in western civilization when the individual conscience stood against the power of a mighty institution.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning---when I determined to become a monk. I was supposed to be a lawyer in deference to my father, who worked hard as a miner. He wanted a better life for his children; even in the 16th century there was what you call today upward mobility. And so, I began to study law. But late one afternoon, walking home, I suddenly found myself caught in a storm, a violent storm with thunder crashing and pounding, and lightening, flashing, sending shafts of terror through the sky and into my heart. Falling to the ground, I prayed, “St. Anne, save me, and I will become a monk.” Well, as you can see, I was saved and so I had to keep my promise. I did become a monk, much to the anger and disappointment of my father. Do not you know the third commandment? he asked me. Honor thy father and mother! Yes, of course, I knew it, but sometimes obedience takes a different path. I reminded him that even Jesus Christ disappointed his parents. Jesus came as it says in Matthew’s Gospel to place enmity between a mother and her daughter and a father and his son. No, it was not easy between my father and me, and I do not think he ever really forgave me for becoming a monk rather than a lawyer.
And I was a good monk, striving to be the perfect monk. Fastidious with every little vow, every little rule, every little mistake and sin: If I spilled a glass of milk, I confessed my carelessness; if I forgot to have a candle ready for Mass, I confessed my sloth. I was trying to be perfect, and yet the other monks laughed at me. Oh, there goes Martin with his overzealous conscience. He thinks he can buy God’s love and approval with his perfectionism. But I could not, and so my fear of hell led me to hate the God who would put me in hell. “Martin,” my spiritual adviser said, “It is not God who is angry with you, but you are angry with God.” And he was right. But what was I to do?
In the midst of my spiritual agony, something else was happening. The Pope wanted to build a great cathedral in Rome, a place in honor of St. Peter, a sacred home for all the relics---the teeth of this saint or that one, the robe which Mary wore, splattered with the blood of her dead son, two hairs of Jesus Christ. Oh, the list went on and on, and though Jesus only called 12 disciples my calculations showed that with all the different cathedrals claiming to have this or that part of a disciple’s body, there must have been at least 18. When I pointed this out to one of the bishops, he told me to keep my opinions to myself. But your Lordship, I insisted, this is not an opinion. Why look at this: Saint Peter himself must have had four ears, since there are 8 different churches claiming to have one of his ears. Surely, this is an error. “The Church,” he sternly reminded me, “does not make errors.”
Well, as bad as that was, it was nothing compared to what that papist vermin, John Tetzel, said and did when he arrived at the marketplace in Jutterborg in 1517. That ecclesiastical worm had the gall to say that he saved more souls than St. Peter himself---all because of the indulgences he was authorized to sell. Carrying sealed envelopes with pieces of paper neatly tucked inside, Tetzel held them up for all to see. This is God’s great gift to you, he said. For every one of these you buy, a sin will be remitted. And do you know what else I have been empowered to do? These indulgences are not only for the sins you have already committed, but they will also work for the sins you have not yet committed. “When a coin into the coffer rings, a soul from purgatory springs!”
So full of wrath was I that I wanted to beat his face in, but restraining myself I challenged him, “You are not worth more than the rotting excrement in the Pope’s bowels.” Yes, that is exactly what I said, and do you know what that swine Tetzel responded, “And from whose bowels do you think these indulgences come?” Yes, they came from The Holy Father, Pope Leo X. While I had no right to expect perfection from the Pope; after all, he was human, but certainly I had a right not to expect such utter and complete corruption. Willfully misleading people: the Pope knew that indulgences were impotent against sin. But he was not about truth or salvation, but about money and power and fame, for Leo wanted to be remembered as the Pope who built St. Peter’s in Rome. He needed money for that endeavor and the sale of indulgences would bring in the needed income.
That day in the marketplace was a turning point, and the revolution that came to be called the Reformation exploded. In response to Tetzel, I tacked my 95 Theses to the door of the Palace Church in Wittenberg. These were points to be debated. This is what professors commonly did. They posted their ideas to be considered and then debated. And so, the debate began. I debated men far more subtle in intellect than Tetzel; Cajetan, for example, a cardinal and general of the Dominican Order, Rome’s highest representative in Germany. He was a formidable opponent, a man of great intellect, and it gave him immense pleasure as a Dominican to go against me, an Augustinian monk. There was a competitive spirit sometimes between the two orders, and he would have liked to have proven me wrong. “All you have to do, Martin,” he said, “is confess your errors, retract your words, and do not return like a dog to its vomit.” And what about your vomit?” I asked. “Will you always return to it?” “I give you six months, Martin”, he said, “to roast yourself.” It will take more time than that, I countered.
Well, two years later in Wittenberg the bull of excommunication from Pope Leo X finally arrived. I stood before a great roaring fire, whose flames devoured the books of canon law, and I burned the bull of excommunication before the cheers of a great crowd. So long ago it was, a long and hard journey for me as well as for the Church. History moves on, and there have been changes in the Church I never would or could have foreseen. I translated the Bible from Latin into German in 11 weeks, while hiding in the Wartburg Castle. I wanted people to read and understand God’s Word, because I thought everything was at stake---especially our eternal souls.
How quaint that must sound today when so many look to nothing more than this world for their ultimate satisfaction. Perhaps that is why so many churches are empty. People are too busy in the world to want anything beyond the world, and so they will settle for a small bucket of happiness. It isn’t too much they want; it is far too little. I wanted everything---especially a gracious God who in Jesus Christ would save. Save from what, for what. For me it was salvation from hell for eternal life in heaven. But times do change, and what I was looking for then is probably not the same for you now. So, I will leave you with two short questions: What, if anything, are you looking to be saved from and what are you looking to be saved for? The questions are before you. And only you can answer them for yourself.
PREACHED BY SANDRA OLSEN
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 23, 2022
Romans 1: 16-17
The black preaching robe: Do you have any idea what the significance of this is, what a long journey it was to arrive at the point where many ministers (not priests) choose to wear the black preaching robe in place of the white Alb? You see the preaching robe was the dress of academics, and to wear it in the pulpit was to acknowledge that the preaching of the Word required study, disciplined prayerful study. I, Martin Luther, was a teacher, a professor at Wittenberg University, and it was in the preparation of my lectures on scripture that I understood what Paul in his Letter to the Romans meant: we are justified not by our goods works but by faith. Faith alone. And so, until very recently your clergy always wore the black robe as a symbol of their commitment to study. It is only in the last 50 years, in an effort to be ecumenical that they now also wear the Alb and stoles. Such dress in the Reformed tradition (though not in the Lutheran tradition) would have been considered papist rot, the stinking excrement of Rome.
Strong language, yes, very strong language. But the 16th century was a time when strength was required. The issues meant life or death. Civility meant nothing; you could be civil and yet be burned at the stake. I continuously asked Rome and its representatives to show me where my ideas were wrong. Show me, I said, where Jesus said you can buy your salvation through the purchase of indulgences. Show me that you are saved by your works. But all they did was speak of authority, the authority of the Church, which meant the authority of the Pope. And what of scripture? I asked. The Pope decides such matters, I was told. And so, on April 18, 1521 at the Diet of Worms I stood before those gathered and said: “Unless I am shown by the testimony of scripture that I am wrong, for I do not believe in councils or Popes, I cannot and will not recant. My conscience is captive to the Word of God, and to act against conscience is neither right nor safe. Here I stand; I can do no other, so help me God.” Some say this was a turning point in western civilization when the individual conscience stood against the power of a mighty institution.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning---when I determined to become a monk. I was supposed to be a lawyer in deference to my father, who worked hard as a miner. He wanted a better life for his children; even in the 16th century there was what you call today upward mobility. And so, I began to study law. But late one afternoon, walking home, I suddenly found myself caught in a storm, a violent storm with thunder crashing and pounding, and lightening, flashing, sending shafts of terror through the sky and into my heart. Falling to the ground, I prayed, “St. Anne, save me, and I will become a monk.” Well, as you can see, I was saved and so I had to keep my promise. I did become a monk, much to the anger and disappointment of my father. Do not you know the third commandment? he asked me. Honor thy father and mother! Yes, of course, I knew it, but sometimes obedience takes a different path. I reminded him that even Jesus Christ disappointed his parents. Jesus came as it says in Matthew’s Gospel to place enmity between a mother and her daughter and a father and his son. No, it was not easy between my father and me, and I do not think he ever really forgave me for becoming a monk rather than a lawyer.
And I was a good monk, striving to be the perfect monk. Fastidious with every little vow, every little rule, every little mistake and sin: If I spilled a glass of milk, I confessed my carelessness; if I forgot to have a candle ready for Mass, I confessed my sloth. I was trying to be perfect, and yet the other monks laughed at me. Oh, there goes Martin with his overzealous conscience. He thinks he can buy God’s love and approval with his perfectionism. But I could not, and so my fear of hell led me to hate the God who would put me in hell. “Martin,” my spiritual adviser said, “It is not God who is angry with you, but you are angry with God.” And he was right. But what was I to do?
In the midst of my spiritual agony, something else was happening. The Pope wanted to build a great cathedral in Rome, a place in honor of St. Peter, a sacred home for all the relics---the teeth of this saint or that one, the robe which Mary wore, splattered with the blood of her dead son, two hairs of Jesus Christ. Oh, the list went on and on, and though Jesus only called 12 disciples my calculations showed that with all the different cathedrals claiming to have this or that part of a disciple’s body, there must have been at least 18. When I pointed this out to one of the bishops, he told me to keep my opinions to myself. But your Lordship, I insisted, this is not an opinion. Why look at this: Saint Peter himself must have had four ears, since there are 8 different churches claiming to have one of his ears. Surely, this is an error. “The Church,” he sternly reminded me, “does not make errors.”
Well, as bad as that was, it was nothing compared to what that papist vermin, John Tetzel, said and did when he arrived at the marketplace in Jutterborg in 1517. That ecclesiastical worm had the gall to say that he saved more souls than St. Peter himself---all because of the indulgences he was authorized to sell. Carrying sealed envelopes with pieces of paper neatly tucked inside, Tetzel held them up for all to see. This is God’s great gift to you, he said. For every one of these you buy, a sin will be remitted. And do you know what else I have been empowered to do? These indulgences are not only for the sins you have already committed, but they will also work for the sins you have not yet committed. “When a coin into the coffer rings, a soul from purgatory springs!”
So full of wrath was I that I wanted to beat his face in, but restraining myself I challenged him, “You are not worth more than the rotting excrement in the Pope’s bowels.” Yes, that is exactly what I said, and do you know what that swine Tetzel responded, “And from whose bowels do you think these indulgences come?” Yes, they came from The Holy Father, Pope Leo X. While I had no right to expect perfection from the Pope; after all, he was human, but certainly I had a right not to expect such utter and complete corruption. Willfully misleading people: the Pope knew that indulgences were impotent against sin. But he was not about truth or salvation, but about money and power and fame, for Leo wanted to be remembered as the Pope who built St. Peter’s in Rome. He needed money for that endeavor and the sale of indulgences would bring in the needed income.
That day in the marketplace was a turning point, and the revolution that came to be called the Reformation exploded. In response to Tetzel, I tacked my 95 Theses to the door of the Palace Church in Wittenberg. These were points to be debated. This is what professors commonly did. They posted their ideas to be considered and then debated. And so, the debate began. I debated men far more subtle in intellect than Tetzel; Cajetan, for example, a cardinal and general of the Dominican Order, Rome’s highest representative in Germany. He was a formidable opponent, a man of great intellect, and it gave him immense pleasure as a Dominican to go against me, an Augustinian monk. There was a competitive spirit sometimes between the two orders, and he would have liked to have proven me wrong. “All you have to do, Martin,” he said, “is confess your errors, retract your words, and do not return like a dog to its vomit.” And what about your vomit?” I asked. “Will you always return to it?” “I give you six months, Martin”, he said, “to roast yourself.” It will take more time than that, I countered.
Well, two years later in Wittenberg the bull of excommunication from Pope Leo X finally arrived. I stood before a great roaring fire, whose flames devoured the books of canon law, and I burned the bull of excommunication before the cheers of a great crowd. So long ago it was, a long and hard journey for me as well as for the Church. History moves on, and there have been changes in the Church I never would or could have foreseen. I translated the Bible from Latin into German in 11 weeks, while hiding in the Wartburg Castle. I wanted people to read and understand God’s Word, because I thought everything was at stake---especially our eternal souls.
How quaint that must sound today when so many look to nothing more than this world for their ultimate satisfaction. Perhaps that is why so many churches are empty. People are too busy in the world to want anything beyond the world, and so they will settle for a small bucket of happiness. It isn’t too much they want; it is far too little. I wanted everything---especially a gracious God who in Jesus Christ would save. Save from what, for what. For me it was salvation from hell for eternal life in heaven. But times do change, and what I was looking for then is probably not the same for you now. So, I will leave you with two short questions: What, if anything, are you looking to be saved from and what are you looking to be saved for? The questions are before you. And only you can answer them for yourself.
October 19, 2022
Dear Friends,
Courage is one of the four cardinal virtues, the others being justice, prudence, and temperance. Cardinal comes from a Greek word meaning hinge, so these four virtues, it was taught by Plato, Aristotle and later the Church Fathers, are the ones upon which all the other virtues hinge. The Christian virtues are faith, hope, and love, and I have always thought it was a bit of an oversight on the part of Jesus that he did not refer more to the virtue of courage. After all, his followers would face great stress and tribulation, and certainly courage was needed. Perhaps Jesus thought that if you had faith, hope and love, you did not need any other virtue, but I remain doubtful of that opinion. Courage is certainly different from faith, and I imagine that courage and faith can feed each other. You can be faithful and yet require courage to stand up for your faith.
A few weeks ago, courage came into the news when the President of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe granted a Russian columnist, Vladimir Kara-Murza, the Vaclav Havel Prize for the defense of human rights in his own nation of Russia. Kara-Murza did not do this at a safe distance from Russia. He was not writing and speaking from the safe soil of Europe or the United States. No, he spoke and wrote from within Russia, which is why his wife, Evgenia, accepted the prestigious prize for him in Strasbourg, France on October 12 while he was sitting in a Russian prison awaiting trial on charges of distributing fake news. He could receive 20 years in prison.
The prize is named after the former President of Czechoslovakia, Vaclav Havel, who became President after being imprisoned for this support of the liberalization of Czechoslovakia, when it was part of the Warsaw Pact, under the thumb of the former Soviet Union. Some of you may recall that in the summer of 1968 Soviet tanks arrived in Prague to crush the prospect of democracy in this Soviet satellite. Havel was one of those imprisoned, and he said, “If the main pillar of the system in living a life, then the fundamental threat to it is living the truth.” So, just as Havel sat in prison, so too does Kara-Murza. Since February all of Russia’s independent news outlets have been silenced. There is also a near total ban on the internet and social media. Thousands of people---perhaps as many as 20,000--- have been jailed for speaking against the war in Ukraine.
Kara-Murza is using the monetary part of his prize to help the families of Russians, who are imprisoned because of their willingness to stand against the lies, people, he said, “who could not remain silent in the face of the atrocity, even at the cost of personal freedom.”
The Washington Post published Kara-Murza’s acceptance speech, words he could not deliver in person. “I am sorry that I am not able to join you in person today, but I look forward to being back here in Strasbourg when a peaceful, democratic and Putin-free Russia returns to this Assembly and to this Council; and when we can finally start building that whole, free, and peaceful Europe we all want to see. Even today, in the darkest of hours, I firmly believe that time will come.
This is a man of courage and wisdom, and we should all be thankful that in a time, when so many people are willing to embrace lies, there are those who speak truth to power and are willing to pay with the loss of their freedom.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Courage is one of the four cardinal virtues, the others being justice, prudence, and temperance. Cardinal comes from a Greek word meaning hinge, so these four virtues, it was taught by Plato, Aristotle and later the Church Fathers, are the ones upon which all the other virtues hinge. The Christian virtues are faith, hope, and love, and I have always thought it was a bit of an oversight on the part of Jesus that he did not refer more to the virtue of courage. After all, his followers would face great stress and tribulation, and certainly courage was needed. Perhaps Jesus thought that if you had faith, hope and love, you did not need any other virtue, but I remain doubtful of that opinion. Courage is certainly different from faith, and I imagine that courage and faith can feed each other. You can be faithful and yet require courage to stand up for your faith.
A few weeks ago, courage came into the news when the President of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe granted a Russian columnist, Vladimir Kara-Murza, the Vaclav Havel Prize for the defense of human rights in his own nation of Russia. Kara-Murza did not do this at a safe distance from Russia. He was not writing and speaking from the safe soil of Europe or the United States. No, he spoke and wrote from within Russia, which is why his wife, Evgenia, accepted the prestigious prize for him in Strasbourg, France on October 12 while he was sitting in a Russian prison awaiting trial on charges of distributing fake news. He could receive 20 years in prison.
The prize is named after the former President of Czechoslovakia, Vaclav Havel, who became President after being imprisoned for this support of the liberalization of Czechoslovakia, when it was part of the Warsaw Pact, under the thumb of the former Soviet Union. Some of you may recall that in the summer of 1968 Soviet tanks arrived in Prague to crush the prospect of democracy in this Soviet satellite. Havel was one of those imprisoned, and he said, “If the main pillar of the system in living a life, then the fundamental threat to it is living the truth.” So, just as Havel sat in prison, so too does Kara-Murza. Since February all of Russia’s independent news outlets have been silenced. There is also a near total ban on the internet and social media. Thousands of people---perhaps as many as 20,000--- have been jailed for speaking against the war in Ukraine.
Kara-Murza is using the monetary part of his prize to help the families of Russians, who are imprisoned because of their willingness to stand against the lies, people, he said, “who could not remain silent in the face of the atrocity, even at the cost of personal freedom.”
The Washington Post published Kara-Murza’s acceptance speech, words he could not deliver in person. “I am sorry that I am not able to join you in person today, but I look forward to being back here in Strasbourg when a peaceful, democratic and Putin-free Russia returns to this Assembly and to this Council; and when we can finally start building that whole, free, and peaceful Europe we all want to see. Even today, in the darkest of hours, I firmly believe that time will come.
This is a man of courage and wisdom, and we should all be thankful that in a time, when so many people are willing to embrace lies, there are those who speak truth to power and are willing to pay with the loss of their freedom.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Hanging on for a Blessing
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 16, 2022
Genesis 32: 22-31
One of my dearest friends, Julie, died a few weeks ago of a cancer that took her down more quickly than anyone had predicted. Though there is much in our text from Genesis that does not fit Julie’s personality, she was someone who managed to use her wounds as a blessing. Julie suffered from a genetic condition called neurofibromatosis. One of five children, she and an older brother shared the condition, which left them legally blind. Around the age of five or six, brown discolorations began to appear on Julie’s skin, and then around 13 these non cancerous fibrous growths began to pop out all over her body. We all know how cruel adolescents can be, and she was mocked and bullied. She could have withdrawn into herself, pulling away to remain unnoticed. But this is not what she did. She was out there in the world, caring, compassionate without any display of self-pity or bitterness. When I say she was one of the finest people I have ever known I am not exaggerating.
Wounds and blessings: they come in such different forms, and sometimes it is that the wounds we carry become the occasion for later blessings. Consider Jacob, someone many of us might not like, though we probably must begrudgingly admit, there is much to admire about him. He was incredibly smart and very clever. He had stolen with his mother’s help the blessing that by right belonged to his older brother, Esau, and in today’s story we see him locked in a deadly struggle as he hangs on for dear life: “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” Jacob not only received his blessing, but it came with a wound and a name change, Israel, which means one who has striven or strives with God.
So, Jacob was a very clever cheat and liar. Not only had he stolen the blessing that should have gone to his older brother, but also earlier in the story, he had managed to manipulate his brother out of his birthright. Esau was a man of the moment, and he was so hungry that when he saw the delicious meal that Jacob was cooking, he gave away his birthright for a delicious meal. As the story progresses, Jacob would learn what it feels like to be tricked, when his uncle and later father-in-law, Laban, tricked Jacob into first marrying his older daughter, Leah, rather than the younger one, Rachel, whom Jacob loved. Eventually, after another seven years of hard work, he would marry Rachel, and then he would return home, though he would not or could not remain there. Maybe it is true that none of us can really go home again as Thomas Wolfe wrote in his famous novel, You Can’t Go Home Again.
Jacob’s story is filled with struggle, and if you prefer to think that faith in God should be an easy or pleasant experience, think again, because this story shows us that sometimes the blessing comes through incredible strain and tenacity, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” Now, it is important to remember that Jacob is returning after 14 long years of working for Laban, his uncle and his father in law. He is, I think, very fearful, because he is about to meet his brother, who is still rumored to be full of furious rage. And is it not possible that Jacob’s conscience is bothering him? I mean he is older and hopefully wiser now, and he probably understands that his behavior was less than impeccable. And so, one of the common interpretations of the text is that Jacob is here wrestling with his conscience, trying to come to terms with his guilt.
But the story is about more than guilt; it is also about God, about who this God is and what this God promises and demands. The promise has been reiterated a number of times, beginning with his grandfather, Abraham, continuing with his father, Isaac, and now once again, it is promised to him---that this people will be blessed and will be a great nation, though there will later be stipulations---faithfulness to the covenant, which demands justice, mercy and loving kindness. Jacob becomes the symbol for this people, Israel, who will indeed struggle with God, this God who makes god-self known, even as God is also hidden and elusive. For this stranger, this man or angel, who struggles with Jacob, is elusive. Notice that Jacob does not know with whom he wrestles. He asks for the man’s name, but he never receives an answer. What he receives is a wounding in the hip, which has him limping away. He is changed, blessed, by the encounter, but he is also wounded by it. And that is often how it is in life. Blessings come, but they often come with wounds, because sometimes it happens that we only can see the blessing, because we have been wounded, which brings me back to my dear friend, Julie.
Julie was a friend in the deepest meaning of the word, someone who helps you to love and serve the good. Years ago, when I worked at First Church in Middletown, I would periodically give this man a voucher for gas—until I learned that he was driving to and from Hartford as a drug runner, so I next time he asked me, which happened to be in the month of January, I refused. He shocked me by admitting that he sometimes did run drugs. “I need money,” he said. “I’m not like you. I don’t live in a comfortable house, and I don’t have a good job, but whatever I do, I need gas for my car, because that is where I live. “Please,” he begged, ‘it’s winter, and I need gas to keep me warm,” but I turned him down. He swore at me and left. I was bothered by the encounter, and so I told Julie, who was a member of the church, about it. And she said in so many words, “While I understand why you did what you did, I think I would have given him the voucher. We stand before someone, who asks for help, and we can never see around the corner. We don’t really know where the full truth lies. We don’t know what will happen, so for me the question is always immediate need. Can I help? If you were uncomfortable with using the church’s money, you could have used your own. Two weeks later the man was found dead, frozen to death, in his car. And I have never forgotten what Julie said: “We can never see around the corner. The question is always immediate need. Can I help?”
When I went to Center Church in New Haven, where I had a very generous clergy allowance to help the poor, I would give out cash for the shoes, or the transportation, or the winter coat and gloves they said they needed to buy. I would give them the money with these words. I am going to believe what you are telling me. You deserve the dignity of being believed, but if you are lying, that’s on you, not on me.”
We all have wounds; we all have failures, and the question is: can we use those wounds and failures to grow beautiful souls as my beautiful friend Julie did? Jacob does not strike me as a beautiful soul, but it should not be lost on us that God used Jacob, a cheat and a liar, to make and bless a whole people, Israel, whose name means, one who strives and struggles with God.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 16, 2022
Genesis 32: 22-31
One of my dearest friends, Julie, died a few weeks ago of a cancer that took her down more quickly than anyone had predicted. Though there is much in our text from Genesis that does not fit Julie’s personality, she was someone who managed to use her wounds as a blessing. Julie suffered from a genetic condition called neurofibromatosis. One of five children, she and an older brother shared the condition, which left them legally blind. Around the age of five or six, brown discolorations began to appear on Julie’s skin, and then around 13 these non cancerous fibrous growths began to pop out all over her body. We all know how cruel adolescents can be, and she was mocked and bullied. She could have withdrawn into herself, pulling away to remain unnoticed. But this is not what she did. She was out there in the world, caring, compassionate without any display of self-pity or bitterness. When I say she was one of the finest people I have ever known I am not exaggerating.
Wounds and blessings: they come in such different forms, and sometimes it is that the wounds we carry become the occasion for later blessings. Consider Jacob, someone many of us might not like, though we probably must begrudgingly admit, there is much to admire about him. He was incredibly smart and very clever. He had stolen with his mother’s help the blessing that by right belonged to his older brother, Esau, and in today’s story we see him locked in a deadly struggle as he hangs on for dear life: “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” Jacob not only received his blessing, but it came with a wound and a name change, Israel, which means one who has striven or strives with God.
So, Jacob was a very clever cheat and liar. Not only had he stolen the blessing that should have gone to his older brother, but also earlier in the story, he had managed to manipulate his brother out of his birthright. Esau was a man of the moment, and he was so hungry that when he saw the delicious meal that Jacob was cooking, he gave away his birthright for a delicious meal. As the story progresses, Jacob would learn what it feels like to be tricked, when his uncle and later father-in-law, Laban, tricked Jacob into first marrying his older daughter, Leah, rather than the younger one, Rachel, whom Jacob loved. Eventually, after another seven years of hard work, he would marry Rachel, and then he would return home, though he would not or could not remain there. Maybe it is true that none of us can really go home again as Thomas Wolfe wrote in his famous novel, You Can’t Go Home Again.
Jacob’s story is filled with struggle, and if you prefer to think that faith in God should be an easy or pleasant experience, think again, because this story shows us that sometimes the blessing comes through incredible strain and tenacity, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” Now, it is important to remember that Jacob is returning after 14 long years of working for Laban, his uncle and his father in law. He is, I think, very fearful, because he is about to meet his brother, who is still rumored to be full of furious rage. And is it not possible that Jacob’s conscience is bothering him? I mean he is older and hopefully wiser now, and he probably understands that his behavior was less than impeccable. And so, one of the common interpretations of the text is that Jacob is here wrestling with his conscience, trying to come to terms with his guilt.
But the story is about more than guilt; it is also about God, about who this God is and what this God promises and demands. The promise has been reiterated a number of times, beginning with his grandfather, Abraham, continuing with his father, Isaac, and now once again, it is promised to him---that this people will be blessed and will be a great nation, though there will later be stipulations---faithfulness to the covenant, which demands justice, mercy and loving kindness. Jacob becomes the symbol for this people, Israel, who will indeed struggle with God, this God who makes god-self known, even as God is also hidden and elusive. For this stranger, this man or angel, who struggles with Jacob, is elusive. Notice that Jacob does not know with whom he wrestles. He asks for the man’s name, but he never receives an answer. What he receives is a wounding in the hip, which has him limping away. He is changed, blessed, by the encounter, but he is also wounded by it. And that is often how it is in life. Blessings come, but they often come with wounds, because sometimes it happens that we only can see the blessing, because we have been wounded, which brings me back to my dear friend, Julie.
Julie was a friend in the deepest meaning of the word, someone who helps you to love and serve the good. Years ago, when I worked at First Church in Middletown, I would periodically give this man a voucher for gas—until I learned that he was driving to and from Hartford as a drug runner, so I next time he asked me, which happened to be in the month of January, I refused. He shocked me by admitting that he sometimes did run drugs. “I need money,” he said. “I’m not like you. I don’t live in a comfortable house, and I don’t have a good job, but whatever I do, I need gas for my car, because that is where I live. “Please,” he begged, ‘it’s winter, and I need gas to keep me warm,” but I turned him down. He swore at me and left. I was bothered by the encounter, and so I told Julie, who was a member of the church, about it. And she said in so many words, “While I understand why you did what you did, I think I would have given him the voucher. We stand before someone, who asks for help, and we can never see around the corner. We don’t really know where the full truth lies. We don’t know what will happen, so for me the question is always immediate need. Can I help? If you were uncomfortable with using the church’s money, you could have used your own. Two weeks later the man was found dead, frozen to death, in his car. And I have never forgotten what Julie said: “We can never see around the corner. The question is always immediate need. Can I help?”
When I went to Center Church in New Haven, where I had a very generous clergy allowance to help the poor, I would give out cash for the shoes, or the transportation, or the winter coat and gloves they said they needed to buy. I would give them the money with these words. I am going to believe what you are telling me. You deserve the dignity of being believed, but if you are lying, that’s on you, not on me.”
We all have wounds; we all have failures, and the question is: can we use those wounds and failures to grow beautiful souls as my beautiful friend Julie did? Jacob does not strike me as a beautiful soul, but it should not be lost on us that God used Jacob, a cheat and a liar, to make and bless a whole people, Israel, whose name means, one who strives and struggles with God.
October 13, 2022
Dear Friends,
Just last week I visited one of my brothers, who lives in New Jersey. Richie lived with my mother the last five years of her life, which made it possible for her to remain at home. She was three months shy of 103 when she died, and was quite physically capable and only began to use a walker a year before her death. And mentally she was pretty with it, though her short term memory had decreased significantly the last two years of her life. Anyway, my visit with my brother was delightful. We spent one day in Ocean City, where my father loved to ride his bike along the boardwalk. My mother rarely went with him, since she did not bike, and she hated the sun beating down on her, so my father would go to spend the day there by himself. That was one thing I learned from my parents about marriage: a couple does not have to do everything together. Indeed, my husband and I are quite independent, and each of us pursues activities without the other tagging along.
Beside our visit to Ocean City, Richie and I spent a lot of time talking and remembering. We talked about our respective childhoods. Richie reminded me how much my father and I argued. “You were always taking him on,” my brother said, “while the rest of us would just be quiet. He could be a bully, and not easy to argue with, but that never stopped you. And the funny thing is,” he continued, “you two would even argue when you agreed with each other!” That was true. Both of us loved to argue, and the arguments could be pretty fierce!
Richie recalled his train set, one of the most impressive I have ever seen. It had multiple levels with all kinds of engines and villages, scattered across this huge table in our basement. My father would often go down in the late evening after we were all in bed and play with the trains. Sometimes in our beds we could hear him make the whistle sound, which amused us greatly. And then there was the boat. My parents owned an outboard motorboat, 17 feet long with a 65 horsepower engine. While everyone else in the family loved the boat, I did not, and I was so relieved when I was old enough to stay home by myself to read or do whatever I liked. My brother asked me why I did not like to go boating with the family, and the only explanation I could give was that I liked being alone, something that did not happen very often in a family with four children and two parents.
We also talked about Christmas. My father in particular made a big deal about Christmas, and both my brother and I have wonderful memories of Christmas—including the time my father tried to repair the bare spots on our tree and drilled too many holes in the trunk so the whole tree collapsed. Though now that memory brings laughter, at the time it was not funny, since my father had a terrible temper of which we were all afraid! We did get a new tree, though no one would go with him to pick it out. He was too angry for any of us kids to want to go along.
As I was thinking about my conversations with my brother about growing up, the word nostalgia came to mind. I suppose you could say that some of the conversations we had were nostalgic in character. Now nostalgia to me is not a negative word or experience, but I had recently read an article about nostalgia, which taught me a few things. First of all, the word is composed of two Greek words, meaning “homecoming” and “pain.” It was a Swiss physician who first used the term in 1688, and he considered it a very serious disease of the mind, which could weaken the body. His case studies included the story of a young girl, who took a bad fall, and was sent away to a hospital for healing. Shortly after arriving she began to refuse food and would only say, “I want to go home.” For patients suffering from nostalgia, he recommended distraction and then induced vomiting and finally opening up a vein for bleeding. “If all that failed, then send the patient home,” he advised. “That usually took care of it!” he insisted!
For hundreds of years nostalgia continued to be understood as a serious mental illness or neurological disorder. While anyone could suffer from nostalgia, it was noted that it was particularly keen in displaced persons and even as late as 1938 it was referred to as “an immigrant psychosis.” Today psychologists and psychiatrists no longer consider nostalgia a mental disorder, but rather a psychological strategy for dealing with an uncertain present and future. When feelings of emptiness or loneliness threaten to overtake someone, such feelings can be dispelled by memories from a past that are remembered as full and meaningful.
It strikes me that some of the feelings that are aroused today, when people feel unnerved or perhaps threatened by the rapidity of change are an effort to self-soothe. They look back to what they remember as better times. It drove me crazy when my father would wax eloquently on “the good old days,” which really were not as good as he remembered. “Yes,” I would say, “like the days when Black people in the South could not vote and were sometimes lynched, a time when women could not get a mortgage on their own and were often forced to leave their jobs when they became noticeably pregnant.” Those were the so called good old days my father remembered. He would become angry with me for pointing this out, but sometimes the truth does make us angry. And perhaps nostalgia is one of the coping mechanisms that allows us to live in a world that is forever changing, reminding us that there is no clinging to the past--- except in memory. Jesus, it should be noted, almost never spoke of the past. He was always looking forward---to the coming of God’s realm.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Just last week I visited one of my brothers, who lives in New Jersey. Richie lived with my mother the last five years of her life, which made it possible for her to remain at home. She was three months shy of 103 when she died, and was quite physically capable and only began to use a walker a year before her death. And mentally she was pretty with it, though her short term memory had decreased significantly the last two years of her life. Anyway, my visit with my brother was delightful. We spent one day in Ocean City, where my father loved to ride his bike along the boardwalk. My mother rarely went with him, since she did not bike, and she hated the sun beating down on her, so my father would go to spend the day there by himself. That was one thing I learned from my parents about marriage: a couple does not have to do everything together. Indeed, my husband and I are quite independent, and each of us pursues activities without the other tagging along.
Beside our visit to Ocean City, Richie and I spent a lot of time talking and remembering. We talked about our respective childhoods. Richie reminded me how much my father and I argued. “You were always taking him on,” my brother said, “while the rest of us would just be quiet. He could be a bully, and not easy to argue with, but that never stopped you. And the funny thing is,” he continued, “you two would even argue when you agreed with each other!” That was true. Both of us loved to argue, and the arguments could be pretty fierce!
Richie recalled his train set, one of the most impressive I have ever seen. It had multiple levels with all kinds of engines and villages, scattered across this huge table in our basement. My father would often go down in the late evening after we were all in bed and play with the trains. Sometimes in our beds we could hear him make the whistle sound, which amused us greatly. And then there was the boat. My parents owned an outboard motorboat, 17 feet long with a 65 horsepower engine. While everyone else in the family loved the boat, I did not, and I was so relieved when I was old enough to stay home by myself to read or do whatever I liked. My brother asked me why I did not like to go boating with the family, and the only explanation I could give was that I liked being alone, something that did not happen very often in a family with four children and two parents.
We also talked about Christmas. My father in particular made a big deal about Christmas, and both my brother and I have wonderful memories of Christmas—including the time my father tried to repair the bare spots on our tree and drilled too many holes in the trunk so the whole tree collapsed. Though now that memory brings laughter, at the time it was not funny, since my father had a terrible temper of which we were all afraid! We did get a new tree, though no one would go with him to pick it out. He was too angry for any of us kids to want to go along.
As I was thinking about my conversations with my brother about growing up, the word nostalgia came to mind. I suppose you could say that some of the conversations we had were nostalgic in character. Now nostalgia to me is not a negative word or experience, but I had recently read an article about nostalgia, which taught me a few things. First of all, the word is composed of two Greek words, meaning “homecoming” and “pain.” It was a Swiss physician who first used the term in 1688, and he considered it a very serious disease of the mind, which could weaken the body. His case studies included the story of a young girl, who took a bad fall, and was sent away to a hospital for healing. Shortly after arriving she began to refuse food and would only say, “I want to go home.” For patients suffering from nostalgia, he recommended distraction and then induced vomiting and finally opening up a vein for bleeding. “If all that failed, then send the patient home,” he advised. “That usually took care of it!” he insisted!
For hundreds of years nostalgia continued to be understood as a serious mental illness or neurological disorder. While anyone could suffer from nostalgia, it was noted that it was particularly keen in displaced persons and even as late as 1938 it was referred to as “an immigrant psychosis.” Today psychologists and psychiatrists no longer consider nostalgia a mental disorder, but rather a psychological strategy for dealing with an uncertain present and future. When feelings of emptiness or loneliness threaten to overtake someone, such feelings can be dispelled by memories from a past that are remembered as full and meaningful.
It strikes me that some of the feelings that are aroused today, when people feel unnerved or perhaps threatened by the rapidity of change are an effort to self-soothe. They look back to what they remember as better times. It drove me crazy when my father would wax eloquently on “the good old days,” which really were not as good as he remembered. “Yes,” I would say, “like the days when Black people in the South could not vote and were sometimes lynched, a time when women could not get a mortgage on their own and were often forced to leave their jobs when they became noticeably pregnant.” Those were the so called good old days my father remembered. He would become angry with me for pointing this out, but sometimes the truth does make us angry. And perhaps nostalgia is one of the coping mechanisms that allows us to live in a world that is forever changing, reminding us that there is no clinging to the past--- except in memory. Jesus, it should be noted, almost never spoke of the past. He was always looking forward---to the coming of God’s realm.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Suffer For the Gospel
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 9, 2022
2 Timothy 1: 1-14
Can you imagine what it would be like if when people showed interest in joining the church, we said to them, “How wonderful; join us in suffering for the Gospel.” The conventional wisdom is that such an approach would lead people to run in the opposite direction, because no one wants to suffer or make huge sacrifices. And yet, when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister of England at the start of World War Ii, he told the English people: “I have only blood, sweat and tears to offer you.” And when Paul (or more likely someone using his name) was giving instruction to the young convert, Timothy, Paul told him, “Join with me in suffering for the Gospel.” And Timothy did.
That invitation flies in the face of what we think we know and understand about people and institutions. Make it easy, we say, so people will join us. And yet research indicates that churches and denominations which demand something substantial of their members---regular attendance at worship, stewardship of money and time, including bible study and mission----these churches are showing growth in a way that most main line churches only dream of. In an effort to be welcoming and inclusive, we unwittingly send the message: come and give what you want, when you want, and of course, believe and think what you want.
Now on one level there is something appropriate with such an approach, because we recognize how murky and ambiguous is the spiritual quest. We confess the partial nature of our knowledge about God and Christ, and so in some instances (at least theologically) we are understandably reticent about telling people what to think or what to do. But surely there must be a way to be inclusive of difference and partial knowing without sacrificing some measure of truth and commitment. If so many mainline churches (like ours) ask nothing, perhaps that is why they get nothing.
It is one of the ironies of the church that in periods of intense persecution the church often flourished, such as in the early centuries, following Jesus’ death, when being a Christian could get you thrown to the lions, or during the Reformation, when being a Protestant could land you tied to a stake and burned. Consider a modern example: Martin Niemoller, a Lutheran minister in the days of Hitler, was a strong nationalist, yet an anti-Nazi. He was arrested--- even before the war began, and when the news spread like wildfire through his church, on Sunday morning the church was packed---all these Christians gathering to pray for their minister. And each Wednesday night there was a special prayer gathering. Well, the Gestapo got word of it, and they started sending soldiers to stand at the back of the church while holding their rifles in an intimidating way. Surely, this will put a crimp in their style was their feeling. But no, each Wednesday the crowds in the church grew and grew and the more soldiers they sent, the more people showed up. Niemoller was imprisoned for nearly seven years, and during his imprisonment every Wednesday evening the church gathered to pray. That congregation knew what they were about, and they understood they faced the possibility of arrest. But they were willing to take the risk for the sake of the gospel and their pastor.
We all realize that to be human is to suffer. We have accidents, illness, and we age, which brings its own set of challenges. And then we suffer the consequences of poor choices about money, possessions, drugs, alcohol, or relationships. This is the price of our humanity; our bodies are mortal, our knowledge and self understanding are limited and imperfect, and so we suffer. But in this Letter to Timothy the writer is referring to a distinctive kind of suffering---suffering for the gospel and on account of the gospel. When this letter was written, being a Christian was a capital offense, and the Apostle Paul was beheaded in Rome for his faith. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, another Lutheran minister and theologian I ha ve mentioned many times, paid with this life for his resistance to the Nazis, and Martin Niemoller suffered seven years in prison and concentration camps.
When I was in clinical training at a state mental hospital on Long Island, I became friendly with Father Ralph, a Roman Catholic priest. Charming as well as erudite, he loved English Renaissance poetry, quoting John Donne from memory. He ended up working on the backwards in a state mental hospital, because he had angered his superiors years before by performing weddings for divorced Catholicsand celebrating the sacrament of Holy Communion with his Methodist and Episcopal colleagues. Father Ralph was told he was full of pride and had to learn humble obedience. So, for more than 20 years he was learning as a chaplain at the state mental hospital. But I don’t think he learned as much as he was supposed to, because he would not only invite me to celebrate the sacrament with him, but also he would openly participate in the Protestant services, accepting the bread and cup as the gifts of God for the whole people of God. Most of the time the hierarchy simply ignored him, but every once in a while someone would pay him a stern visit, which would leave him sad, but not more obedient.
Well, one afternoon in early December, I was three weeks away from giving birth to Caitlin, so Father Ralph asked me to help him with Mass. “It’s Advent,” he said, when we are waiting for a birth, and you are about to give birth, so how appropriate for you to take the lead in celebrating communion.” And so there we were in a circle, and since I was leading, I had bread, rather than those flat, tasteless communion wafers. “This is my body, broken for you,” I said as I tore the bread apart. All these poor emotionally afflicted people were standing around in a circle, waiting to receive, and Lily, who would never take communion because she thought she was unworthy, took a piece of the bread. Father Ralph and I both concluded that the breaking apart of the bread symbolized her own broken life, and so she took and ate. After that Lily would only take communion from a loaf of bread. When the service was over, I noticed a man, standing over in the corner. I did not know him, but it was obvious Father Ralph did. In two weeks Father Ralph was gone, removed from the hospital for allowing me to assist him at Mass.
We live in a culture, where we rarely see people suffer for their religious convictions, and when we do, it does leave a deep impression. Now the willingness to suffer for a belief does not make the belief right or true. Terrorists are willing to suffer for their convictions, and even Lilly suffered for a belief most people would have said was mistaken. We do not have to be whole to take the sacrament. Nonetheless, the text from Timothy does ask us to ponder how great a price are we willing to pay for our religious convictions? If there is nothing at all demanded, perhaps that is one of the reasons we see such a steep decline in mainline religion’s numbers and influence. People can shrug their shoulders and say, “It doesn’t really make any difference.”
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 9, 2022
2 Timothy 1: 1-14
Can you imagine what it would be like if when people showed interest in joining the church, we said to them, “How wonderful; join us in suffering for the Gospel.” The conventional wisdom is that such an approach would lead people to run in the opposite direction, because no one wants to suffer or make huge sacrifices. And yet, when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister of England at the start of World War Ii, he told the English people: “I have only blood, sweat and tears to offer you.” And when Paul (or more likely someone using his name) was giving instruction to the young convert, Timothy, Paul told him, “Join with me in suffering for the Gospel.” And Timothy did.
That invitation flies in the face of what we think we know and understand about people and institutions. Make it easy, we say, so people will join us. And yet research indicates that churches and denominations which demand something substantial of their members---regular attendance at worship, stewardship of money and time, including bible study and mission----these churches are showing growth in a way that most main line churches only dream of. In an effort to be welcoming and inclusive, we unwittingly send the message: come and give what you want, when you want, and of course, believe and think what you want.
Now on one level there is something appropriate with such an approach, because we recognize how murky and ambiguous is the spiritual quest. We confess the partial nature of our knowledge about God and Christ, and so in some instances (at least theologically) we are understandably reticent about telling people what to think or what to do. But surely there must be a way to be inclusive of difference and partial knowing without sacrificing some measure of truth and commitment. If so many mainline churches (like ours) ask nothing, perhaps that is why they get nothing.
It is one of the ironies of the church that in periods of intense persecution the church often flourished, such as in the early centuries, following Jesus’ death, when being a Christian could get you thrown to the lions, or during the Reformation, when being a Protestant could land you tied to a stake and burned. Consider a modern example: Martin Niemoller, a Lutheran minister in the days of Hitler, was a strong nationalist, yet an anti-Nazi. He was arrested--- even before the war began, and when the news spread like wildfire through his church, on Sunday morning the church was packed---all these Christians gathering to pray for their minister. And each Wednesday night there was a special prayer gathering. Well, the Gestapo got word of it, and they started sending soldiers to stand at the back of the church while holding their rifles in an intimidating way. Surely, this will put a crimp in their style was their feeling. But no, each Wednesday the crowds in the church grew and grew and the more soldiers they sent, the more people showed up. Niemoller was imprisoned for nearly seven years, and during his imprisonment every Wednesday evening the church gathered to pray. That congregation knew what they were about, and they understood they faced the possibility of arrest. But they were willing to take the risk for the sake of the gospel and their pastor.
We all realize that to be human is to suffer. We have accidents, illness, and we age, which brings its own set of challenges. And then we suffer the consequences of poor choices about money, possessions, drugs, alcohol, or relationships. This is the price of our humanity; our bodies are mortal, our knowledge and self understanding are limited and imperfect, and so we suffer. But in this Letter to Timothy the writer is referring to a distinctive kind of suffering---suffering for the gospel and on account of the gospel. When this letter was written, being a Christian was a capital offense, and the Apostle Paul was beheaded in Rome for his faith. Dietrich Bonhoeffer, another Lutheran minister and theologian I ha ve mentioned many times, paid with this life for his resistance to the Nazis, and Martin Niemoller suffered seven years in prison and concentration camps.
When I was in clinical training at a state mental hospital on Long Island, I became friendly with Father Ralph, a Roman Catholic priest. Charming as well as erudite, he loved English Renaissance poetry, quoting John Donne from memory. He ended up working on the backwards in a state mental hospital, because he had angered his superiors years before by performing weddings for divorced Catholicsand celebrating the sacrament of Holy Communion with his Methodist and Episcopal colleagues. Father Ralph was told he was full of pride and had to learn humble obedience. So, for more than 20 years he was learning as a chaplain at the state mental hospital. But I don’t think he learned as much as he was supposed to, because he would not only invite me to celebrate the sacrament with him, but also he would openly participate in the Protestant services, accepting the bread and cup as the gifts of God for the whole people of God. Most of the time the hierarchy simply ignored him, but every once in a while someone would pay him a stern visit, which would leave him sad, but not more obedient.
Well, one afternoon in early December, I was three weeks away from giving birth to Caitlin, so Father Ralph asked me to help him with Mass. “It’s Advent,” he said, when we are waiting for a birth, and you are about to give birth, so how appropriate for you to take the lead in celebrating communion.” And so there we were in a circle, and since I was leading, I had bread, rather than those flat, tasteless communion wafers. “This is my body, broken for you,” I said as I tore the bread apart. All these poor emotionally afflicted people were standing around in a circle, waiting to receive, and Lily, who would never take communion because she thought she was unworthy, took a piece of the bread. Father Ralph and I both concluded that the breaking apart of the bread symbolized her own broken life, and so she took and ate. After that Lily would only take communion from a loaf of bread. When the service was over, I noticed a man, standing over in the corner. I did not know him, but it was obvious Father Ralph did. In two weeks Father Ralph was gone, removed from the hospital for allowing me to assist him at Mass.
We live in a culture, where we rarely see people suffer for their religious convictions, and when we do, it does leave a deep impression. Now the willingness to suffer for a belief does not make the belief right or true. Terrorists are willing to suffer for their convictions, and even Lilly suffered for a belief most people would have said was mistaken. We do not have to be whole to take the sacrament. Nonetheless, the text from Timothy does ask us to ponder how great a price are we willing to pay for our religious convictions? If there is nothing at all demanded, perhaps that is one of the reasons we see such a steep decline in mainline religion’s numbers and influence. People can shrug their shoulders and say, “It doesn’t really make any difference.”
DO YOUR DUTY
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 2, 2022
Luke 17: 5-10
When the Covid pandemic was raging---before any vaccines were available---I had a conversation with a college friend about duty. Alex is a corporate lawyer in Chicago, and his one child, a daughter, is a doctor, an internist. Well, his daughter was complaining to him about how hard her work was, especially dealing with the anxiety about becoming sick. These were, after all, the days when not so much was known about the disease, and it was unclear to everyone how long it would take to get vaccines on the market and how effective they would be. Alex was trying to be sympathetic, but he told me her whining went on way too long, so he finally blurted out “Oh, stop your whining. You signed up for this. You’re a doctor. It is your duty to treat your patients. You don’t deserve a medal for doing your duty.”
I told Alex, “I think you’re right.” And we both agreed that part of the problem in our society today is that we hardly ever hear the word duty. People are wedded to the idea that it is all about what they want to do, not what is commanded or even expected. Duty has in so many ways become an obsolete word. Over the years Alex and I have continued our conversations about duty. While he is not a Christian, he was a classics major in college, and he knows all about the Greek and Roman view of duty. While we both agree we deserve no great credit for doing our duty, nonetheless there is something beyond duty that is heroic. So, I asked him, “Do you think the firefighters who ascended the stairs of the World Trade Center were simply doing their duty, or were they heroic?” Remember, how people were cheering them as they climbed the stairs, while the workers in the Towers were descending. “Well,” he said, “though it was their duty to fight fires and try to save people, The World Trade Center was particularly harrowing, so he gave them a heroes’ award. They had a duty, and they faced it with great courage, which makes them heroes.
Duty: while that word is not a common one in our social lexicon, it is precisely what our lesson from Luke is about. Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem---in the very next chapter he will throw the money changers out of the temple, and he has been trying to teach his disciples what is required of them, commanded of them as his followers. They seem to believe that it is all a matter of faith. If only they had more faith, they would be able to do what is expected. But Jesus told them, even a little faith is enough, and he implies that they already have enough, because they have been following him. It isn’t more faith they need; it is action that is required, the response to faith that is faithfulness. And then he tells this story about a slave, who comes in from his work and is expected to prepare a meal for his master. And Jesus insists that the slave is doing his duty and that is exactly what is expected of him. And his disciples should do the same---they should see themselves as worthless slaves, fulfilling their duty.
Now there were many times Jesus functioned as a social critic of his society, rendering all kinds of severe judgments particularly about the way the economy was organized. But he never took on slavery; he never once hinted that the institution of slavery was wrong, and in today’s reading, he uses slavery as the metaphor for what is expected of his disciples. They are to fulfill their duty, do what they are commanded to do as the slaves to God they are.
Twice in my ministry, I can recall conversations where the word duty intruded. One conversation was with a 93 year old woman, Ruth, to whom I became very close. After I had been in the church for 10 years, she told me, “You have been here long enough so I can trust you. And now I will tell you the truth.” And what she told me was how unhappy her marriage of 70 years had been. When her husband stood up and announced their wedding anniversary, and the entire congregation stood up and clapped, she told me it was the saddest day of her life.
What a sham my marriage is, she lamented. All those years, he verbally abused me and put me down, but I came from the right kind of people, so I was good for his business. And though I was unhappy, I felt it was my duty to preserve and preserve the home and marriage. We had a lovely home, two lovely children, and we were both active members in the community, on all the right boards and volunteer associations. I did my duty, and it is only now in my very old age that I realize I surrendered my personal happiness for the fulfillment of duty. I was raised in an era that did not teach me about duty to myself. If I had walked out on my marriage, no one would have understood---not my parents, not even my friends. And who knows if I ever would have found my footing. My husband would have fought me to the bitter end. How would I have kept my kids and even supported them? So, on my tombstone I want you to see that it is written: She did her duty. Indeed, she did, though it did not bring her the personal happiness she longed for.
Let’s be honest. It is not always easy to figure out what our duty is and where it lies and how much is owed to others and how much to self and how much to God. I knew another woman in another church, who was born in 1916. Martha was a doctor, and when she was in medical school at Johns Hopkins, she was one of three females. Her father, a lawyer, told her when she was 12 that she had the gifts of head and heart, and since they were God given gifts, she had a duty to use them. She became a very well known pediatrician, and she used both her head and her heart. Toward the end of her life, she told me that although she felt she had found her path and fulfilled her duty, which brought her great joy and a depth of meaning, she also experienced the absence of marriage and children. I never had much time to pursue relationships, and the male doctors I met were always so competitive with me, so it never worked out. I am grateful for my life and my work, but it did come at a price. And that is how I think it had to be.
The fulfillment of duty does not automatically mean that all ambiguity is overcome, all tensions resolved, and all desires fulfilled. In choosing some duties, other possibilities are closed off. We cannot fulfill everything that needs doing---even Jesus had his limits---but as Christians we live with the hope that in doing what we understand to be our duty, we fulfill something of what God would have us do.
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
October 2, 2022
Luke 17: 5-10
When the Covid pandemic was raging---before any vaccines were available---I had a conversation with a college friend about duty. Alex is a corporate lawyer in Chicago, and his one child, a daughter, is a doctor, an internist. Well, his daughter was complaining to him about how hard her work was, especially dealing with the anxiety about becoming sick. These were, after all, the days when not so much was known about the disease, and it was unclear to everyone how long it would take to get vaccines on the market and how effective they would be. Alex was trying to be sympathetic, but he told me her whining went on way too long, so he finally blurted out “Oh, stop your whining. You signed up for this. You’re a doctor. It is your duty to treat your patients. You don’t deserve a medal for doing your duty.”
I told Alex, “I think you’re right.” And we both agreed that part of the problem in our society today is that we hardly ever hear the word duty. People are wedded to the idea that it is all about what they want to do, not what is commanded or even expected. Duty has in so many ways become an obsolete word. Over the years Alex and I have continued our conversations about duty. While he is not a Christian, he was a classics major in college, and he knows all about the Greek and Roman view of duty. While we both agree we deserve no great credit for doing our duty, nonetheless there is something beyond duty that is heroic. So, I asked him, “Do you think the firefighters who ascended the stairs of the World Trade Center were simply doing their duty, or were they heroic?” Remember, how people were cheering them as they climbed the stairs, while the workers in the Towers were descending. “Well,” he said, “though it was their duty to fight fires and try to save people, The World Trade Center was particularly harrowing, so he gave them a heroes’ award. They had a duty, and they faced it with great courage, which makes them heroes.
Duty: while that word is not a common one in our social lexicon, it is precisely what our lesson from Luke is about. Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem---in the very next chapter he will throw the money changers out of the temple, and he has been trying to teach his disciples what is required of them, commanded of them as his followers. They seem to believe that it is all a matter of faith. If only they had more faith, they would be able to do what is expected. But Jesus told them, even a little faith is enough, and he implies that they already have enough, because they have been following him. It isn’t more faith they need; it is action that is required, the response to faith that is faithfulness. And then he tells this story about a slave, who comes in from his work and is expected to prepare a meal for his master. And Jesus insists that the slave is doing his duty and that is exactly what is expected of him. And his disciples should do the same---they should see themselves as worthless slaves, fulfilling their duty.
Now there were many times Jesus functioned as a social critic of his society, rendering all kinds of severe judgments particularly about the way the economy was organized. But he never took on slavery; he never once hinted that the institution of slavery was wrong, and in today’s reading, he uses slavery as the metaphor for what is expected of his disciples. They are to fulfill their duty, do what they are commanded to do as the slaves to God they are.
Twice in my ministry, I can recall conversations where the word duty intruded. One conversation was with a 93 year old woman, Ruth, to whom I became very close. After I had been in the church for 10 years, she told me, “You have been here long enough so I can trust you. And now I will tell you the truth.” And what she told me was how unhappy her marriage of 70 years had been. When her husband stood up and announced their wedding anniversary, and the entire congregation stood up and clapped, she told me it was the saddest day of her life.
What a sham my marriage is, she lamented. All those years, he verbally abused me and put me down, but I came from the right kind of people, so I was good for his business. And though I was unhappy, I felt it was my duty to preserve and preserve the home and marriage. We had a lovely home, two lovely children, and we were both active members in the community, on all the right boards and volunteer associations. I did my duty, and it is only now in my very old age that I realize I surrendered my personal happiness for the fulfillment of duty. I was raised in an era that did not teach me about duty to myself. If I had walked out on my marriage, no one would have understood---not my parents, not even my friends. And who knows if I ever would have found my footing. My husband would have fought me to the bitter end. How would I have kept my kids and even supported them? So, on my tombstone I want you to see that it is written: She did her duty. Indeed, she did, though it did not bring her the personal happiness she longed for.
Let’s be honest. It is not always easy to figure out what our duty is and where it lies and how much is owed to others and how much to self and how much to God. I knew another woman in another church, who was born in 1916. Martha was a doctor, and when she was in medical school at Johns Hopkins, she was one of three females. Her father, a lawyer, told her when she was 12 that she had the gifts of head and heart, and since they were God given gifts, she had a duty to use them. She became a very well known pediatrician, and she used both her head and her heart. Toward the end of her life, she told me that although she felt she had found her path and fulfilled her duty, which brought her great joy and a depth of meaning, she also experienced the absence of marriage and children. I never had much time to pursue relationships, and the male doctors I met were always so competitive with me, so it never worked out. I am grateful for my life and my work, but it did come at a price. And that is how I think it had to be.
The fulfillment of duty does not automatically mean that all ambiguity is overcome, all tensions resolved, and all desires fulfilled. In choosing some duties, other possibilities are closed off. We cannot fulfill everything that needs doing---even Jesus had his limits---but as Christians we live with the hope that in doing what we understand to be our duty, we fulfill something of what God would have us do.
October 4, 2022
Dear Friends,
I read somewhere in the last month or so that Putin hated the city of Odesa. Oh, for him it is the jewel in the crown because of its important location as a port city, but he hates its multiculturalism, its openness to a variety of lifestyles and its acceptance of different ideas and its willingness to discuss them. All that is exactly the opposite of what Putin considers desirable in a city or a culture.
Odesa was founded by Catherine the Great in 1794, built over a Greek settlement. Her desire was for Odesa to become Russia’s gateway city to Mediterranean Europe as well as to Asia, the same way that St. Petersburg had become a gateway to northern Europe. Catherine declared Odesa an “open city,” a unique designation which permitted a free exchange of foreign goods, free trade with the Middle East as well as Europe, a blossoming of the arts, a welcoming of foreigners and the exciting exchange of ideas. As you can imagine such an image is NOT what Putin would have in mind for a Russian city made in his own image of a closed society. But now there is another reason for Odesa to be hated by Putin: It has become a city of laughter. Stand-up comedians have made their mark, making fun of the Russians, who are trying to invade and make Odesa their own. “I really feel sorry for them,” one comedian intoned. “Can you imagine what it would be like for the Russian soldiers to encounter our unruly urbanization and questionable political environment? They are simply not used to such things!” And the crowd roared in agreement.
Odesa has apparently always had its humor. After the Ottomans were defeated, Odessa was heavily influenced by Jewish humor and even the oppressive days of Soviet control issued in a kind of dark humor. “Humor helps people to pull together in difficult situations,” one comedian said, and “laughter simply lifts the human spirit as nothing else can.” Comedians, however, are not simply stuck on Russia and war. They make fun of dating during the pandemic, social media’s omnipresence in their lives and people’s inability to live without their phones. The humor works because it is the stuff of life that people recognize as their actual lives. It’s not farfetched and outside the ordinary realm of everyday experience.
There is a quote my father used to love. I heard him repeat it all throughout my growing up: “Life is a tragedy to those who feel but a comedy to those who think.” Tragedy in this sense means downward movement, while comedy moves upward, which is why Christianity is finally comedy. The Christian story ends with the victory of the risen Christ; the movement is upward. Comedy then does not have to be side splitting laughter, but there is no doubt that laughter does help and heal. People can and do laugh alone, but there is something community building in laughing together. And when wars are fought, the enemy always tries to break apart community, the bonds of trust and hope and even humor that hold people together.
One of the comedians in Odesa has an office filled with all sorts of paraphernalia: clowns, circus posters, hats, and other costumes and finally a foot high metal statue of Charlie Chaplin. Chaplin’s brilliant 1940 film, “The Great Dictator,” is a classic example of cutting the dictator down to size with humor. Situations may change, but still there are some universal experiences that endure, and humor is one of them. Helping people laugh in dark times is what motivates the comedians of Odesa to do their work, even as war is on their doorstep. Humor is a form of power, and the people of Odesa plan to use it to its fullest.
I have never found Jesus to be particularly humorous. While he was clever and unafraid to show up those in power and authority, I cannot remember a time, when something Jesus did or said something that made me laugh. And yet I cannot help but think that he would have no objections to laughter. Introvert that he apparently was, he still enjoyed social gatherings with food and drink. And we might use our imagination here: at those same gatherings can we not also imagine laughter? Laughter, by the way, is what Dante heard as he ascended the final steps on his climb to heaven. And if heaven has laughter, then we on earth should also laugh as the angels do.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
I read somewhere in the last month or so that Putin hated the city of Odesa. Oh, for him it is the jewel in the crown because of its important location as a port city, but he hates its multiculturalism, its openness to a variety of lifestyles and its acceptance of different ideas and its willingness to discuss them. All that is exactly the opposite of what Putin considers desirable in a city or a culture.
Odesa was founded by Catherine the Great in 1794, built over a Greek settlement. Her desire was for Odesa to become Russia’s gateway city to Mediterranean Europe as well as to Asia, the same way that St. Petersburg had become a gateway to northern Europe. Catherine declared Odesa an “open city,” a unique designation which permitted a free exchange of foreign goods, free trade with the Middle East as well as Europe, a blossoming of the arts, a welcoming of foreigners and the exciting exchange of ideas. As you can imagine such an image is NOT what Putin would have in mind for a Russian city made in his own image of a closed society. But now there is another reason for Odesa to be hated by Putin: It has become a city of laughter. Stand-up comedians have made their mark, making fun of the Russians, who are trying to invade and make Odesa their own. “I really feel sorry for them,” one comedian intoned. “Can you imagine what it would be like for the Russian soldiers to encounter our unruly urbanization and questionable political environment? They are simply not used to such things!” And the crowd roared in agreement.
Odesa has apparently always had its humor. After the Ottomans were defeated, Odessa was heavily influenced by Jewish humor and even the oppressive days of Soviet control issued in a kind of dark humor. “Humor helps people to pull together in difficult situations,” one comedian said, and “laughter simply lifts the human spirit as nothing else can.” Comedians, however, are not simply stuck on Russia and war. They make fun of dating during the pandemic, social media’s omnipresence in their lives and people’s inability to live without their phones. The humor works because it is the stuff of life that people recognize as their actual lives. It’s not farfetched and outside the ordinary realm of everyday experience.
There is a quote my father used to love. I heard him repeat it all throughout my growing up: “Life is a tragedy to those who feel but a comedy to those who think.” Tragedy in this sense means downward movement, while comedy moves upward, which is why Christianity is finally comedy. The Christian story ends with the victory of the risen Christ; the movement is upward. Comedy then does not have to be side splitting laughter, but there is no doubt that laughter does help and heal. People can and do laugh alone, but there is something community building in laughing together. And when wars are fought, the enemy always tries to break apart community, the bonds of trust and hope and even humor that hold people together.
One of the comedians in Odesa has an office filled with all sorts of paraphernalia: clowns, circus posters, hats, and other costumes and finally a foot high metal statue of Charlie Chaplin. Chaplin’s brilliant 1940 film, “The Great Dictator,” is a classic example of cutting the dictator down to size with humor. Situations may change, but still there are some universal experiences that endure, and humor is one of them. Helping people laugh in dark times is what motivates the comedians of Odesa to do their work, even as war is on their doorstep. Humor is a form of power, and the people of Odesa plan to use it to its fullest.
I have never found Jesus to be particularly humorous. While he was clever and unafraid to show up those in power and authority, I cannot remember a time, when something Jesus did or said something that made me laugh. And yet I cannot help but think that he would have no objections to laughter. Introvert that he apparently was, he still enjoyed social gatherings with food and drink. And we might use our imagination here: at those same gatherings can we not also imagine laughter? Laughter, by the way, is what Dante heard as he ascended the final steps on his climb to heaven. And if heaven has laughter, then we on earth should also laugh as the angels do.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
September 29, 2022
Dear Friends,
You know how we all complain that the news media loves to concentrate on bad news? We find ourselves more than a little annoyed because every time we pick up a newspaper or turn on the television to hear the latest news, there is always some catastrophe greeting our eyes and ears. But the Christian Science Monitor, which is a weekly magazine, always has a section called, Points of Progress, and it is filled with good news. And the Washington Post has a section called Inspired Life, which does just that---It inspires!
Last week in the Post I read about five year old Alex Hurdakis, afflicted with a fatal brain tumor, which was diagnosed when he was one. Recently, his parents were told there was nothing more medicine could do. All treatment had run out, and Alex would soon die. The news, of course, was beyond devastating, but little Alex still had some things he wanted to do and see. He loved Halloween and he wanted to see monsters. And so, a friend of the family came up with the idea of bringing Halloween to Alex. Through social media she made it known that Alex would most likely not live to see Halloween, and so she wanted the community to give Alex the gift of Halloween. And so, they did. They erected a haunted house in his yard and on September 14, 1000 people showed up in a parade of monsters, ghosts, goblins, and witches. Someone offered her services as a face painter, so people could have their face painted to look like a witch or a goblin or some other monster. All kinds of people showed up that day, including parents who had lost their own children to cancer and then there were those who were themselves going through chemotherapy and radiation.
It was far more than the family ever expected. Little Alex was thrilled and so was his two year year old sister and eight year old brother. His parents could not believe what this community in Hamilton, Ontario did for them and their family. “It was beyond beautiful,” said Nick, Alex’s father. “Though we don’t feel better about the situation, we know we are not alone.”
There are so many times in life we see or hear about a situation, and we feel powerless to do much about it. The war in Ukraine drags on, and we cannot stop it---though one of our own members, Joanne Hatch, is doing something by collecting clothes, household items and books to bring to Savers for money, which will be donated to the Ukrainian fund as well as The Farmington Community Chest. And in Alex’s case, though no one can keep the disease from progressing the community was able to bring this little boy and his family some joy. It may not sound like much, but it is something, and there are times something can make a big impact and a big difference. Jesus certainly did not heal all diseases and he did not stop war and eradicate poverty. But he did do something, and he wants us to something as well---even when the something we can do is only little. But sometimes little can be much bigger than it initially appears.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
You know how we all complain that the news media loves to concentrate on bad news? We find ourselves more than a little annoyed because every time we pick up a newspaper or turn on the television to hear the latest news, there is always some catastrophe greeting our eyes and ears. But the Christian Science Monitor, which is a weekly magazine, always has a section called, Points of Progress, and it is filled with good news. And the Washington Post has a section called Inspired Life, which does just that---It inspires!
Last week in the Post I read about five year old Alex Hurdakis, afflicted with a fatal brain tumor, which was diagnosed when he was one. Recently, his parents were told there was nothing more medicine could do. All treatment had run out, and Alex would soon die. The news, of course, was beyond devastating, but little Alex still had some things he wanted to do and see. He loved Halloween and he wanted to see monsters. And so, a friend of the family came up with the idea of bringing Halloween to Alex. Through social media she made it known that Alex would most likely not live to see Halloween, and so she wanted the community to give Alex the gift of Halloween. And so, they did. They erected a haunted house in his yard and on September 14, 1000 people showed up in a parade of monsters, ghosts, goblins, and witches. Someone offered her services as a face painter, so people could have their face painted to look like a witch or a goblin or some other monster. All kinds of people showed up that day, including parents who had lost their own children to cancer and then there were those who were themselves going through chemotherapy and radiation.
It was far more than the family ever expected. Little Alex was thrilled and so was his two year year old sister and eight year old brother. His parents could not believe what this community in Hamilton, Ontario did for them and their family. “It was beyond beautiful,” said Nick, Alex’s father. “Though we don’t feel better about the situation, we know we are not alone.”
There are so many times in life we see or hear about a situation, and we feel powerless to do much about it. The war in Ukraine drags on, and we cannot stop it---though one of our own members, Joanne Hatch, is doing something by collecting clothes, household items and books to bring to Savers for money, which will be donated to the Ukrainian fund as well as The Farmington Community Chest. And in Alex’s case, though no one can keep the disease from progressing the community was able to bring this little boy and his family some joy. It may not sound like much, but it is something, and there are times something can make a big impact and a big difference. Jesus certainly did not heal all diseases and he did not stop war and eradicate poverty. But he did do something, and he wants us to something as well---even when the something we can do is only little. But sometimes little can be much bigger than it initially appears.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Chasms
Preached by Sandra Olsen
The First Church of Christ, Congregational
Unionville, CT
September 25, 2022
Amos 6: 1a, 4-7
Luke 16: 19-21
Chasms: they are very difficult to get across, sometimes impossible. We can stand there, looking across this huge divide, and we simply cannot figure out how to get across. Perhaps that is the way it has always been. People are often divided, and in today’s reading from Luke we have one of humanity’s most visible, enduring and yes, ugly chasms ---the chasm between the rich and the poor. I can remember the very first time poverty entered my consciousness. I was 7 years old, on a trip with my parents over Christmas vacation to visit my grandparents in Florida. We were driving from Buffalo, New York in my parents’ brand new Oldsmobile Deluxe 88---the most luxurious car my parents ever owned. It was early on Sunday morning in South Carolina; we had just eaten breakfast, and my father, trying to get back on the major highway, took a wrong turn, which landed us on a road, winding its way through a field of shacks. I saw these little kids, running around with no shoes on and no sweater. It was December, and though South Carolina is not Buffalo, New York, it was not warm enough to be barefooted. I simply did not understand, and when I asked for an explanation, my father talked about how these people worked on farms and were very, very poor. You know, my father said, it was only 100 years ago that their ancestors were slaves. I had never seen anything like this before, and I did not understand why I lived in a nice, comfortable home and my parents drove a new, shiny car, while these children and their parents had nothing. After a few minutes the tears began to roll down my cheeks and sniffles soon followed. My mother turned around to comfort me, but my father, who was always very hard on my tears, calling them golf balls said, “Let her cry. At least for once she has something real to cry about.” And then he said something he repeated many times in his life. The saddest words in the Bible are when Jesus said, “The poor you will always have with you.” There it was--- this huge chasm between my middle class life and those poor black children in South Carolina, and the only thing I knew how to do was to cry in empathy.
Empathy, however, is not what we get from this story in Luke. We have a poor man, named Lazarus, which means in Hebrew, “God is my help.” Notice that the rich man is the one who does all the speaking. Not surprising, because rich people have more voice and power than the poor. Yet though the poor man has no voice, he does have a name, Lazarus, while the rich man is never named in the text, though tradition has assigned him the name of Dives, which means rich man in Latin. The story paints a very powerful image of Lazarus, covered with sores, which the dogs licked, as he lay at the gate of a rich man. His one hope was to eat the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table. Now consider for a moment that gate. Gates open and close; they can shut others out, or let others in. And so, the rich man could have opened the gate to let Lazarus in, or he could have gone through the gate himself to offer food to Lazarus. But he did nothing. He did not even notice Lazarus. And then Dives and Lazarus find themselves on the other side of life, and this time the conditions are completely reversed. Lazarus is in the bosom of Abraham, while Dives is in Hades, suffering the torment of thirst.
Now the text neither tells us that the rich man is being punished for his treatment of the poor, nor does it say that Lazarus is being rewarded for a life well lived. It only tells us that the conditions are reversed. Lazarus suffered in life while the rich man lived very well and now the opposite conditions prevail.
Notice what Dives does. He calls out to Abraham, first asking for mercy, and then he asks Abraham to command Lazarus to relieve his thirst. Apparently, he is still living in the old system, where Lazarus is a nobody, someone who should be ordered about---told to dip his finger in the cool water to satisfy Dives’ thirst. The gate, which in life, Dives did not bother to open, has now become the chasm, which neither he nor Lazarus can cross. And indeed, this seems a very powerful metaphor for what often happens in life. Gates can be so thoroughly shut against others that in time it is not gates we have, but chasms no one knows how to cross. This happens in families and human relationships; it happens in the life of the church; it happens within nations and between nations, when differences, sometimes radical differences become bitter, ugly conflicts, leaving a chasm no one knows how to cross, let alone wants to cross.
Sometimes chasms develop between different disciplines, like science and religion. There really is no conflict, but if you insist on reading religious texts literally, you will certainly find conflicts. There is also a chasm between theology and economics. Churches in the main line Protestant tradition (like ours) have a hard time talking about money. Oh, we talk about charity and the importance of helping those in need, but the truth is that the Bible is far more concerned with economy than it is with charity. The Greek word from which we derive the word economy is a compound of two words, meaning household and law or management. So, economy literally means the management or law of the household. The word household as it is biblically used does not mean individual family units, but rather the site of human livelihood, the public household. And this theme is exactly what the Old Testament prophets like Amos were passionate about, castigating Israel for its failure to produce a just economy, embracing all people, in particular the poor and oppressed, the uneducated and unskilled as well as widows and children.
Jesus too spoke prophetically about the household economy, upsetting many people, but not because he told rich people to give more to charity. That is how we Americans tend to hear his words, because we inhabit a culture of individualism, so we tend to hear the story of Lazarus and Dives solely as a critique of a selfish rich man, who did not bother to notice the poor man at his gate. But Jesus’ message was far more than individual critique. It was social critique, aimed at actual structures of the economy that worked to the exclusion of the poor. Since there was no welfare state in Jesus’ time, the Temple was the institution that had some responsibility for the poor, and Jesus was not always happy with its methods for meeting those needs. He called for something named the Jubilee, a radical re-distribution of property and wealth that was to happen every 50 years. This did not make him popular with either the wealthy or the Temple.
All economies, no matter the type, have the challenge of dealing with poverty. In our country we embrace the free market system, and though there is much deserved criticism of an unregulated market, it is also true that one of the markets greatest achievements has been the creation of a strong middle class, though these days it appears that middle class is now shrinking. Yet historically the American main line Protestant churches, have been staunch defenders of the free market system. In 1907 there was an economic crisis in the country, and JP Morgan, New York’s leading banker, called the city’s Protestant clergy together for a meeting. “It is time for reaffirming faith,” he told the clergy. “Tell your parishioners on Sunday morning to leave their money in the banks.” And many did just that, because they believed that faith was more than what you do with your private life; it is also what you do with your public life---and the economy is public.
Poverty is certainly a statistic, but it is also more than that. It has a real face and tells a real story---just as it told me when I was 7 and just as we heard it told in Luke. And the stories keep coming. We can notice the people who have a face and a name and a story. We can try to help in a charitable way. And acting charitably is a good thing. But that in no way exhausts who Jesus was and what he taught and did. He wanted far more than charity. He was out to change the system and that made him an enemy of the Temple and the Roman Empire. And there are times when he is even an enemy of our system as well, a system that allows the top 1% of households to own 32.3% of the nation’s wealth, while the bottom 50% owns a mere 2.6%. And do you really think that Jesus would have nothing to say about such a state of affairs? If you do, I would caution you to think again.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
The First Church of Christ, Congregational
Unionville, CT
September 25, 2022
Amos 6: 1a, 4-7
Luke 16: 19-21
Chasms: they are very difficult to get across, sometimes impossible. We can stand there, looking across this huge divide, and we simply cannot figure out how to get across. Perhaps that is the way it has always been. People are often divided, and in today’s reading from Luke we have one of humanity’s most visible, enduring and yes, ugly chasms ---the chasm between the rich and the poor. I can remember the very first time poverty entered my consciousness. I was 7 years old, on a trip with my parents over Christmas vacation to visit my grandparents in Florida. We were driving from Buffalo, New York in my parents’ brand new Oldsmobile Deluxe 88---the most luxurious car my parents ever owned. It was early on Sunday morning in South Carolina; we had just eaten breakfast, and my father, trying to get back on the major highway, took a wrong turn, which landed us on a road, winding its way through a field of shacks. I saw these little kids, running around with no shoes on and no sweater. It was December, and though South Carolina is not Buffalo, New York, it was not warm enough to be barefooted. I simply did not understand, and when I asked for an explanation, my father talked about how these people worked on farms and were very, very poor. You know, my father said, it was only 100 years ago that their ancestors were slaves. I had never seen anything like this before, and I did not understand why I lived in a nice, comfortable home and my parents drove a new, shiny car, while these children and their parents had nothing. After a few minutes the tears began to roll down my cheeks and sniffles soon followed. My mother turned around to comfort me, but my father, who was always very hard on my tears, calling them golf balls said, “Let her cry. At least for once she has something real to cry about.” And then he said something he repeated many times in his life. The saddest words in the Bible are when Jesus said, “The poor you will always have with you.” There it was--- this huge chasm between my middle class life and those poor black children in South Carolina, and the only thing I knew how to do was to cry in empathy.
Empathy, however, is not what we get from this story in Luke. We have a poor man, named Lazarus, which means in Hebrew, “God is my help.” Notice that the rich man is the one who does all the speaking. Not surprising, because rich people have more voice and power than the poor. Yet though the poor man has no voice, he does have a name, Lazarus, while the rich man is never named in the text, though tradition has assigned him the name of Dives, which means rich man in Latin. The story paints a very powerful image of Lazarus, covered with sores, which the dogs licked, as he lay at the gate of a rich man. His one hope was to eat the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table. Now consider for a moment that gate. Gates open and close; they can shut others out, or let others in. And so, the rich man could have opened the gate to let Lazarus in, or he could have gone through the gate himself to offer food to Lazarus. But he did nothing. He did not even notice Lazarus. And then Dives and Lazarus find themselves on the other side of life, and this time the conditions are completely reversed. Lazarus is in the bosom of Abraham, while Dives is in Hades, suffering the torment of thirst.
Now the text neither tells us that the rich man is being punished for his treatment of the poor, nor does it say that Lazarus is being rewarded for a life well lived. It only tells us that the conditions are reversed. Lazarus suffered in life while the rich man lived very well and now the opposite conditions prevail.
Notice what Dives does. He calls out to Abraham, first asking for mercy, and then he asks Abraham to command Lazarus to relieve his thirst. Apparently, he is still living in the old system, where Lazarus is a nobody, someone who should be ordered about---told to dip his finger in the cool water to satisfy Dives’ thirst. The gate, which in life, Dives did not bother to open, has now become the chasm, which neither he nor Lazarus can cross. And indeed, this seems a very powerful metaphor for what often happens in life. Gates can be so thoroughly shut against others that in time it is not gates we have, but chasms no one knows how to cross. This happens in families and human relationships; it happens in the life of the church; it happens within nations and between nations, when differences, sometimes radical differences become bitter, ugly conflicts, leaving a chasm no one knows how to cross, let alone wants to cross.
Sometimes chasms develop between different disciplines, like science and religion. There really is no conflict, but if you insist on reading religious texts literally, you will certainly find conflicts. There is also a chasm between theology and economics. Churches in the main line Protestant tradition (like ours) have a hard time talking about money. Oh, we talk about charity and the importance of helping those in need, but the truth is that the Bible is far more concerned with economy than it is with charity. The Greek word from which we derive the word economy is a compound of two words, meaning household and law or management. So, economy literally means the management or law of the household. The word household as it is biblically used does not mean individual family units, but rather the site of human livelihood, the public household. And this theme is exactly what the Old Testament prophets like Amos were passionate about, castigating Israel for its failure to produce a just economy, embracing all people, in particular the poor and oppressed, the uneducated and unskilled as well as widows and children.
Jesus too spoke prophetically about the household economy, upsetting many people, but not because he told rich people to give more to charity. That is how we Americans tend to hear his words, because we inhabit a culture of individualism, so we tend to hear the story of Lazarus and Dives solely as a critique of a selfish rich man, who did not bother to notice the poor man at his gate. But Jesus’ message was far more than individual critique. It was social critique, aimed at actual structures of the economy that worked to the exclusion of the poor. Since there was no welfare state in Jesus’ time, the Temple was the institution that had some responsibility for the poor, and Jesus was not always happy with its methods for meeting those needs. He called for something named the Jubilee, a radical re-distribution of property and wealth that was to happen every 50 years. This did not make him popular with either the wealthy or the Temple.
All economies, no matter the type, have the challenge of dealing with poverty. In our country we embrace the free market system, and though there is much deserved criticism of an unregulated market, it is also true that one of the markets greatest achievements has been the creation of a strong middle class, though these days it appears that middle class is now shrinking. Yet historically the American main line Protestant churches, have been staunch defenders of the free market system. In 1907 there was an economic crisis in the country, and JP Morgan, New York’s leading banker, called the city’s Protestant clergy together for a meeting. “It is time for reaffirming faith,” he told the clergy. “Tell your parishioners on Sunday morning to leave their money in the banks.” And many did just that, because they believed that faith was more than what you do with your private life; it is also what you do with your public life---and the economy is public.
Poverty is certainly a statistic, but it is also more than that. It has a real face and tells a real story---just as it told me when I was 7 and just as we heard it told in Luke. And the stories keep coming. We can notice the people who have a face and a name and a story. We can try to help in a charitable way. And acting charitably is a good thing. But that in no way exhausts who Jesus was and what he taught and did. He wanted far more than charity. He was out to change the system and that made him an enemy of the Temple and the Roman Empire. And there are times when he is even an enemy of our system as well, a system that allows the top 1% of households to own 32.3% of the nation’s wealth, while the bottom 50% owns a mere 2.6%. And do you really think that Jesus would have nothing to say about such a state of affairs? If you do, I would caution you to think again.
September 22, 2022
Dear Friends,
Lately I have been very impressed by the vastness of creation. The first pages of the Bible are concerned with the creation God has made and declared good. And indeed, the James Webb Telescope, showing us incredible images of exoplanets and unnamed galaxies, is beyond awesome. And now I have been awestruck once again---this time by what I recently read about ants.
Can you guess how many ants there are in the world? In all honesty, I could not even begin to guess, but I was shocked to learn from an article recently published in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Science, that the number of ants stands at 20 quadrillion! That is 20,000 trillion, or 20,000,000,000,000,000! And the total mass of ants on earth weighs 12 megatons of carbon, which is the way scientists measure biomass. If all the ants in the world were put on a scale and weighed, they would outweigh all the wild birds and mammals put together. And for every human being living on this earth there are 2.5 million ants!
Ants inhabit every corner of the world, except perhaps some of the coldest places in the Arctic or Antarctica. They aerate soil and drag seeds underground that they might grow, and they are important sources of food for birds and other mammals. A myrmecologist (someone who studies ants) claims that if there were no ants the forests would be piled high with dead wood, since ants are critical for their ability to destroy and devour wood.
There are some troubling signs, however. Just as animal species go extinct, so too do insects. Someone estimated that up to 40% of the current insect population could be extinct. When? That is hard to say, but we do know that butterflies and beetles are facing grave threats now along with honeybees. Scientists do not know if the ant population is declining. Perhaps with so many ants on earth it is hard to judge.
The biodiversity of our planet is certainly awe inspiring. And when we consider that we human creatures are only aware of a small fraction of what lives on our earth, we should be brought to our knees in humility. But it seems that we human beings have a very hard time learning humility. We consider ourselves Number 1 on the planet and seem to be believe that having dominion over the earth means that we can do exactly what we want, no matter the impact on the rest of creation, including the planet.
The world is an incredible place, far more wonderful and diverse than we can even imagine. And if learning just a few facts about ants can help us to be more humble and more grateful for life on this earth we call home, then that is an added blessing. The Bible begins with the story of creation, and though its details might not count as accurate science, the story is told that we might be gratefully humble for the gift of life on this planet---and not only human life, but also other life as well, including ants!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Lately I have been very impressed by the vastness of creation. The first pages of the Bible are concerned with the creation God has made and declared good. And indeed, the James Webb Telescope, showing us incredible images of exoplanets and unnamed galaxies, is beyond awesome. And now I have been awestruck once again---this time by what I recently read about ants.
Can you guess how many ants there are in the world? In all honesty, I could not even begin to guess, but I was shocked to learn from an article recently published in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Science, that the number of ants stands at 20 quadrillion! That is 20,000 trillion, or 20,000,000,000,000,000! And the total mass of ants on earth weighs 12 megatons of carbon, which is the way scientists measure biomass. If all the ants in the world were put on a scale and weighed, they would outweigh all the wild birds and mammals put together. And for every human being living on this earth there are 2.5 million ants!
Ants inhabit every corner of the world, except perhaps some of the coldest places in the Arctic or Antarctica. They aerate soil and drag seeds underground that they might grow, and they are important sources of food for birds and other mammals. A myrmecologist (someone who studies ants) claims that if there were no ants the forests would be piled high with dead wood, since ants are critical for their ability to destroy and devour wood.
There are some troubling signs, however. Just as animal species go extinct, so too do insects. Someone estimated that up to 40% of the current insect population could be extinct. When? That is hard to say, but we do know that butterflies and beetles are facing grave threats now along with honeybees. Scientists do not know if the ant population is declining. Perhaps with so many ants on earth it is hard to judge.
The biodiversity of our planet is certainly awe inspiring. And when we consider that we human creatures are only aware of a small fraction of what lives on our earth, we should be brought to our knees in humility. But it seems that we human beings have a very hard time learning humility. We consider ourselves Number 1 on the planet and seem to be believe that having dominion over the earth means that we can do exactly what we want, no matter the impact on the rest of creation, including the planet.
The world is an incredible place, far more wonderful and diverse than we can even imagine. And if learning just a few facts about ants can help us to be more humble and more grateful for life on this earth we call home, then that is an added blessing. The Bible begins with the story of creation, and though its details might not count as accurate science, the story is told that we might be gratefully humble for the gift of life on this planet---and not only human life, but also other life as well, including ants!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Giving to an Imperfect Church
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
September 18, 2022
Mark 12: 38-44
To be perfectly honest, most ministers do not relish stewardship sermons. And the reason is quite simple when you look at many church budgets, especially small churches like ours, most of the money is going for the minister’s salary and benefits. So, there is no denying that it can sound very self-serving to preach on church giving. “Give to the church, so I can have a job and be paid.” Furthermore, any minister with even a whit of theological insight realizes how dangerous it can be to equate giving to the church with giving to God. God and Church are not synonyms, and though the church has a divine mission---helping people to live in right relationship with God by loving God with the fullness of heart, soul, and mind--- we also realize that the church is a human institution, and as is anything human, it is deeply flawed. It can and does fail and disappoint, and though both clergy and parishioner do often try hard to preach, understand and live God’s Word, who among us would deny that our efforts and outcomes are very imperfect. And so, is it any wonder that there is often unease among clergy and parishioners when it comes to speaking about money and giving to the church?
Jesus, however, felt no such unease. He spoke about money and possessions more than any other single topic: 62% of his parables refer to money and possessions, and one out of every ten verses in the four gospels deals with wealth. The Bible includes 500 verses on prayer, a bit less than that on faith, but more than 2000 on money and what it can and cannot buy. Furthermore, Jesus certainly understood the flawed nature of religious institutions. He was hardly shy about criticizing scribes, priests, and Pharisees, sometimes because they were more concerned about rules and regulations than they are about the needs of real people. And he was very critical of the Temple and its practices. He threw the money changers out of the Temple courtyard, accusing them of making God’s house into a den of robbers. Money changers, by the way, did have an important role, because Jews came to the Temple from all over the empire with foreign money in their hands, which had to be changed into Jewish coinage. But some money changers were dishonest, which brought down Jesus’ ire on them. And now we see him sitting outside the Temple, carefully observing the scene--- rich people putting in their offering and a poor widow, giving two copper coins, all she had. She gave out of her poverty, not out of her abundance, and that is an act of great generosity.
She trusted the Temple to do God’s work, and if the Temple failed, the blame was on the Temple, not on the widow. I suppose some might call the widow naïve or even foolish for placing her trust in the Temple, but there are times when trust, like faith, is naïve. And perhaps at times it needs to be, because if we cannot believe in the goodness and worthiness of what we are doing and supporting, we would be overcome by cynicism. And cynicism is dangerous, rarely issuing in acts of generosity and compassion.
And isn’t that a reason to give to the church? We want and we need to see acts of generosity and compassion in the world, and we want and need to be part of that. We know the church is not a perfect institution, but when we risk the hope and faith that the church can be a place where God’s Word is preached, embraced, and lived, our hearts and our lives grow bigger, and our gratitude expands. Gratitude is always a good reason to give. For all we know the widow who gave her last coins to the Temple was giving because she was grateful to God. The Temple was supposed to help widows and orphans, so perhaps she was grateful for what help she did receive---though Jesus thought it should do more. While she was poor in things and money, she was rich in gratitude and faith. No wonder Jesus commended her.
A few years ago, I was at a seminar at Princeton Theological Seminary, where met this elderly man, in his 90’s. I thought he was a retired clergyman, but he told me, no, he just enjoyed theology and the stimulation that came from learning and thinking. Someone else told me he was very wealthy, a successful Wall Street investor, who had given a lot of money not only to the seminary, but also to some churches so they could expand their outreach, supporting a soup kitchen and a homeless shelter. One evening he told me about being a prisoner in a Japanese camp during World War II. “It was beyond horrible,” he said, beyond anything you could imagine. The Japanese did not abide by any of the Genevan Convention rules concerning prisoners. A prisoner, in their minds, was a failed warrior, who deserved no respect. We were starved. I was sure I would not survive. And so, I hated my enemy.
One afternoon a group of Japanese soldiers, who themselves had been held prisoners, had managed to escape during an air raid attack. They were practically thrown off the vehicles that brought them to our camp. Many of them were badly injured, barely able to walk. Others were crawling on the ground, crying out and begging for water. And our captors simply ignored them. These were their own soldiers, and yet they treated them as they treated us; we were all failed warriors in their eyes. Since they had allowed themselves to be captured, they were deemed worthless, not even worthy of water. Then this English soldier went over to the bucket of water and began to give these soldiers a drink. My captors looked on as if the man were crazy, but they didn’t stop him. However, the English commander tried, screaming at the top of his lungs to stop giving aid to the enemy. But he would not stop, and then some other men began to give water too. I stood there, wanting to help, but I didn’t. The English commander continued to scream out his orders and our Japanese captors looked on in disbelief, but no one dared intervene.
Later I would learn the soldier who gave aid was a devout Christian, and I would come to realize how important it is to be part of something bigger than I, something that could push me to do good. You could call it a conversion experience. And so, I have tried to do good with what I have been given. And the church has been a big part of my life, surrounding me with people, who have pushed me to do some good while challenging me to realize what and where my treasure truly is. I have been a part of different churches, and I’ve learned that as often as churches and clergy fail, yet something of God does manage to get through.
I think Jesus would agree. Picture him sitting outside that Temple, knowing its flaws while watching all kinds of people make their offerings, and then seeing a widow, vulnerable and poor, who trusted that God could and would use the gift of her two copper coins for something that truly mattered. The question for us is: Do we hope and trust that God can do the same with our gifts to this church? And this is a question only you can answer for yourself.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
September 18, 2022
Mark 12: 38-44
To be perfectly honest, most ministers do not relish stewardship sermons. And the reason is quite simple when you look at many church budgets, especially small churches like ours, most of the money is going for the minister’s salary and benefits. So, there is no denying that it can sound very self-serving to preach on church giving. “Give to the church, so I can have a job and be paid.” Furthermore, any minister with even a whit of theological insight realizes how dangerous it can be to equate giving to the church with giving to God. God and Church are not synonyms, and though the church has a divine mission---helping people to live in right relationship with God by loving God with the fullness of heart, soul, and mind--- we also realize that the church is a human institution, and as is anything human, it is deeply flawed. It can and does fail and disappoint, and though both clergy and parishioner do often try hard to preach, understand and live God’s Word, who among us would deny that our efforts and outcomes are very imperfect. And so, is it any wonder that there is often unease among clergy and parishioners when it comes to speaking about money and giving to the church?
Jesus, however, felt no such unease. He spoke about money and possessions more than any other single topic: 62% of his parables refer to money and possessions, and one out of every ten verses in the four gospels deals with wealth. The Bible includes 500 verses on prayer, a bit less than that on faith, but more than 2000 on money and what it can and cannot buy. Furthermore, Jesus certainly understood the flawed nature of religious institutions. He was hardly shy about criticizing scribes, priests, and Pharisees, sometimes because they were more concerned about rules and regulations than they are about the needs of real people. And he was very critical of the Temple and its practices. He threw the money changers out of the Temple courtyard, accusing them of making God’s house into a den of robbers. Money changers, by the way, did have an important role, because Jews came to the Temple from all over the empire with foreign money in their hands, which had to be changed into Jewish coinage. But some money changers were dishonest, which brought down Jesus’ ire on them. And now we see him sitting outside the Temple, carefully observing the scene--- rich people putting in their offering and a poor widow, giving two copper coins, all she had. She gave out of her poverty, not out of her abundance, and that is an act of great generosity.
She trusted the Temple to do God’s work, and if the Temple failed, the blame was on the Temple, not on the widow. I suppose some might call the widow naïve or even foolish for placing her trust in the Temple, but there are times when trust, like faith, is naïve. And perhaps at times it needs to be, because if we cannot believe in the goodness and worthiness of what we are doing and supporting, we would be overcome by cynicism. And cynicism is dangerous, rarely issuing in acts of generosity and compassion.
And isn’t that a reason to give to the church? We want and we need to see acts of generosity and compassion in the world, and we want and need to be part of that. We know the church is not a perfect institution, but when we risk the hope and faith that the church can be a place where God’s Word is preached, embraced, and lived, our hearts and our lives grow bigger, and our gratitude expands. Gratitude is always a good reason to give. For all we know the widow who gave her last coins to the Temple was giving because she was grateful to God. The Temple was supposed to help widows and orphans, so perhaps she was grateful for what help she did receive---though Jesus thought it should do more. While she was poor in things and money, she was rich in gratitude and faith. No wonder Jesus commended her.
A few years ago, I was at a seminar at Princeton Theological Seminary, where met this elderly man, in his 90’s. I thought he was a retired clergyman, but he told me, no, he just enjoyed theology and the stimulation that came from learning and thinking. Someone else told me he was very wealthy, a successful Wall Street investor, who had given a lot of money not only to the seminary, but also to some churches so they could expand their outreach, supporting a soup kitchen and a homeless shelter. One evening he told me about being a prisoner in a Japanese camp during World War II. “It was beyond horrible,” he said, beyond anything you could imagine. The Japanese did not abide by any of the Genevan Convention rules concerning prisoners. A prisoner, in their minds, was a failed warrior, who deserved no respect. We were starved. I was sure I would not survive. And so, I hated my enemy.
One afternoon a group of Japanese soldiers, who themselves had been held prisoners, had managed to escape during an air raid attack. They were practically thrown off the vehicles that brought them to our camp. Many of them were badly injured, barely able to walk. Others were crawling on the ground, crying out and begging for water. And our captors simply ignored them. These were their own soldiers, and yet they treated them as they treated us; we were all failed warriors in their eyes. Since they had allowed themselves to be captured, they were deemed worthless, not even worthy of water. Then this English soldier went over to the bucket of water and began to give these soldiers a drink. My captors looked on as if the man were crazy, but they didn’t stop him. However, the English commander tried, screaming at the top of his lungs to stop giving aid to the enemy. But he would not stop, and then some other men began to give water too. I stood there, wanting to help, but I didn’t. The English commander continued to scream out his orders and our Japanese captors looked on in disbelief, but no one dared intervene.
Later I would learn the soldier who gave aid was a devout Christian, and I would come to realize how important it is to be part of something bigger than I, something that could push me to do good. You could call it a conversion experience. And so, I have tried to do good with what I have been given. And the church has been a big part of my life, surrounding me with people, who have pushed me to do some good while challenging me to realize what and where my treasure truly is. I have been a part of different churches, and I’ve learned that as often as churches and clergy fail, yet something of God does manage to get through.
I think Jesus would agree. Picture him sitting outside that Temple, knowing its flaws while watching all kinds of people make their offerings, and then seeing a widow, vulnerable and poor, who trusted that God could and would use the gift of her two copper coins for something that truly mattered. The question for us is: Do we hope and trust that God can do the same with our gifts to this church? And this is a question only you can answer for yourself.
SEEKING AND FINDING THE LOST
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
September 11, 2022
Luke 15: 1-10
I don’t know how many of you have a favorite gospel, but for me it is Luke. I think many people feel this way, not only because of the wonderful Christmas story and some of our favorite parables, such as The Good Samaritan and The Prodigal Son, but also because Jesus is so strongly portrayed as the compassionate and caring one. He certainly does have his demanding side. Right before our passage for today he speaks of the high cost of discipleship, but we also have so many examples of Jesus bucking the conventions of religion to help those who are hurting. He heals on the Sabbath, which brings condemnation from the authorities, and he shares table fellowship with those who are considered low lifers and sinners. In fact, that is how our lesson begins today. Tax collectors, who were hated for their collaboration with Rome and other sinners were coming to hear Jesus preach, and immediately the Pharisees and scribes begin to grumble about the company Jesus keeps.
And then Jesus immediately tells two parables about a lost sheep and a lost coin. Now there are a few things to note about these parables. Jesus is obviously making a connection between the lostness of sinners and a relentless God who searches for the lost until they are found. But there is no way we can morally assign blame to a sheep and a coin that are lost. They are simply lost, and it is someone else’s responsibility to find them. Of course, the problem the religious leadership had with sinners is that they considered them blameworthy for their sins. The sinners, in other words, were the responsible ones and not anyone else. And yet here we have Jesus talking about a shepherd, who leaves the 99 in order to find the one lost sheep. But no shepherd would do that. He would not leave his flock vulnerable unless he had someone else to watch over them while he was searching for his lost sheep. But Jesus doesn’t mention that possibility. The story is told in such a way that we imagine the 99 being left alone in the wilderness, and the word wilderness always suggests a place of danger and vulnerability. But still the shepherd risks the safety of the 99 to find the one lost sheep.
Now the Pharisees and scribes were not stupid people. They knew what shepherds did and how shepherds behaved, and they realized that Jesus is pushing here for a different moral and spiritual code. A shepherd who left his flock unattended in this way, would be deemed irresponsible. And yet Jesus is here suggesting that it is worth the risk to find the one who is lost. There is no denying that the risk is REAL. More sheep might be lost, and the shepherd might never find the lost sheep, and he too, all alone in the wilderness, could meet up with a wild beast which could end his life. So, both the shepherd and the sheep could have something significant to lose. But Jesus is saying that sometimes in life danger must be risked that something else can happen---that the lost can be found.
Now in the story of the lost coin, there does not seem to be much risk at all--- just the time the woman spent in looking for the lost coin. And when she finds it, she calls her neighbors together so they can rejoice with her. That simply is not something most people would do. And the scribes and Pharisees know that this is not usual behavior, and so for them the lesson is to think about lostness in a different way. Rather than putting the blame on that which is lost, the emphasis is shifted to the one who is determined to search until the lost one is found. That puts a moral obligation on those hearing the parable and it also suggests that this is how God is. God searches until the lost are found and the suggestion from Jesus is that human beings, made in God’s image, should do the same.
Some years ago, I met this woman at the Y, and we would talk now and then. I learned from her how her husband had been working on a special project at the Twin Towers in New York, and though he was not there every day, he was there on September 11, 2001. He managed to escape the first building that was hit, and he called one of his three sons, telling him, “I’m safe, but I am going back in to help others.” “Dad, don’t do that. It’s too dangerous.” I’ll be o.k., he insisted. There are people in there, who need my help.” And that was the last time anyone heard from him. He perished.
His wife told me she had been furious, and though over the years, her fury had abated, she still could not forgive him for what she considered his blatant disregard for her and their three sons. “Strangers meant more to him than we did,” she fumed. He took a risk he should not have taken.” “Well,” I said, “if he had come out alive after helping others, you would call him a hero. And we really do not know how many others he did manage to help get out of the building. People are not heroes ONLY when they survive. They are heroes because they do brave things, putting their own lives at risk. Easy for you to say, she accused. You did not lose a husband to heroism. Your life and the life of your children were not put at risk. I did not say much after that, and we would still talk now and then about other topics.
But some years later, an accused terrorist was on trial, and a woman from Yale Divinity School, who actually began Divinity School after she lost her husband in 9/11 guest preached at my Church. She too had three teenagers, and she traveled to Cuba or Florida to offer testimony on behalf of mercy. And that is what she preached about---why she was for mercy. To her the accused man was both lost and sick. Well, some time after this, the woman at the Y, let’s call her Cheryl, was listening to the television about the man involved in the Boston Marathon bombing. I hope he gets the death penalty, she said. In response, I countered with I don’t want anyone getting the death penalty. That because you have never lost anyone to violence. And then I told her about the woman who had preached mercy at my church some years before. She never spoke to me after that.
When bad things happen, particularly when people do bad things, it is so easy to be focused on their guilt and responsibility. Moral responsibility is no small matter, and ignoring or overlooking it, has its own risks, which is why Jesus told these parables where culpability is not the issue, since coins and sheep cannot be held responsible for being lost. Jesus does this, I think, to change the direction of attention---away from the guilt of the lost and toward the moral responsibility of searching for and finding the lost. And in the very next verse after today’s lesson, Jesus will begin the story of the Prodigal Son, one of the most beloved of all Jesus’ parables, where there is both guilt and responsibility, and also a father who runs to meet his wayward son as he returns home and celebrates that the lost is now found while the older son stews in his resentment. The story of lostness continues not only in the Bible but also in our own lives.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
September 11, 2022
Luke 15: 1-10
I don’t know how many of you have a favorite gospel, but for me it is Luke. I think many people feel this way, not only because of the wonderful Christmas story and some of our favorite parables, such as The Good Samaritan and The Prodigal Son, but also because Jesus is so strongly portrayed as the compassionate and caring one. He certainly does have his demanding side. Right before our passage for today he speaks of the high cost of discipleship, but we also have so many examples of Jesus bucking the conventions of religion to help those who are hurting. He heals on the Sabbath, which brings condemnation from the authorities, and he shares table fellowship with those who are considered low lifers and sinners. In fact, that is how our lesson begins today. Tax collectors, who were hated for their collaboration with Rome and other sinners were coming to hear Jesus preach, and immediately the Pharisees and scribes begin to grumble about the company Jesus keeps.
And then Jesus immediately tells two parables about a lost sheep and a lost coin. Now there are a few things to note about these parables. Jesus is obviously making a connection between the lostness of sinners and a relentless God who searches for the lost until they are found. But there is no way we can morally assign blame to a sheep and a coin that are lost. They are simply lost, and it is someone else’s responsibility to find them. Of course, the problem the religious leadership had with sinners is that they considered them blameworthy for their sins. The sinners, in other words, were the responsible ones and not anyone else. And yet here we have Jesus talking about a shepherd, who leaves the 99 in order to find the one lost sheep. But no shepherd would do that. He would not leave his flock vulnerable unless he had someone else to watch over them while he was searching for his lost sheep. But Jesus doesn’t mention that possibility. The story is told in such a way that we imagine the 99 being left alone in the wilderness, and the word wilderness always suggests a place of danger and vulnerability. But still the shepherd risks the safety of the 99 to find the one lost sheep.
Now the Pharisees and scribes were not stupid people. They knew what shepherds did and how shepherds behaved, and they realized that Jesus is pushing here for a different moral and spiritual code. A shepherd who left his flock unattended in this way, would be deemed irresponsible. And yet Jesus is here suggesting that it is worth the risk to find the one who is lost. There is no denying that the risk is REAL. More sheep might be lost, and the shepherd might never find the lost sheep, and he too, all alone in the wilderness, could meet up with a wild beast which could end his life. So, both the shepherd and the sheep could have something significant to lose. But Jesus is saying that sometimes in life danger must be risked that something else can happen---that the lost can be found.
Now in the story of the lost coin, there does not seem to be much risk at all--- just the time the woman spent in looking for the lost coin. And when she finds it, she calls her neighbors together so they can rejoice with her. That simply is not something most people would do. And the scribes and Pharisees know that this is not usual behavior, and so for them the lesson is to think about lostness in a different way. Rather than putting the blame on that which is lost, the emphasis is shifted to the one who is determined to search until the lost one is found. That puts a moral obligation on those hearing the parable and it also suggests that this is how God is. God searches until the lost are found and the suggestion from Jesus is that human beings, made in God’s image, should do the same.
Some years ago, I met this woman at the Y, and we would talk now and then. I learned from her how her husband had been working on a special project at the Twin Towers in New York, and though he was not there every day, he was there on September 11, 2001. He managed to escape the first building that was hit, and he called one of his three sons, telling him, “I’m safe, but I am going back in to help others.” “Dad, don’t do that. It’s too dangerous.” I’ll be o.k., he insisted. There are people in there, who need my help.” And that was the last time anyone heard from him. He perished.
His wife told me she had been furious, and though over the years, her fury had abated, she still could not forgive him for what she considered his blatant disregard for her and their three sons. “Strangers meant more to him than we did,” she fumed. He took a risk he should not have taken.” “Well,” I said, “if he had come out alive after helping others, you would call him a hero. And we really do not know how many others he did manage to help get out of the building. People are not heroes ONLY when they survive. They are heroes because they do brave things, putting their own lives at risk. Easy for you to say, she accused. You did not lose a husband to heroism. Your life and the life of your children were not put at risk. I did not say much after that, and we would still talk now and then about other topics.
But some years later, an accused terrorist was on trial, and a woman from Yale Divinity School, who actually began Divinity School after she lost her husband in 9/11 guest preached at my Church. She too had three teenagers, and she traveled to Cuba or Florida to offer testimony on behalf of mercy. And that is what she preached about---why she was for mercy. To her the accused man was both lost and sick. Well, some time after this, the woman at the Y, let’s call her Cheryl, was listening to the television about the man involved in the Boston Marathon bombing. I hope he gets the death penalty, she said. In response, I countered with I don’t want anyone getting the death penalty. That because you have never lost anyone to violence. And then I told her about the woman who had preached mercy at my church some years before. She never spoke to me after that.
When bad things happen, particularly when people do bad things, it is so easy to be focused on their guilt and responsibility. Moral responsibility is no small matter, and ignoring or overlooking it, has its own risks, which is why Jesus told these parables where culpability is not the issue, since coins and sheep cannot be held responsible for being lost. Jesus does this, I think, to change the direction of attention---away from the guilt of the lost and toward the moral responsibility of searching for and finding the lost. And in the very next verse after today’s lesson, Jesus will begin the story of the Prodigal Son, one of the most beloved of all Jesus’ parables, where there is both guilt and responsibility, and also a father who runs to meet his wayward son as he returns home and celebrates that the lost is now found while the older son stews in his resentment. The story of lostness continues not only in the Bible but also in our own lives.
Dear Friends,
When ministers in our denomination are ordained, there is often a question posed about the prophetic call to speak truth to power, phrased sometimes like this: Do you promise to serve and love the truth as best as you are able to discern it, and speak, if and when necessary, truth to power, always relying on God’s grace? You may recall that the Hebrew prophets were often in the uncomfortable position of telling various leaders, including kings and priests, truths they did not particularly want to hear. It was hardly a comfortable or easy call to be a prophet, and it should come as no surprise that sometimes prophets would try to run away from the call. Jeremiah was so upset with his call to be a prophet that he accused God of abusing him!
Fast forward to our time. Chances are you never heard the name David Kay. I never had either until I read a short article about him by a man named Bob Drogin. Kay was a hero, a man who spoke truth to power, and he dearly paid for this virtue. On January 28, 2004 Kay sat at a desk in a Senate Armed Service Committee hearing room and publicly acknowledged that the intelligence upon which the Iraq War was based was completely wrong. No one else from the White House or the intelligence community had ever admitted the errors, and his admission came as a shock---not because it was wrong, but because it was public.
After the 1991 Gulf War, Kay led one of the United Nations teams hunting for biological and chemical weapons in Iraq. There is a story that he once was in a four day stand off with Iraqi troops when he refused to return evidence he had of illicit nuclear activities. His reputation as a man with guts and intelligence placed him in a Washington job working on the issue of weapons proliferation. American Intelligence would sometimes rely on him to give them the latest scoop on countries considered hostile to American interests.
After the March 2003 invasion of Iraq found no weapons of mass destruction, President Bush put the CIA in charge of the search. George Tenant, head of the CIA, put Kay in charge of the Iraq Survey Group, charged with finding the missing weapons. The Group was composed of scientists, soldiers and even spies, but no weapons of mass destruction were ever found, only the hard truth that the intelligence claiming such weapons existed was based on supposition and lies---no facts whatsoever. At the end of March Kay returned to Washington to confront people with the hard truth. After 9/11 the CIA and other intelligence agencies had failed to connect the dots, but when it came to Iraq, Kay said, “they made up the dots.”
For telling the truth, for speaking truth to power, Kay became an outcast. Hardly anyone would speak with him and some even called him a traitor—behind his back, of course, simply because his words had humiliated the CIA. He was demoted to an office without a secure computer and phone, but after a month he quit. At one point he earned his living by taking wedding photographs. He died this past August 13, and it took the media more than a week to note his death from cancer at the age of 82.
Its “interesting” how other figures in the Iraq War fared. George Tenant, who led the CIA during and after the 9/11 attacks—despite the Agency’s failed intelligence--- was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. And Paul Wolfowitz, who had been deputy defense secretary and a strong advocate of the Iraq War, became head of the World Bank. But the man who diligently did his homework and discovered the uncomfortable and hard truth became an outcast.
This is the way it often is. Speaking truth to power rarely makes one popular. It can cost heavily, and sometimes one pays with one’s life. Yet when truth is spoken, whether the cost is great or small, the power of its assertion, though it can take years to be heard and accepted, can give birth to hope and change.
I was deeply touched reading some of the comments made by Russians, going to pay their final respects to Gorbachev. They remembered him as a man who spoke the truth. He opened Soviet society in a way that was radically new. People could speak truthfully about government and history---at least as they understood it--- without fearing prison. Of course, now under Putin, speaking truthfully, for example, about the war in Ukraine, can land you a 15 year prison sentence.
While facts always participate in the truth, the truth can never be reduced to facts. Interpretation and imagination always enter into the picture, and even our best endeavor at understanding the truth is often partial and ambiguous. And yet we can and should celebrate those who speak the truth, especially when they are speaking to the powerful, who sometimes have very little interest in knowing what the truth is and how it can impact real lives. Remember what Jesus said, “Know the truth and the truth will set you free.” The Southern writer and faithful Roman Catholic, Flannery O’Connor had her own take on what Jesus said: “Know the truth and the truth will make you odd.” And indeed, truth can make you both odd and free.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
When ministers in our denomination are ordained, there is often a question posed about the prophetic call to speak truth to power, phrased sometimes like this: Do you promise to serve and love the truth as best as you are able to discern it, and speak, if and when necessary, truth to power, always relying on God’s grace? You may recall that the Hebrew prophets were often in the uncomfortable position of telling various leaders, including kings and priests, truths they did not particularly want to hear. It was hardly a comfortable or easy call to be a prophet, and it should come as no surprise that sometimes prophets would try to run away from the call. Jeremiah was so upset with his call to be a prophet that he accused God of abusing him!
Fast forward to our time. Chances are you never heard the name David Kay. I never had either until I read a short article about him by a man named Bob Drogin. Kay was a hero, a man who spoke truth to power, and he dearly paid for this virtue. On January 28, 2004 Kay sat at a desk in a Senate Armed Service Committee hearing room and publicly acknowledged that the intelligence upon which the Iraq War was based was completely wrong. No one else from the White House or the intelligence community had ever admitted the errors, and his admission came as a shock---not because it was wrong, but because it was public.
After the 1991 Gulf War, Kay led one of the United Nations teams hunting for biological and chemical weapons in Iraq. There is a story that he once was in a four day stand off with Iraqi troops when he refused to return evidence he had of illicit nuclear activities. His reputation as a man with guts and intelligence placed him in a Washington job working on the issue of weapons proliferation. American Intelligence would sometimes rely on him to give them the latest scoop on countries considered hostile to American interests.
After the March 2003 invasion of Iraq found no weapons of mass destruction, President Bush put the CIA in charge of the search. George Tenant, head of the CIA, put Kay in charge of the Iraq Survey Group, charged with finding the missing weapons. The Group was composed of scientists, soldiers and even spies, but no weapons of mass destruction were ever found, only the hard truth that the intelligence claiming such weapons existed was based on supposition and lies---no facts whatsoever. At the end of March Kay returned to Washington to confront people with the hard truth. After 9/11 the CIA and other intelligence agencies had failed to connect the dots, but when it came to Iraq, Kay said, “they made up the dots.”
For telling the truth, for speaking truth to power, Kay became an outcast. Hardly anyone would speak with him and some even called him a traitor—behind his back, of course, simply because his words had humiliated the CIA. He was demoted to an office without a secure computer and phone, but after a month he quit. At one point he earned his living by taking wedding photographs. He died this past August 13, and it took the media more than a week to note his death from cancer at the age of 82.
Its “interesting” how other figures in the Iraq War fared. George Tenant, who led the CIA during and after the 9/11 attacks—despite the Agency’s failed intelligence--- was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. And Paul Wolfowitz, who had been deputy defense secretary and a strong advocate of the Iraq War, became head of the World Bank. But the man who diligently did his homework and discovered the uncomfortable and hard truth became an outcast.
This is the way it often is. Speaking truth to power rarely makes one popular. It can cost heavily, and sometimes one pays with one’s life. Yet when truth is spoken, whether the cost is great or small, the power of its assertion, though it can take years to be heard and accepted, can give birth to hope and change.
I was deeply touched reading some of the comments made by Russians, going to pay their final respects to Gorbachev. They remembered him as a man who spoke the truth. He opened Soviet society in a way that was radically new. People could speak truthfully about government and history---at least as they understood it--- without fearing prison. Of course, now under Putin, speaking truthfully, for example, about the war in Ukraine, can land you a 15 year prison sentence.
While facts always participate in the truth, the truth can never be reduced to facts. Interpretation and imagination always enter into the picture, and even our best endeavor at understanding the truth is often partial and ambiguous. And yet we can and should celebrate those who speak the truth, especially when they are speaking to the powerful, who sometimes have very little interest in knowing what the truth is and how it can impact real lives. Remember what Jesus said, “Know the truth and the truth will set you free.” The Southern writer and faithful Roman Catholic, Flannery O’Connor had her own take on what Jesus said: “Know the truth and the truth will make you odd.” And indeed, truth can make you both odd and free.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
“Have Leisure and Know I Am God”
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
September 4, 2022
Psalm 46
Mark 2: 23-28
My youngest daughter, Caitlin, was a French major in college, and she wrote her senior thesis on Antoine de Saint Exupery, a French writer and an aviator, who died in July, 1945, when his plane crashed In the dessert for unknown reasons. He wrote poetry and a number of novels, but is perhaps best known for his wonderful novella, The Little Prince. Caitlin read the book when she was about 10 and it has never lost its power to inspire her.
The Little Prince complains a great deal about grown ups, who don’t seem to understand what is truly important. “We must be patient with them,” he says, “because they do not know how to ask the right questions. When you make a new friend, the adults ask, How old is your friend, and what do his parents do for a living---which is really a question about how much money they make. They never ask what your friend’s voice sounds like, or what games he likes to play or books she likes to read. Work and money are what grown ups care about.
Well, there is a great deal of truth in what the Little Prince says. The adult world does care about work and money, and for good reason, since work is the way most of us support ourselves and since we spend so much time working, it does make sense to find work we enjoy. But something has happened in western culture that is unique: Work has become the single most important way of defining oneself and finding meaning. The question who you are has been reduced to what it is you do for a living. And indeed, as colleges and universities open this week, they are filled with students obsessing about what kind of work they will do, which is supposed to tell them who they are as people and what their worth is or will be.
This is completely in contrast to the biblical world. Status and wealth are not new inventions; they existed in biblical times, but work was not the means of defining status. Almost all wealth was inherited, and Israelite society offered limited opportunities to create new wealth, so people pretty much did what their parents had done. That was what life was like for not only Israel, but also for most people across the globe--- until the modern age. People worked, and they worked hard, but they did not constantly work. There was a tremendous amount of down time, when there was not much work to do. In fact, until industrialization, most people were not usually enslaved to their work.
Nowhere in the Old or New Testament is work understood to be the means of finding or creating meaning, self-definition and worth. In fact, when someone was defined by their work it was because they were pursuing immoral activities, such as prostitution or tax collecting, which were considered both socially and spiritually destructive. But even good and honest work was not considered to be the gateway to deeper meaning in life; God was the gateway, and the nurturing of a relationship with God was believed to require leisure, not the busyness of work. Psalm 46 verse 10, reads in both the New Revised Standard Version as well as the King James, “Be still and know I am God.” But another possible translation, which some scholars prefer is, “Have leisure and know I am God.”
Jesus certainly was at leisure a great deal of the time, withdrawing from his disciples to be alone with God. And by leisure I do not mean idleness. Leisure is understood as a kind of deep, inner silence, when God is listened to and for. It is a time when the distractions of the world are not banging down on our minds for attention. But increasingly we are losing that leisure, because we are hooked on the busyness of activities. And technology hardly helps us to unwind and relax. Even on vacation Americans are working as they text, email and zoom.
Some like to blame our Puritan forebears for an American obsession with work. There is this popular image of the Puritan as a humorless workaholic, disdaining pleasure and leisure. While it is true that Puritans disapproved of idleness, they made a very sharp distinction between leisure and idleness. Idleness was understood as an activity with no purpose beyond the activity---work for the sake of work, or work for the sake of amassing wealth, and the reason it was considered dangerous was because its aim was too low---far, far below the goodness God desires for God’s people, who are made in the image and likeness of God. The Puritans worked hard, and while they were suspicious of idleness, they did believe that leisure was necessary for human beings to flourish.
In today’s lesson we hear Jesus insist that the Sabbath was made for people not people for the Sabbath. In other words, people need sabbath to be fully human, fully alive to God and to others. Christianity begins its week with Sabbath, so even before you do a lick of work, you are given the gift of Sabbath. This is not so much for renewal or refreshment, but rather for being, for worship, for silence, for knowing. The psalmist sang, Be still and know that I am God! And if we are too busy to be still, too obsessed with work or accomplishments, we will not know or recognize God.
Sabbath is leisure, but not the kind of leisure, filled up with fun activities. In leisure we are called to quiet and contemplate, allowing the thought process to take us somewhere beyond the world of everyday problems and tasks. In the book of Job, the Old Testament story of a man, who struggles mightily with the questions Why must I suffer?, there is a line, so easy to overlook spoken by one of Job’s friends, “God gives songs in the middle of the night.” Effortlessly, peacefully the solutions, the words, the ideas, the songs sometimes come not in the bright light of the day, but in the darkness of the night.
No wonder the psalmist sang: “Have leisure and know I am God.” When we attend to the Bible, and the stories of people like Moses, Jacob, and Elijah and of course Jesus, we see that God has this habit of showing up not in the midst of obsessive busyness, but in stillness and quiet. And as the school year begins for many in the coming week, we should know that the Greek word for leisure is skole, in Latin scola, in English school. In other words, the proper understanding of school, the place that is supposed to be where the mind and spirit deeply learn has at its root meaning leisure.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
September 4, 2022
Psalm 46
Mark 2: 23-28
My youngest daughter, Caitlin, was a French major in college, and she wrote her senior thesis on Antoine de Saint Exupery, a French writer and an aviator, who died in July, 1945, when his plane crashed In the dessert for unknown reasons. He wrote poetry and a number of novels, but is perhaps best known for his wonderful novella, The Little Prince. Caitlin read the book when she was about 10 and it has never lost its power to inspire her.
The Little Prince complains a great deal about grown ups, who don’t seem to understand what is truly important. “We must be patient with them,” he says, “because they do not know how to ask the right questions. When you make a new friend, the adults ask, How old is your friend, and what do his parents do for a living---which is really a question about how much money they make. They never ask what your friend’s voice sounds like, or what games he likes to play or books she likes to read. Work and money are what grown ups care about.
Well, there is a great deal of truth in what the Little Prince says. The adult world does care about work and money, and for good reason, since work is the way most of us support ourselves and since we spend so much time working, it does make sense to find work we enjoy. But something has happened in western culture that is unique: Work has become the single most important way of defining oneself and finding meaning. The question who you are has been reduced to what it is you do for a living. And indeed, as colleges and universities open this week, they are filled with students obsessing about what kind of work they will do, which is supposed to tell them who they are as people and what their worth is or will be.
This is completely in contrast to the biblical world. Status and wealth are not new inventions; they existed in biblical times, but work was not the means of defining status. Almost all wealth was inherited, and Israelite society offered limited opportunities to create new wealth, so people pretty much did what their parents had done. That was what life was like for not only Israel, but also for most people across the globe--- until the modern age. People worked, and they worked hard, but they did not constantly work. There was a tremendous amount of down time, when there was not much work to do. In fact, until industrialization, most people were not usually enslaved to their work.
Nowhere in the Old or New Testament is work understood to be the means of finding or creating meaning, self-definition and worth. In fact, when someone was defined by their work it was because they were pursuing immoral activities, such as prostitution or tax collecting, which were considered both socially and spiritually destructive. But even good and honest work was not considered to be the gateway to deeper meaning in life; God was the gateway, and the nurturing of a relationship with God was believed to require leisure, not the busyness of work. Psalm 46 verse 10, reads in both the New Revised Standard Version as well as the King James, “Be still and know I am God.” But another possible translation, which some scholars prefer is, “Have leisure and know I am God.”
Jesus certainly was at leisure a great deal of the time, withdrawing from his disciples to be alone with God. And by leisure I do not mean idleness. Leisure is understood as a kind of deep, inner silence, when God is listened to and for. It is a time when the distractions of the world are not banging down on our minds for attention. But increasingly we are losing that leisure, because we are hooked on the busyness of activities. And technology hardly helps us to unwind and relax. Even on vacation Americans are working as they text, email and zoom.
Some like to blame our Puritan forebears for an American obsession with work. There is this popular image of the Puritan as a humorless workaholic, disdaining pleasure and leisure. While it is true that Puritans disapproved of idleness, they made a very sharp distinction between leisure and idleness. Idleness was understood as an activity with no purpose beyond the activity---work for the sake of work, or work for the sake of amassing wealth, and the reason it was considered dangerous was because its aim was too low---far, far below the goodness God desires for God’s people, who are made in the image and likeness of God. The Puritans worked hard, and while they were suspicious of idleness, they did believe that leisure was necessary for human beings to flourish.
In today’s lesson we hear Jesus insist that the Sabbath was made for people not people for the Sabbath. In other words, people need sabbath to be fully human, fully alive to God and to others. Christianity begins its week with Sabbath, so even before you do a lick of work, you are given the gift of Sabbath. This is not so much for renewal or refreshment, but rather for being, for worship, for silence, for knowing. The psalmist sang, Be still and know that I am God! And if we are too busy to be still, too obsessed with work or accomplishments, we will not know or recognize God.
Sabbath is leisure, but not the kind of leisure, filled up with fun activities. In leisure we are called to quiet and contemplate, allowing the thought process to take us somewhere beyond the world of everyday problems and tasks. In the book of Job, the Old Testament story of a man, who struggles mightily with the questions Why must I suffer?, there is a line, so easy to overlook spoken by one of Job’s friends, “God gives songs in the middle of the night.” Effortlessly, peacefully the solutions, the words, the ideas, the songs sometimes come not in the bright light of the day, but in the darkness of the night.
No wonder the psalmist sang: “Have leisure and know I am God.” When we attend to the Bible, and the stories of people like Moses, Jacob, and Elijah and of course Jesus, we see that God has this habit of showing up not in the midst of obsessive busyness, but in stillness and quiet. And as the school year begins for many in the coming week, we should know that the Greek word for leisure is skole, in Latin scola, in English school. In other words, the proper understanding of school, the place that is supposed to be where the mind and spirit deeply learn has at its root meaning leisure.
September 1, 2022
Dear Friends,
When I was growing up, Labor Day was a big deal, just as Memorial Day was. Most people did not work on those days, and stores were always closed. But in these past decades, I have noticed how little attention is actually paid to both holidays. For years now, for example, Wesleyan University begins its first day of classes on Labor Day. I always thought this was outrageous, given the very liberal leaning of the students and faculty. “Why isn’t Wesleyan standing in solidarity with workers?” I asked my husband. Apparently, it is not convenient; it throws off the academic calendar. Never mind that staff and professors object, since schools and day care centers are closed, so finding alternative child care arrangements is a major challenge. But that does not seem to matter. The Registrar controls the academic calendar, and so on campus Labor Day is ignored.
The Industrial Revolution hit its stride in the late 1800’s, and the average worker in the mills, mines and factories worked 12 hour days, seven days a week. Children as young as 5 or 6 also worked long hours at a fraction of adult pay. As manufacturing began to overtake agriculture as the backbone of employment, labor unions began to form and assert their power by marching and striking for better working conditions. On September 5, 1882, there was a famous labor march of 10,000 people from City Hall to Union Square in New York City. It was a quiet march, unlike some labor strikes, which turned violent, one of the most notorious being The Haymarket Riot of 1886 in Chicago when several workers and policemen were killed.
By the late 1800’s there was a push for recognition of a workman’s holiday and some states did institute such recognition. But the federal government would not recognize it until a watershed moment occurred with the Pullman Railway Strike in Chicago. On May 11, 1894, workers at Pullman went on strike to protest the low wages and the termination of union representatives. Over a month later, on June 26 The American Railway Union, led by the socialist, Eugene Debs, called for a boycott of ALL Pullman Railway cars, which crippled the nation. To break the strike, the federal government sent troops into Chicago, resulting in more violence and death. Congress immediately recognized the need for action to quell the violence and send the message to American workers that they were valued, and so it passed a law, designating Labor Day a legal holiday, the first Monday in September. President Grover Cleveland signed it on June 28, 1894.
Today we are a long way from the original spirit of Labor Day, which was about temperate, just and safe working conditions. There are now no rituals to celebrate the day, just cook outs with family and friends. For most people Labor Day is the unofficial end of the summer, just as Memorial Day inaugurates it. Some people feel we could use a reinvigoration of Labor Day, since technology means people are constantly connected to their work. Even on vacation people are reading emails, texting colleagues, and attending meetings via Zoom. Compared to 20 or 30 years ago, people are working more hours not less.
The world of work in the biblical world was nothing like this. People sometimes have the mistaken notion that without technology people worked all the time. But this was definitely NOT the case. There was a great deal of downtime, when not much had to be done, especially for men. This is what allowed Jesus’ disciples to leave home and follow him. They were not absent from their homes all the time, and scholars point out that when crops needed to be planted or harvested and fishing needed doing, they would return to home and do what was required. Consider the scenes of Jesus’ teaching, when crowds would gather around him and attend to what he had to say. People had the time to sit on a grassy knoll and listen to his words. They were not working all the time---though women probably had less free time, because they were the ones who had to fetch water, bake bread and care for the children every day.
I have no idea what Jesus would think of the labor movement, but I do have an idea that the labor movement would not have approved of some of Jesus labor practices---like the story of the workers in the vineyard, who were hired last and worked but a few hours and then received the same wages as the ones who worked all day. (Matthew 20: 1-16) But then the story is really not so much about labor as it is about a God, who is happy to receive even those who show up late. I just hope God has a good plan for those who do not show up at all.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
When I was growing up, Labor Day was a big deal, just as Memorial Day was. Most people did not work on those days, and stores were always closed. But in these past decades, I have noticed how little attention is actually paid to both holidays. For years now, for example, Wesleyan University begins its first day of classes on Labor Day. I always thought this was outrageous, given the very liberal leaning of the students and faculty. “Why isn’t Wesleyan standing in solidarity with workers?” I asked my husband. Apparently, it is not convenient; it throws off the academic calendar. Never mind that staff and professors object, since schools and day care centers are closed, so finding alternative child care arrangements is a major challenge. But that does not seem to matter. The Registrar controls the academic calendar, and so on campus Labor Day is ignored.
The Industrial Revolution hit its stride in the late 1800’s, and the average worker in the mills, mines and factories worked 12 hour days, seven days a week. Children as young as 5 or 6 also worked long hours at a fraction of adult pay. As manufacturing began to overtake agriculture as the backbone of employment, labor unions began to form and assert their power by marching and striking for better working conditions. On September 5, 1882, there was a famous labor march of 10,000 people from City Hall to Union Square in New York City. It was a quiet march, unlike some labor strikes, which turned violent, one of the most notorious being The Haymarket Riot of 1886 in Chicago when several workers and policemen were killed.
By the late 1800’s there was a push for recognition of a workman’s holiday and some states did institute such recognition. But the federal government would not recognize it until a watershed moment occurred with the Pullman Railway Strike in Chicago. On May 11, 1894, workers at Pullman went on strike to protest the low wages and the termination of union representatives. Over a month later, on June 26 The American Railway Union, led by the socialist, Eugene Debs, called for a boycott of ALL Pullman Railway cars, which crippled the nation. To break the strike, the federal government sent troops into Chicago, resulting in more violence and death. Congress immediately recognized the need for action to quell the violence and send the message to American workers that they were valued, and so it passed a law, designating Labor Day a legal holiday, the first Monday in September. President Grover Cleveland signed it on June 28, 1894.
Today we are a long way from the original spirit of Labor Day, which was about temperate, just and safe working conditions. There are now no rituals to celebrate the day, just cook outs with family and friends. For most people Labor Day is the unofficial end of the summer, just as Memorial Day inaugurates it. Some people feel we could use a reinvigoration of Labor Day, since technology means people are constantly connected to their work. Even on vacation people are reading emails, texting colleagues, and attending meetings via Zoom. Compared to 20 or 30 years ago, people are working more hours not less.
The world of work in the biblical world was nothing like this. People sometimes have the mistaken notion that without technology people worked all the time. But this was definitely NOT the case. There was a great deal of downtime, when not much had to be done, especially for men. This is what allowed Jesus’ disciples to leave home and follow him. They were not absent from their homes all the time, and scholars point out that when crops needed to be planted or harvested and fishing needed doing, they would return to home and do what was required. Consider the scenes of Jesus’ teaching, when crowds would gather around him and attend to what he had to say. People had the time to sit on a grassy knoll and listen to his words. They were not working all the time---though women probably had less free time, because they were the ones who had to fetch water, bake bread and care for the children every day.
I have no idea what Jesus would think of the labor movement, but I do have an idea that the labor movement would not have approved of some of Jesus labor practices---like the story of the workers in the vineyard, who were hired last and worked but a few hours and then received the same wages as the ones who worked all day. (Matthew 20: 1-16) But then the story is really not so much about labor as it is about a God, who is happy to receive even those who show up late. I just hope God has a good plan for those who do not show up at all.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Humiliation and Humility
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville
August 28, 2022
Luke 14: 1-14
There is a famous painting by Mary Cassatt, a French Impressionist painter, who although born in the United States, did much of her work in Paris, because as a female artist she was better accepted in France than in the United States. Her painting of 1878, The Opera, shows a woman in a black dress, holding some binoculars, directly positioned toward the stage, while a man across the theatre, leaning out of his opera box, is obviously gazing at this woman. While she is focused on the opera, he is focused on her. So, we have here two observers, gazing for different purposes, not unlike what we have in this story from Luke. Jesus was being closely watched by the Pharisees, but so too was Jesus closely watching as Pharisees, lawyers, and other guests took their seats at the table.
So, why were the Pharisees observing Jesus? Most likely to catch him doing something wrong--- like ignoring the law. And Jesus was watching them to see what kind of lesson he could teach. You might recall from last week’s gospel that Jesus had healed a woman on the Sabbath, who had been bent over for many years, and he was criticized for working on the Sabbath. Now once again on the Sabbath, he will heal another person, but this time no one will dare say anything to him. And then Jesus proceeds to teach them a lesson. But the lesson is not a very polite one. Remember, Jesus had been invited to the home of this Pharisee for dinner, and what did he do? He proceeded to remind them of dinner etiquette, when the most important guest would come late or at least last, and that person would be given a seat at the head of the table. Everyone knew where the honored place was and who should sit there, and people would try to get as close to that guest as possible. Status was the name of the game, and the closer one sits to status, the higher one’s own status will be---or so people like to believe.
But Jesus reminded his listeners that the status game is not what it is all about. Not only did he remind them of the rules, he then proceeded to criticize the guest list, telling his host that he should reach beyond status and invite the least of these--- the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind. You see, physical infirmities in Jesus’ day were often viewed as a sign of divine disfavor or punishment, and poverty was often understood in the same way. So, here Jesus is, an invited guest, and he dared to publicly call out his host for inviting the wrong kind of people. Quite frankly, it bordered on a public humiliation. But humiliation was not his intent. Jesus was after humility.
Humility is a virtue, but humiliation is something else. Consider times in your life you have been humiliated, perhaps even publicly humiliated. Were those situations really good teachers? Let me give you an example from my ministry when I was publicly humiliated. I had been ordained for three years or so, and I was conducting a wedding service for a couple at a very posh country club on Long Island. The bride came from a Roman Catholic background and the groom from a Jewish one, but neither were religious, yet they felt it was important that the ceremony evoke the seriousness of the commitment they were making, and so they wanted an ordained person. Well, at the time of the wedding I was about 6 months pregnant with my fourth child, and as the ceremony was just beginning, the great grandmother of the bride, an old world Italian Catholic, stood up and said as loudly as she could, “Bad enough she is a woman and a Protestant, but a pregnant one, that is disgusting,” and she then marched out along with about 10 others, who felt they could not defy the family’s matriarch. The bride burst into tears and the groom stood there, looking as if he were about to vomit.
I felt completely humiliated, though I rationally knew that the humiliation belonged to the great grandmother and not to me. So, I took a deep breath and in a very shaky voice said, “We are about to perform a ceremony that celebrates love, and love, when it truly is love, expands, and deepens us. It neither diminishes nor humiliates, so let us proceed by celebrating love. We did proceed, but I can tell you that for most people, including the bride, the ceremony was ruined. And I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. I did not want to hear anyone’s apologies or explanations. That is how humiliation works its awful power, even when we know we have done NOTHING to deserve the humiliation.
Now let’s consider an experience of humility that did not involve me at all. It is something I recently read about, which happened 20 years ago, when three young men, then in their mid twenties, were on a wilderness trip to Alaska. They had just been dropped off on this relatively deserted island, and as the boat that brought them to their destination chugged away, one of the men remembers this sinking feeling in the pit of his gut as he suddenly deeply felt their aloneness. As the darkness of the night descended, with no warning at all, a tree fell on one of the men, pinning him to the ground in a cold puddle of water. Now the danger was not only Internal bleeding but also hypothermia. Cell phones were useless, so they radioed for help and sent up flaccid flares.
One of the young men had been an English major in college, and he had two different professors, who required the class to memorize poems. “You never know,” his professors said, “when these words might save your life.” And so, very calmly he began to repeat poem after poem from the English language’s greatest writers: Blake, Frost, Dickinson, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Auden, the latter’s words suddenly becoming more than real as he gazed at the night sky:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
And there was another poem he could not remember, only one line that clung to his mind: Why are we not better than we are?
On and on he went, sometimes repeating the poems. The ending of the story was a good one; the young man was rescued, and he did not lose any body parts. Years later, when the three would have their reunions, the saved man said, “You were so calm with your voice repeating the words from some of the most beautiful poems in the English language that my own fears were calmed, and I could allow myself to believe that help would come.”
And the man who repeated the poems said something like this. “We could do nothing to remove the tree. We were imprisoned by our inaction, seeminlgy completely helpless, but I did what I could do. And while reciting those poems, the one feeling that overwhelmed my heart, head and spirit was humility. Not being able to do much, I drew out the one thing I could do, and I think it helped all three of us. We were all humbled by the circumstances in which we found ourselves---the vastness of nature’s power to bring someone to the ground and the dependence we would have on others to save us. It truly was a religious experience, and humility was both the teacher and the lesson.” I don’t think Jesus could have put it any better.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville
August 28, 2022
Luke 14: 1-14
There is a famous painting by Mary Cassatt, a French Impressionist painter, who although born in the United States, did much of her work in Paris, because as a female artist she was better accepted in France than in the United States. Her painting of 1878, The Opera, shows a woman in a black dress, holding some binoculars, directly positioned toward the stage, while a man across the theatre, leaning out of his opera box, is obviously gazing at this woman. While she is focused on the opera, he is focused on her. So, we have here two observers, gazing for different purposes, not unlike what we have in this story from Luke. Jesus was being closely watched by the Pharisees, but so too was Jesus closely watching as Pharisees, lawyers, and other guests took their seats at the table.
So, why were the Pharisees observing Jesus? Most likely to catch him doing something wrong--- like ignoring the law. And Jesus was watching them to see what kind of lesson he could teach. You might recall from last week’s gospel that Jesus had healed a woman on the Sabbath, who had been bent over for many years, and he was criticized for working on the Sabbath. Now once again on the Sabbath, he will heal another person, but this time no one will dare say anything to him. And then Jesus proceeds to teach them a lesson. But the lesson is not a very polite one. Remember, Jesus had been invited to the home of this Pharisee for dinner, and what did he do? He proceeded to remind them of dinner etiquette, when the most important guest would come late or at least last, and that person would be given a seat at the head of the table. Everyone knew where the honored place was and who should sit there, and people would try to get as close to that guest as possible. Status was the name of the game, and the closer one sits to status, the higher one’s own status will be---or so people like to believe.
But Jesus reminded his listeners that the status game is not what it is all about. Not only did he remind them of the rules, he then proceeded to criticize the guest list, telling his host that he should reach beyond status and invite the least of these--- the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind. You see, physical infirmities in Jesus’ day were often viewed as a sign of divine disfavor or punishment, and poverty was often understood in the same way. So, here Jesus is, an invited guest, and he dared to publicly call out his host for inviting the wrong kind of people. Quite frankly, it bordered on a public humiliation. But humiliation was not his intent. Jesus was after humility.
Humility is a virtue, but humiliation is something else. Consider times in your life you have been humiliated, perhaps even publicly humiliated. Were those situations really good teachers? Let me give you an example from my ministry when I was publicly humiliated. I had been ordained for three years or so, and I was conducting a wedding service for a couple at a very posh country club on Long Island. The bride came from a Roman Catholic background and the groom from a Jewish one, but neither were religious, yet they felt it was important that the ceremony evoke the seriousness of the commitment they were making, and so they wanted an ordained person. Well, at the time of the wedding I was about 6 months pregnant with my fourth child, and as the ceremony was just beginning, the great grandmother of the bride, an old world Italian Catholic, stood up and said as loudly as she could, “Bad enough she is a woman and a Protestant, but a pregnant one, that is disgusting,” and she then marched out along with about 10 others, who felt they could not defy the family’s matriarch. The bride burst into tears and the groom stood there, looking as if he were about to vomit.
I felt completely humiliated, though I rationally knew that the humiliation belonged to the great grandmother and not to me. So, I took a deep breath and in a very shaky voice said, “We are about to perform a ceremony that celebrates love, and love, when it truly is love, expands, and deepens us. It neither diminishes nor humiliates, so let us proceed by celebrating love. We did proceed, but I can tell you that for most people, including the bride, the ceremony was ruined. And I just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. I did not want to hear anyone’s apologies or explanations. That is how humiliation works its awful power, even when we know we have done NOTHING to deserve the humiliation.
Now let’s consider an experience of humility that did not involve me at all. It is something I recently read about, which happened 20 years ago, when three young men, then in their mid twenties, were on a wilderness trip to Alaska. They had just been dropped off on this relatively deserted island, and as the boat that brought them to their destination chugged away, one of the men remembers this sinking feeling in the pit of his gut as he suddenly deeply felt their aloneness. As the darkness of the night descended, with no warning at all, a tree fell on one of the men, pinning him to the ground in a cold puddle of water. Now the danger was not only Internal bleeding but also hypothermia. Cell phones were useless, so they radioed for help and sent up flaccid flares.
One of the young men had been an English major in college, and he had two different professors, who required the class to memorize poems. “You never know,” his professors said, “when these words might save your life.” And so, very calmly he began to repeat poem after poem from the English language’s greatest writers: Blake, Frost, Dickinson, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Auden, the latter’s words suddenly becoming more than real as he gazed at the night sky:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
And there was another poem he could not remember, only one line that clung to his mind: Why are we not better than we are?
On and on he went, sometimes repeating the poems. The ending of the story was a good one; the young man was rescued, and he did not lose any body parts. Years later, when the three would have their reunions, the saved man said, “You were so calm with your voice repeating the words from some of the most beautiful poems in the English language that my own fears were calmed, and I could allow myself to believe that help would come.”
And the man who repeated the poems said something like this. “We could do nothing to remove the tree. We were imprisoned by our inaction, seeminlgy completely helpless, but I did what I could do. And while reciting those poems, the one feeling that overwhelmed my heart, head and spirit was humility. Not being able to do much, I drew out the one thing I could do, and I think it helped all three of us. We were all humbled by the circumstances in which we found ourselves---the vastness of nature’s power to bring someone to the ground and the dependence we would have on others to save us. It truly was a religious experience, and humility was both the teacher and the lesson.” I don’t think Jesus could have put it any better.
Landscapes of the Sacred
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
August 21, 2022
Someone once said, “Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are.” Indeed, place, space, geography: it does help to make us who we are, because we human beings tend to identify ourselves with particular places. Our human history and personal experiences happen in certain spaces, and we are who we are, (at least in part) because of the places we have been and the experiences we have had there. Even in a mobile country like ours, where people move around, leaving multiple homes and places behind, the sense of place still haunts us. We never truly escape the places from which we have come, even as we claim new places, where our personal stories continue to unfold. “Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are.”
And the same is true for the religious and spiritual life. I was thinking about this in regard to Jeremiah, one of Israel’s great prophets, who had very little interest in doing God’s work. That is the point of our lesson today: It was not Jeremiah’s idea to be a prophet; it was God’s, and though Jeremiah tried to resist many times throughout his life, he did not manage to escape God’s call. And I wonder if that had something to do with the actual landscape in which Jeremiah lived.
I have been to Israel twice in my life, and I will tell you how moved I was by the landscape---especially the desert. This one afternoon the group I was with (Jews and Christians on a pilgrimage together) were driven in jeeps through the desert. I had this preconceived notion that the desert was this flat expanse of sand, an uninterrupted sameness going on for what looked like eternity. But that was not how it was. The terrain was pockmarked by huge sand hills and rocks, some of them like giant sculptures, jutting out of the ground toward the heavens. Up and down, we drove, careening around rocks, while the sun beat down before beginning its descent into evening. Hot in the daylight, but cold at night, the desert’s temperatures creep up and then make a precipitous descent as the sun deserts the sky.
What did this landscape mean for the people who helped to give birth to the prophetic imagination, which boldly criticizes the people for their failure to embrace justice and mercy. Such scathing critique was unique in world history. Jeremiah thought it was all God’s idea, but why did he hear and listen? Many people are deaf to God’s word---maybe most people are. So, how was it that Jeremiah could bear to hear God’s words of judgment? Was there something in the very landscape itself that unstopped his ears and opened his eyes to the grandeur of God’s demands? The place he came from had its divided loyalties between Israel to the north and Judah to the South. And Jeremiah too felt divided, a man very resistant to God’s call even as he wanted to live a normal life.
Jeremiah’s God was tough and demanding, not unlike the landscape of the desert with its shifting sands and jagged rocks, whose colors glisten in the sunlight only to become enemy hurdles that can bury and rip you apart as the light races from the sky. The sounds of the desert are eerie, sometimes frightening as the winds howl and animals roam at night, giving you the sense that in this place humans do not rule. Perhaps that is why Jeremiah heard and listened. Perhaps he felt he had no choice but to hear and respond.
The stories of our religious past happened in certain places. Particular geographies have left their marks on the men and women whose faith was forged in a Middle Eastern desert or in a colonial New England village. Our religious heritage, for example, has been heavily influenced by the theology of John Calvin, who the generation after Martin Luther And one of Calvin’s main theological points, which was so central to the Puritans, who settled New England, was the inscrutability of God, the magisterial mystery of God. Over and over again, Calvin intoned that God remains beyond anything we can think or imagine. There is a hidden quality about God, which cannot be grasped---except as God chooses to reveal God self and accommodate God-self to the limitations of human knowledge and understanding. Though Calvin was French--- he would have been burned at the stake had he remained in Paris--- most of his reforming work was done in the city of Geneva. Geneva was considered by the reformed Protestants the new Jerusalem, not unlike the way Puritans would later consider their own colony in New England as the new Jerusalem, the city on a hill as John Winthrop called it.
Geneva, the seat of reformed theology in Europe, where Calvin and his elders ruled, is a lovely city, sitting on the lake, surrounded by mountains whose tops, often covered by dense clouds, push their way toward the heavens. It is stunning, but a full panoramic view is often obscured, until the clouds clear, and then how magnificent the landscape appears. You can then see what before your eyes were blinded to. Do we really think there was no relationship between the geography of place and the reformed theology that preached the inscrutability of God? “Show me the landscape where you live, and I will tell you who you are.”
I recently read about a professor, who years ago, had taught a class of retired American history teachers, a highly motivated group of men and women, still trying to expand their understanding of what they had taught for so many years. And the professor asked them if there were any places they had visited, where they had been met by something big, so big they might even dare to name the experience holy. And the names of places came: Lenin’s Tomb, a bombed out street in Berlin, the Hiroshima Peace Park, the Battlefield at Gettysburg, a patch of forested land in Normandy, France. All these places were the sites where people were encountered by something which forever changed them.
The man, for example, who had named Lenin’s Tomb, talked about his own father, a Russian, who had been a committed communist until Stalin came to power and murdered 20 million Soviet citizens. “I always had this deep distrust of my father,” the man said, “because I could never understand his embrace of communism. Years later, after my father was dead, I made a pilgrimage to Russia and stood alone at Lenin’s Tomb, where I suddenly received a gift, a recognition of my father’s deep and keen idealism and then the terrible pain of betrayal and disappointment he lived with for the rest of his life. Though he immigrated to the United States, where he met my mother and raised five kids in a nation that was good to him, he never felt home here. This was never really his place, and when I stood at Lenin’s Tomb, somehow, I understood. But I couldn’t have figured it out on my own. It was a gift, given to me, and in a strange sort of way Lenin’s Tomb has become for me a holy place, where I was connected to my father in a new and deeper way.”
Another man told of his experiences in Berlin after the Second World War.
“I hated the Germans,” he confessed. “I had recently helped to liberate a concentration camp, and when I finally got to Berlin, I wanted to see the whole city smashed and the population decimated. I was filled with fury and hatred. And then, late one afternoon, walking alone on this deserted, bombed out street, I saw a little boy, not more than 5 or 6, wandering alone and lost. As I came closer, I noticed that his face wore an expression beyond terror, as if he had seen far more than any child can bear to see, and suddenly this deep compassion overwhelmed me, and all sense of self righteousness disappeared. I met my own guilt in the face of this child, and I knew that before God I was guilty too. I wept, because I was found by something I was not looking for.”
Jeremiah was not looking for God, but God found Jeremiah. Maybe on some level, we all have our own wildernesses or deserts to cross, the places in which we wander, sometimes lost, sometimes found. We have this illusion that our story is completely ours to write, but people like Jeremiah remind us that God sometimes writes or at least edits our stories. We all have places in our lives that help to make us who we are. “Show me the landscape where you live, and I will tell you who you are.
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
August 21, 2022
Someone once said, “Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are.” Indeed, place, space, geography: it does help to make us who we are, because we human beings tend to identify ourselves with particular places. Our human history and personal experiences happen in certain spaces, and we are who we are, (at least in part) because of the places we have been and the experiences we have had there. Even in a mobile country like ours, where people move around, leaving multiple homes and places behind, the sense of place still haunts us. We never truly escape the places from which we have come, even as we claim new places, where our personal stories continue to unfold. “Tell me the landscape in which you live, and I will tell you who you are.”
And the same is true for the religious and spiritual life. I was thinking about this in regard to Jeremiah, one of Israel’s great prophets, who had very little interest in doing God’s work. That is the point of our lesson today: It was not Jeremiah’s idea to be a prophet; it was God’s, and though Jeremiah tried to resist many times throughout his life, he did not manage to escape God’s call. And I wonder if that had something to do with the actual landscape in which Jeremiah lived.
I have been to Israel twice in my life, and I will tell you how moved I was by the landscape---especially the desert. This one afternoon the group I was with (Jews and Christians on a pilgrimage together) were driven in jeeps through the desert. I had this preconceived notion that the desert was this flat expanse of sand, an uninterrupted sameness going on for what looked like eternity. But that was not how it was. The terrain was pockmarked by huge sand hills and rocks, some of them like giant sculptures, jutting out of the ground toward the heavens. Up and down, we drove, careening around rocks, while the sun beat down before beginning its descent into evening. Hot in the daylight, but cold at night, the desert’s temperatures creep up and then make a precipitous descent as the sun deserts the sky.
What did this landscape mean for the people who helped to give birth to the prophetic imagination, which boldly criticizes the people for their failure to embrace justice and mercy. Such scathing critique was unique in world history. Jeremiah thought it was all God’s idea, but why did he hear and listen? Many people are deaf to God’s word---maybe most people are. So, how was it that Jeremiah could bear to hear God’s words of judgment? Was there something in the very landscape itself that unstopped his ears and opened his eyes to the grandeur of God’s demands? The place he came from had its divided loyalties between Israel to the north and Judah to the South. And Jeremiah too felt divided, a man very resistant to God’s call even as he wanted to live a normal life.
Jeremiah’s God was tough and demanding, not unlike the landscape of the desert with its shifting sands and jagged rocks, whose colors glisten in the sunlight only to become enemy hurdles that can bury and rip you apart as the light races from the sky. The sounds of the desert are eerie, sometimes frightening as the winds howl and animals roam at night, giving you the sense that in this place humans do not rule. Perhaps that is why Jeremiah heard and listened. Perhaps he felt he had no choice but to hear and respond.
The stories of our religious past happened in certain places. Particular geographies have left their marks on the men and women whose faith was forged in a Middle Eastern desert or in a colonial New England village. Our religious heritage, for example, has been heavily influenced by the theology of John Calvin, who the generation after Martin Luther And one of Calvin’s main theological points, which was so central to the Puritans, who settled New England, was the inscrutability of God, the magisterial mystery of God. Over and over again, Calvin intoned that God remains beyond anything we can think or imagine. There is a hidden quality about God, which cannot be grasped---except as God chooses to reveal God self and accommodate God-self to the limitations of human knowledge and understanding. Though Calvin was French--- he would have been burned at the stake had he remained in Paris--- most of his reforming work was done in the city of Geneva. Geneva was considered by the reformed Protestants the new Jerusalem, not unlike the way Puritans would later consider their own colony in New England as the new Jerusalem, the city on a hill as John Winthrop called it.
Geneva, the seat of reformed theology in Europe, where Calvin and his elders ruled, is a lovely city, sitting on the lake, surrounded by mountains whose tops, often covered by dense clouds, push their way toward the heavens. It is stunning, but a full panoramic view is often obscured, until the clouds clear, and then how magnificent the landscape appears. You can then see what before your eyes were blinded to. Do we really think there was no relationship between the geography of place and the reformed theology that preached the inscrutability of God? “Show me the landscape where you live, and I will tell you who you are.”
I recently read about a professor, who years ago, had taught a class of retired American history teachers, a highly motivated group of men and women, still trying to expand their understanding of what they had taught for so many years. And the professor asked them if there were any places they had visited, where they had been met by something big, so big they might even dare to name the experience holy. And the names of places came: Lenin’s Tomb, a bombed out street in Berlin, the Hiroshima Peace Park, the Battlefield at Gettysburg, a patch of forested land in Normandy, France. All these places were the sites where people were encountered by something which forever changed them.
The man, for example, who had named Lenin’s Tomb, talked about his own father, a Russian, who had been a committed communist until Stalin came to power and murdered 20 million Soviet citizens. “I always had this deep distrust of my father,” the man said, “because I could never understand his embrace of communism. Years later, after my father was dead, I made a pilgrimage to Russia and stood alone at Lenin’s Tomb, where I suddenly received a gift, a recognition of my father’s deep and keen idealism and then the terrible pain of betrayal and disappointment he lived with for the rest of his life. Though he immigrated to the United States, where he met my mother and raised five kids in a nation that was good to him, he never felt home here. This was never really his place, and when I stood at Lenin’s Tomb, somehow, I understood. But I couldn’t have figured it out on my own. It was a gift, given to me, and in a strange sort of way Lenin’s Tomb has become for me a holy place, where I was connected to my father in a new and deeper way.”
Another man told of his experiences in Berlin after the Second World War.
“I hated the Germans,” he confessed. “I had recently helped to liberate a concentration camp, and when I finally got to Berlin, I wanted to see the whole city smashed and the population decimated. I was filled with fury and hatred. And then, late one afternoon, walking alone on this deserted, bombed out street, I saw a little boy, not more than 5 or 6, wandering alone and lost. As I came closer, I noticed that his face wore an expression beyond terror, as if he had seen far more than any child can bear to see, and suddenly this deep compassion overwhelmed me, and all sense of self righteousness disappeared. I met my own guilt in the face of this child, and I knew that before God I was guilty too. I wept, because I was found by something I was not looking for.”
Jeremiah was not looking for God, but God found Jeremiah. Maybe on some level, we all have our own wildernesses or deserts to cross, the places in which we wander, sometimes lost, sometimes found. We have this illusion that our story is completely ours to write, but people like Jeremiah remind us that God sometimes writes or at least edits our stories. We all have places in our lives that help to make us who we are. “Show me the landscape where you live, and I will tell you who you are.
August 24, 2022
Dear Friends,
The Russian writer, Dostoevsky, once said, “Beauty will save the world.” With some hesitation the Church has agreed, which is why it has theologically affirmed that God is beautiful and through the centuries has invested in beauty, including beautiful buildings, beautiful sculpture, beautiful paintings and stained glass. The Beautiful has been a way of communicating God.
And so, when I came across an article about refugee Ukrainian artists in Paris, who are trying to inspire compassion for the Ukrainian people through the beauty of their art, it made complete sense to me. The Kiev City Ballet, for example, is exiled in France, having arrived in Paris for a tour just a few days before the war in Ukraine began. They remained in Paris along with many other Ukrainian artists, who are trying to use their art as a way of humanizing the conflict. They realize that it is not productive to continue to show the same images of war, because people simply will turn it off. The Cultural Center of Ukraine in France has a goal of offering a positive image of Ukraine to the French people for the purpose of building a lasting link between the two nations. And so, to that end many different workshops and programs are offered. On the top floor of the Center a Ukrainian woman plays a piano and sings traditional Ukrainian folk songs for a small audience. Before the war came, the songs to her were simply delightful songs, but now the songs are a way of helping her to process her emotions about the war, just as many of the ballet dancers from Kiev say the same thing about their dancing. Dancers dance and singers sing, and by doing so they are helped to realize what it is they are actually feeling.
There is a traditional Ukrainian painting style, Petrykivka, which was placed on UNESCO’s list of Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2013. Used to decorate the facades of buildings with symbolic images like trees or sunflowers, the style is the subject of workshops offered at the Cultural Center. One woman, who came from Ukraine to Paris eight years ago, had never tried to paint before, but with the war going on in Ukraine, she said she needs to feel connected to the Ukrainian people and painting in this style helps her to achieve that. As a child she grew up surrounded by this kind of work, and now as an adult, who cannot go home, she says the painting allows her to feel a deep kinship with her home.
The Cultural Center recently asked Ukrainian artists to express their emotions about the war in a mural on one of the Center’s walls in partnership with students from the Paris Academy of Fine Arts. The atmosphere was politically charged and there were many French people, who did believe at least some of the Russian propaganda about the war. That was difficult for the Ukrainian artists to accept and all the artists, Ukrainian and French, had to work hard to find a balance between pure art and hidden messages. Perhaps one of the lessons learned is that pure art is rarely ever completely pure. No one comes to art without some formed perspective on particular issues, including war and national identity.
There is another project called KidsDrawPeace4Ukraine. News organizations around the world call on young persons to create art that communicates peace and good will for the children of Ukraine. The drawings are posted on social media and children from all over the world have participated. Recently, the project asked refugee children to create their own images and share them online. Some people noted that the images of the Ukrainian and French children were really not so different, though the experiences of the two groups certainly differed. There is a power and universality in art that sometimes transcends national identity and experience.
The French government is trying hard to show support for exiled Ukrainian artists by pledging monetary support. So too has the French artistic community worked to give its support. There have been televised programs of Ukrainian and French artists and dancers performing together to raise funds.
With the war effort in Ukraine requiring so much military aid and support from the West, it might seem an excess for Ukrainian ART to assume such a prominent presence in Paris. Some might feel that this is not the important place to put one’s energies and commitment. But human beings are art making creatures. Consider the prehistoric cave paintings in Lascaux, France, which show our human ancestors expressing themselves through art. Art is one of the endeavors that makes us human, and though Jesus did not speak about art, his stories and parables were certainly an art form. And the Church throughout its history has had the wisdom to realize that art helps us to tell and understand God’s story in a fuller way.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
The Russian writer, Dostoevsky, once said, “Beauty will save the world.” With some hesitation the Church has agreed, which is why it has theologically affirmed that God is beautiful and through the centuries has invested in beauty, including beautiful buildings, beautiful sculpture, beautiful paintings and stained glass. The Beautiful has been a way of communicating God.
And so, when I came across an article about refugee Ukrainian artists in Paris, who are trying to inspire compassion for the Ukrainian people through the beauty of their art, it made complete sense to me. The Kiev City Ballet, for example, is exiled in France, having arrived in Paris for a tour just a few days before the war in Ukraine began. They remained in Paris along with many other Ukrainian artists, who are trying to use their art as a way of humanizing the conflict. They realize that it is not productive to continue to show the same images of war, because people simply will turn it off. The Cultural Center of Ukraine in France has a goal of offering a positive image of Ukraine to the French people for the purpose of building a lasting link between the two nations. And so, to that end many different workshops and programs are offered. On the top floor of the Center a Ukrainian woman plays a piano and sings traditional Ukrainian folk songs for a small audience. Before the war came, the songs to her were simply delightful songs, but now the songs are a way of helping her to process her emotions about the war, just as many of the ballet dancers from Kiev say the same thing about their dancing. Dancers dance and singers sing, and by doing so they are helped to realize what it is they are actually feeling.
There is a traditional Ukrainian painting style, Petrykivka, which was placed on UNESCO’s list of Intangible Cultural Heritage in 2013. Used to decorate the facades of buildings with symbolic images like trees or sunflowers, the style is the subject of workshops offered at the Cultural Center. One woman, who came from Ukraine to Paris eight years ago, had never tried to paint before, but with the war going on in Ukraine, she said she needs to feel connected to the Ukrainian people and painting in this style helps her to achieve that. As a child she grew up surrounded by this kind of work, and now as an adult, who cannot go home, she says the painting allows her to feel a deep kinship with her home.
The Cultural Center recently asked Ukrainian artists to express their emotions about the war in a mural on one of the Center’s walls in partnership with students from the Paris Academy of Fine Arts. The atmosphere was politically charged and there were many French people, who did believe at least some of the Russian propaganda about the war. That was difficult for the Ukrainian artists to accept and all the artists, Ukrainian and French, had to work hard to find a balance between pure art and hidden messages. Perhaps one of the lessons learned is that pure art is rarely ever completely pure. No one comes to art without some formed perspective on particular issues, including war and national identity.
There is another project called KidsDrawPeace4Ukraine. News organizations around the world call on young persons to create art that communicates peace and good will for the children of Ukraine. The drawings are posted on social media and children from all over the world have participated. Recently, the project asked refugee children to create their own images and share them online. Some people noted that the images of the Ukrainian and French children were really not so different, though the experiences of the two groups certainly differed. There is a power and universality in art that sometimes transcends national identity and experience.
The French government is trying hard to show support for exiled Ukrainian artists by pledging monetary support. So too has the French artistic community worked to give its support. There have been televised programs of Ukrainian and French artists and dancers performing together to raise funds.
With the war effort in Ukraine requiring so much military aid and support from the West, it might seem an excess for Ukrainian ART to assume such a prominent presence in Paris. Some might feel that this is not the important place to put one’s energies and commitment. But human beings are art making creatures. Consider the prehistoric cave paintings in Lascaux, France, which show our human ancestors expressing themselves through art. Art is one of the endeavors that makes us human, and though Jesus did not speak about art, his stories and parables were certainly an art form. And the Church throughout its history has had the wisdom to realize that art helps us to tell and understand God’s story in a fuller way.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
August 18, 2022
Dear Friends,
Last week I watched a movie called, The Resistance Banker, the story of two brothers, Gigs and Walraven van Hal, who during the Second World War, used their banking skills to illegally fund the Resistance in Amsterdam. They began by funneling money to what looked like on paper a charitable fund, but as the story progressed, Walraven became even more deeply involved in theft and forgery to defeat the Nazis, help the Jews and others, who were suffering under the totalitarian regime. My daughter tells me I am obsessed with the Nazis, but I tell her time and time again that I am drawn to stories of human courage, and certainly fighting against the Nazis involved tremendous courage. This story was kept hidden for years. The Bank did not want it made known how effectively illegal monetary activities were undertaken, even if the actions were on behalf of a noble cause. Finally in 2010 a statue of Walraven, who was martyred, was placed in front of the State National Bank in Amsterdam, and the full story became public, including the making of a movie.
It is important, even vitally essential, for us to have heroes and heroines, people who can inspire us with their courage, intelligence, and commitment to the good, sometimes at great risk to their own lives. A recently retired high school history teacher noted that over the past twenty years of her career, she noticed a loss of heroes in her high school students. ‘They are impressed by celebrity,” she said, “but they don’t seem to have people, who really inspire with their example of strong moral attributes.”
I have always had heroes, and one of my earliest (at about the age of 4) was The Lone Ranger. He always was on the side of the good, and I loved the end of each episode, when he was riding away after saving someone from disaster, and the person would ask, “Who is that masked man?” And the same answer would come each week, whose words I would enthusiastically repeat, “Why don’t you know? That’s the Lone Ranger!”
Another one of my heroes is Frances Perkins. I knew about her from my father, who was a big admirer of FDR. He told me, when I was in high school and studying the New Deal in my American History class, that she was the first female Cabinet secretary, serving as the Secretary of Labor. I remember a few things he said about her: Though born in Boston, she had deep connections to the state of Maine, where both parents came from, and she often returned there to spend time with grandparents. I knew she was educated at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, MA, and I also knew that her education there made a profound impact on her sense of justice and social obligation---hence her passionate commitment to the New Deal. And that is about all I knew. But recently I came across her name, so I ended up reading more about her, which only has made my admiration for her grow. Mary Lyon was the woman who founded Mount Holyoke, and she passionately believed that education should come with responsibility. “Education,” she said, “is to fit one to do good. Go where no one else will go; do what no one else will do,” she told her charges.
In Perkins’ last semester in college, she enrolled in a course on American Economic History in which the professor, Annah May Soule, required the students to visit the mills along the Connecticut River in Holyoke to see what the actual working conditions were. Perkins was stunned at what she saw: women and children working for long hours with no thought for their safety, or compensation should they be injured on the job. After graduation she taught, eventually moving to Chicago, where she spent her free time volunteering in Chicago Commons and Hull House, two of the oldest and most well-known settlement houses in the country. She felt a call “to do something about poverty and the unnecessary hazards to life.”
In 1907 she moved to Philadelphia, where she worked with young immigrant women, who needed help finding decent work and housing. She studied sociology and economics at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School and two years later moved to New York, where she studied childhood malnutrition in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, which worked into a Master’s Degree at Columbia University. In 1910 she became Executive Secretary of New York City’s Consumers League, focusing on health concerns in bakeries, fire protection in factories and legislative efforts to improve the actual working conditions of people. In 1911 she witnessed the terrible fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, where 148 women and girls died, because they were locked in the building and could not escape the smoke and flames. She served on a commission, committed to protecting workers from future horrors like that one.
Frances worked in New York State Government under Governor Al Smith as his closest labor advisor for the four terms he served. When Franklin Roosevelt defeated him in the election of 1928, Frances Perkins was asked to become the state’s Industrial Commissioner, who had authority and oversight over the entire labor department. When the crash of 1929 occurred, followed by the great depression, Frances worked on the issues of unemployment. She was particularly committed to the idea of unemployment insurance, and Franklin Roosevelt actually sent her to England to study the British system. He was the first public official in the nation to publicly support unemployment insurance. With his election in 1932 to the Presidency, he appointed Frances Perkins as his Secretary of Labor. She told him of her policy priorities, which he must support, she said, or she could not take the position. She would work for a 40 hour work week, a minimum wage, unemployment compensation in addition to workmen’s compensation, abolition of child labor, Social Security, universal health insurance and federal aid to the states in support of unemployment insurance. She spent the 12 years of Roosevelt’s Presidency working to accomplish those goals. When the President died in April, 1945 someone described her work not so much as the Roosevelt New Deal but the Perkins New Deal.
She continued to serve under President Truman, who appointed her to serve on The United States Civil Service Commission until 1953, when she began a career of teaching, writing, and lecturing. She died of a stroke on May 14, 1965 at the age of 85 and is buried next to her husband, Paul Wilson, in Newcastle, Maine, a place she always considered home. Her husband, by the way, suffered most of their marriage from what we would now recognize as bi-polar disorder, and so Frances was the sole economic support of the family. That experience helped to make her sensitive to the challenges families can face when illness or accident strikes. She was fortunate, she could work, but she realized that some families must contend with great burdens that make life difficult and so they need support and aid. The government, she believed, should help in such cases.
Whatever your politics, Frances Perkins is someone to be admired for her grit, her courage, her perseverance. Raised in the Plymouth Congregational Church in Worchester, where she learned of Jesus’ care for the least of these, she remembered asking her father why there was poverty, when it was clear to her that not all poor people were lazy or alcoholic, which is what her parents had taught her. Her father told her that young girls should not concern themselves with such questions. But Frances ignored those words, and we should be grateful that she did. In 1905, at the age of 25, Frances became an Episcopalian, and remained one her entire life. She fervently believed that God calls us to make the Kingdom of God in this world, and though we can never fully succeed, she thought it was life’s honorable challenge to try. What God does with our efforts is up to God, not to us.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Last week I watched a movie called, The Resistance Banker, the story of two brothers, Gigs and Walraven van Hal, who during the Second World War, used their banking skills to illegally fund the Resistance in Amsterdam. They began by funneling money to what looked like on paper a charitable fund, but as the story progressed, Walraven became even more deeply involved in theft and forgery to defeat the Nazis, help the Jews and others, who were suffering under the totalitarian regime. My daughter tells me I am obsessed with the Nazis, but I tell her time and time again that I am drawn to stories of human courage, and certainly fighting against the Nazis involved tremendous courage. This story was kept hidden for years. The Bank did not want it made known how effectively illegal monetary activities were undertaken, even if the actions were on behalf of a noble cause. Finally in 2010 a statue of Walraven, who was martyred, was placed in front of the State National Bank in Amsterdam, and the full story became public, including the making of a movie.
It is important, even vitally essential, for us to have heroes and heroines, people who can inspire us with their courage, intelligence, and commitment to the good, sometimes at great risk to their own lives. A recently retired high school history teacher noted that over the past twenty years of her career, she noticed a loss of heroes in her high school students. ‘They are impressed by celebrity,” she said, “but they don’t seem to have people, who really inspire with their example of strong moral attributes.”
I have always had heroes, and one of my earliest (at about the age of 4) was The Lone Ranger. He always was on the side of the good, and I loved the end of each episode, when he was riding away after saving someone from disaster, and the person would ask, “Who is that masked man?” And the same answer would come each week, whose words I would enthusiastically repeat, “Why don’t you know? That’s the Lone Ranger!”
Another one of my heroes is Frances Perkins. I knew about her from my father, who was a big admirer of FDR. He told me, when I was in high school and studying the New Deal in my American History class, that she was the first female Cabinet secretary, serving as the Secretary of Labor. I remember a few things he said about her: Though born in Boston, she had deep connections to the state of Maine, where both parents came from, and she often returned there to spend time with grandparents. I knew she was educated at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, MA, and I also knew that her education there made a profound impact on her sense of justice and social obligation---hence her passionate commitment to the New Deal. And that is about all I knew. But recently I came across her name, so I ended up reading more about her, which only has made my admiration for her grow. Mary Lyon was the woman who founded Mount Holyoke, and she passionately believed that education should come with responsibility. “Education,” she said, “is to fit one to do good. Go where no one else will go; do what no one else will do,” she told her charges.
In Perkins’ last semester in college, she enrolled in a course on American Economic History in which the professor, Annah May Soule, required the students to visit the mills along the Connecticut River in Holyoke to see what the actual working conditions were. Perkins was stunned at what she saw: women and children working for long hours with no thought for their safety, or compensation should they be injured on the job. After graduation she taught, eventually moving to Chicago, where she spent her free time volunteering in Chicago Commons and Hull House, two of the oldest and most well-known settlement houses in the country. She felt a call “to do something about poverty and the unnecessary hazards to life.”
In 1907 she moved to Philadelphia, where she worked with young immigrant women, who needed help finding decent work and housing. She studied sociology and economics at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School and two years later moved to New York, where she studied childhood malnutrition in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen, which worked into a Master’s Degree at Columbia University. In 1910 she became Executive Secretary of New York City’s Consumers League, focusing on health concerns in bakeries, fire protection in factories and legislative efforts to improve the actual working conditions of people. In 1911 she witnessed the terrible fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, where 148 women and girls died, because they were locked in the building and could not escape the smoke and flames. She served on a commission, committed to protecting workers from future horrors like that one.
Frances worked in New York State Government under Governor Al Smith as his closest labor advisor for the four terms he served. When Franklin Roosevelt defeated him in the election of 1928, Frances Perkins was asked to become the state’s Industrial Commissioner, who had authority and oversight over the entire labor department. When the crash of 1929 occurred, followed by the great depression, Frances worked on the issues of unemployment. She was particularly committed to the idea of unemployment insurance, and Franklin Roosevelt actually sent her to England to study the British system. He was the first public official in the nation to publicly support unemployment insurance. With his election in 1932 to the Presidency, he appointed Frances Perkins as his Secretary of Labor. She told him of her policy priorities, which he must support, she said, or she could not take the position. She would work for a 40 hour work week, a minimum wage, unemployment compensation in addition to workmen’s compensation, abolition of child labor, Social Security, universal health insurance and federal aid to the states in support of unemployment insurance. She spent the 12 years of Roosevelt’s Presidency working to accomplish those goals. When the President died in April, 1945 someone described her work not so much as the Roosevelt New Deal but the Perkins New Deal.
She continued to serve under President Truman, who appointed her to serve on The United States Civil Service Commission until 1953, when she began a career of teaching, writing, and lecturing. She died of a stroke on May 14, 1965 at the age of 85 and is buried next to her husband, Paul Wilson, in Newcastle, Maine, a place she always considered home. Her husband, by the way, suffered most of their marriage from what we would now recognize as bi-polar disorder, and so Frances was the sole economic support of the family. That experience helped to make her sensitive to the challenges families can face when illness or accident strikes. She was fortunate, she could work, but she realized that some families must contend with great burdens that make life difficult and so they need support and aid. The government, she believed, should help in such cases.
Whatever your politics, Frances Perkins is someone to be admired for her grit, her courage, her perseverance. Raised in the Plymouth Congregational Church in Worchester, where she learned of Jesus’ care for the least of these, she remembered asking her father why there was poverty, when it was clear to her that not all poor people were lazy or alcoholic, which is what her parents had taught her. Her father told her that young girls should not concern themselves with such questions. But Frances ignored those words, and we should be grateful that she did. In 1905, at the age of 25, Frances became an Episcopalian, and remained one her entire life. She fervently believed that God calls us to make the Kingdom of God in this world, and though we can never fully succeed, she thought it was life’s honorable challenge to try. What God does with our efforts is up to God, not to us.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
THE MIRROR OF TRUTH AND JUDGMENT
Preached by Sandra Olsen
August 14, 2022
Isaiah 5: 1-7
Luke 12: 49-56
I was very fortunate that in my public high school I had some outstanding teachers. My favorite was my English teacher in my senior year, who was not only brilliant, but also intensely dramatic and incredibly skillful at engaging his students in deep discussion. One of our most memorable discussions concerned Sophocles play Oedipus Rex.
Some of you probably know the story of Oedipus the King, who when born to royal parents was left to die, because a soothsayer told the parents their son would grow up to murder his father and marry his mother. Well, Oedipus did not die, but instead was found and raised by a shepherd and his wife, and so Oedipus grew up with no knowledge of his true parentage. Years later, when he heard that he would kill his father and marry his mother, in horror he left his adopted parents’ home and wandered. One day, his real father, the king of Thebes, was riding in his carriage, and he arrogantly ordered Oedipus off the road, so his carriage could pass. In a fit of rage, Oedipus killed the man he did not know was his father. He married his mother when he solved the riddle of the sphinx; what creature moves on four limbs in the morning, then two in the afternoon and finally three in the evening. The answer is the human being, who crawls as a baby, walks upright on two legs and then in old age, adds a cane. The reward for the right answer was the widowed queen in marriage. As the play evolves, Oedipus comes to the full knowledge of his actions and his identity. When he sees all, he blinds himself, leaves the palace with his two daughters and becomes a man without a country.
Now Oedipus did not consciously kill his father and marry his mother, and I remember so well how passionately some of us argued against assigning Oedipus blame and guilt and how forcefully our teacher spoke to us about unintended consequences. “We act, thinking we are doing one thing, when in reality much more is going on,” he insisted. We see only a very small part of the picture. Now, sometimes we can’t help that; we may not have access to more knowledge, or we may be too young and inexperienced to realize what is really going on. But still, we are responsible, my teacher insisted, and what he wanted us (at the callow age of 17) to understand was how remarkable Oedipus was in his insistent search for the truth. He did not hide from it, but rather painstakingly uncovered the truth, even as his journey toward it became more and more horrifying. The mirror of truth and judgment was held up, and he dared to look and see. Oedipus did not make excuses for himself, and that my teacher insisted is rare---rarer even than great intelligence or great beauty.
Oedipus is literature, and great literature reveals to us the depths of life—just like the Bible. The biblical stories we read are not all be historical fact, but there is deep and revelatory truth there---if we dare to look. And if we look at our lessons today from Isaiah and Luke, we can see that both are concerned with the mirror of truth and judgment. They reveal to us that the tendency of our human condition is to hide, to pretend we are much better than we really are, and to make excuses for why we did this or failed to do that. And let’s face it: often we are very successful at this ruse, but Isaiah and Luke remind us that God knows, God sees, and God judges. While God loves us and is merciful, love and mercy do not come without judgment.
Isaiah lived when there was a threat posed by the Assyrian empire, which had annexed the northern kingdom, Israel, in 722 B.C., and now the southern kingdom, Judah, whose capital was Jerusalem, lived with the unease of having to pay tribute. The religious conventions of the time would have led the Jews to understand that since God had made a covenant with them, they would be protected. And they expected God to keep the covenant, even if they did not honor it---though the fall of the northern kingdom must have given them pause. God did not prevent Israel from falling to the Assyrians and later God would not prevent Judah from falling to the Babylonians in 587 B.C.
The passage from Isaiah is really an allegory, an extended comparison that begins with a female voice singing about her beloved, who owns a vineyard on a very fertile hill. And the voice tells us that her beloved took all kinds of measures to insure a bountiful harvest. He dug up the ground, cleared it of stones, and then planted it with choice vines. He even built a watchtower and hewed out a wine vat to mash the grapes and let the juice ferment.
But in verse three the voice switches to the vineyard owner, who calls upon the inhabitants of Judah to sit in judgment on the vineyard. Despite all the care lavished on the vineyard, it had not produced quality grapes, but only inferior, worthless ones. And so, in verse 5, the owner renders his judgment. He will remove the hedge that protects the vineyard from animals that would devour the crop. The owner will no longer hoe or prune, and finally he will command the clouds to withhold rain, making the vineyard into a wasteland. And indeed, in time Babylon would overrun Judah, sack, and destroy the beautiful Temple, built by King Solomon, because, the prophet said, God had expected justice from the people, but justice is not what they rendered.
Now when we hear the word justice, our immediate tendency is to think of the innocent getting his or her due and the guilty punished, but this not the way the word justice is used by the Hebrew prophets. Justice for them was primarily connected with the treatment of the least of these---the poor, the widow, the orphan, the stranger and yes, even the resident alien---people who lacked the clout to defend themselves against the upper class of Israelite society, who had structured life, tax schedules and all, for their benefit. No, the prophet said, this is not what God intends. And so, the prophetic interpretation of Judah’s eventual fall to the Babylonian empire was that it was God’s punishment for Judah’s failure to honor the covenant, to care for the least of these. Of course, there is another interpretation---Babylon was simply militarily stronger than Judah, and God had nothing to do with it.
There is a lot of distance and a tension between those two claims---God’s punishment or superior military power? No wonder Jesus said that he had come to bring a fire to the earth and to create division among households, families, and nations. The call for prophetic justice---care for the poor---is always in conflict with “business as usual.” And how does that apply to us, now living in a time of unsettling economic conditions? We hear a lot these days about a shrinking middle class, but what about an expanding poorer class? Who speaks for them? Is God holding up to us a mirror of truth and judgment? And will we look and see?
In my senior year in high school, my English teacher assigned a lot of great literature, including the Oedipus cycle by Sophocles, The Bible’s Book of Job, Shakespeare’s Hamlet, George Bernard Shaw’s plays, Man and Superman, Major Barbara and Saint Joan, Thomas Hardy’s, Tess of the D’Ubervilles and Jude the Obscure, and J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey. When I consider those readings now, it is obvious to me that one of the great themes of this literature concerned the mirror of truth and judgment. These works showed human beings acting in the world, and their actions always had more consequences than they could initially see. Such is the human condition. All of those characters faced the mirror of truth and judgment---just as Israel and Judah did. And we will too. We live in a messy world, and how we cope with that messiness, what and whom we care about are always matters of faith.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
August 14, 2022
Isaiah 5: 1-7
Luke 12: 49-56
I was very fortunate that in my public high school I had some outstanding teachers. My favorite was my English teacher in my senior year, who was not only brilliant, but also intensely dramatic and incredibly skillful at engaging his students in deep discussion. One of our most memorable discussions concerned Sophocles play Oedipus Rex.
Some of you probably know the story of Oedipus the King, who when born to royal parents was left to die, because a soothsayer told the parents their son would grow up to murder his father and marry his mother. Well, Oedipus did not die, but instead was found and raised by a shepherd and his wife, and so Oedipus grew up with no knowledge of his true parentage. Years later, when he heard that he would kill his father and marry his mother, in horror he left his adopted parents’ home and wandered. One day, his real father, the king of Thebes, was riding in his carriage, and he arrogantly ordered Oedipus off the road, so his carriage could pass. In a fit of rage, Oedipus killed the man he did not know was his father. He married his mother when he solved the riddle of the sphinx; what creature moves on four limbs in the morning, then two in the afternoon and finally three in the evening. The answer is the human being, who crawls as a baby, walks upright on two legs and then in old age, adds a cane. The reward for the right answer was the widowed queen in marriage. As the play evolves, Oedipus comes to the full knowledge of his actions and his identity. When he sees all, he blinds himself, leaves the palace with his two daughters and becomes a man without a country.
Now Oedipus did not consciously kill his father and marry his mother, and I remember so well how passionately some of us argued against assigning Oedipus blame and guilt and how forcefully our teacher spoke to us about unintended consequences. “We act, thinking we are doing one thing, when in reality much more is going on,” he insisted. We see only a very small part of the picture. Now, sometimes we can’t help that; we may not have access to more knowledge, or we may be too young and inexperienced to realize what is really going on. But still, we are responsible, my teacher insisted, and what he wanted us (at the callow age of 17) to understand was how remarkable Oedipus was in his insistent search for the truth. He did not hide from it, but rather painstakingly uncovered the truth, even as his journey toward it became more and more horrifying. The mirror of truth and judgment was held up, and he dared to look and see. Oedipus did not make excuses for himself, and that my teacher insisted is rare---rarer even than great intelligence or great beauty.
Oedipus is literature, and great literature reveals to us the depths of life—just like the Bible. The biblical stories we read are not all be historical fact, but there is deep and revelatory truth there---if we dare to look. And if we look at our lessons today from Isaiah and Luke, we can see that both are concerned with the mirror of truth and judgment. They reveal to us that the tendency of our human condition is to hide, to pretend we are much better than we really are, and to make excuses for why we did this or failed to do that. And let’s face it: often we are very successful at this ruse, but Isaiah and Luke remind us that God knows, God sees, and God judges. While God loves us and is merciful, love and mercy do not come without judgment.
Isaiah lived when there was a threat posed by the Assyrian empire, which had annexed the northern kingdom, Israel, in 722 B.C., and now the southern kingdom, Judah, whose capital was Jerusalem, lived with the unease of having to pay tribute. The religious conventions of the time would have led the Jews to understand that since God had made a covenant with them, they would be protected. And they expected God to keep the covenant, even if they did not honor it---though the fall of the northern kingdom must have given them pause. God did not prevent Israel from falling to the Assyrians and later God would not prevent Judah from falling to the Babylonians in 587 B.C.
The passage from Isaiah is really an allegory, an extended comparison that begins with a female voice singing about her beloved, who owns a vineyard on a very fertile hill. And the voice tells us that her beloved took all kinds of measures to insure a bountiful harvest. He dug up the ground, cleared it of stones, and then planted it with choice vines. He even built a watchtower and hewed out a wine vat to mash the grapes and let the juice ferment.
But in verse three the voice switches to the vineyard owner, who calls upon the inhabitants of Judah to sit in judgment on the vineyard. Despite all the care lavished on the vineyard, it had not produced quality grapes, but only inferior, worthless ones. And so, in verse 5, the owner renders his judgment. He will remove the hedge that protects the vineyard from animals that would devour the crop. The owner will no longer hoe or prune, and finally he will command the clouds to withhold rain, making the vineyard into a wasteland. And indeed, in time Babylon would overrun Judah, sack, and destroy the beautiful Temple, built by King Solomon, because, the prophet said, God had expected justice from the people, but justice is not what they rendered.
Now when we hear the word justice, our immediate tendency is to think of the innocent getting his or her due and the guilty punished, but this not the way the word justice is used by the Hebrew prophets. Justice for them was primarily connected with the treatment of the least of these---the poor, the widow, the orphan, the stranger and yes, even the resident alien---people who lacked the clout to defend themselves against the upper class of Israelite society, who had structured life, tax schedules and all, for their benefit. No, the prophet said, this is not what God intends. And so, the prophetic interpretation of Judah’s eventual fall to the Babylonian empire was that it was God’s punishment for Judah’s failure to honor the covenant, to care for the least of these. Of course, there is another interpretation---Babylon was simply militarily stronger than Judah, and God had nothing to do with it.
There is a lot of distance and a tension between those two claims---God’s punishment or superior military power? No wonder Jesus said that he had come to bring a fire to the earth and to create division among households, families, and nations. The call for prophetic justice---care for the poor---is always in conflict with “business as usual.” And how does that apply to us, now living in a time of unsettling economic conditions? We hear a lot these days about a shrinking middle class, but what about an expanding poorer class? Who speaks for them? Is God holding up to us a mirror of truth and judgment? And will we look and see?
In my senior year in high school, my English teacher assigned a lot of great literature, including the Oedipus cycle by Sophocles, The Bible’s Book of Job, Shakespeare’s Hamlet, George Bernard Shaw’s plays, Man and Superman, Major Barbara and Saint Joan, Thomas Hardy’s, Tess of the D’Ubervilles and Jude the Obscure, and J. D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey. When I consider those readings now, it is obvious to me that one of the great themes of this literature concerned the mirror of truth and judgment. These works showed human beings acting in the world, and their actions always had more consequences than they could initially see. Such is the human condition. All of those characters faced the mirror of truth and judgment---just as Israel and Judah did. And we will too. We live in a messy world, and how we cope with that messiness, what and whom we care about are always matters of faith.
August 10, 2022
Dear Friends
Last April the New York Times printed some wonderfully touching images of New Yorkers reading in public places To read in the midst of a busy city is an act of determination and concentration, because so much noise and confusion must be actively ignored. The Times noted that in 1911 the New York Public Library’s 42nd Street branch opened its doors, and more than 50,000 persons visited that day. And ever since, people have been reading inside and outside the building, people gathering all around, on its steps and even its sidewalk, reading while they are walking. Another image was from 1935, when Bryant Park, along with other city parks, opened outdoor reading rooms. They lasted during the summer months until 1943 and then opened again in 2003.
Times Square in 1962 opened an all-night bookstore, stocking 100,000 paperback books and not one of them was pornographic, which for Times Square in that era, was something worth bragging about. You could see the intense concentration and enjoyment on people’s faces as they read. One woman was standing upright, holding a book and simply reading, oblivious, it seemed, to everything else that might have been happening around her. Another image from 1961 shows Barnard students reading outside---all of them dressed in skirts or dresses, looking seriously engaged in their reading.
There were pictures of children in New York City libraries being read to as their bodies stretched and arched toward the reader, so they could better see the pictures in the book or hear the spoken word. One image showed a child reading Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss, and again, there was no doubt that the child cared deeply about the words on the pages.
In 1906 The Times published a quartet of sonnets about a train guard, who was smitten with a passenger who took the local, not the express train, so she could have more time to read her novel. And indeed, there were images on the subway of people reading. I recognized some of these images from the 70’s and 80’s when the subway cars were ugly, covered with graffiti. Yet there were people, ignoring the graffiti by being completely engrossed in a book.
Images showed people reading in all different positions, standing up, leaning against a tree or even a lamppost, or sitting on a park bench, sometimes alone, sometimes with other strangers. There were images of people lying down on the grass in Central Park with their shoes off and their heads propped up with a rolled up blanket to make reading more comfortable. Sometimes there was a couple reading to each other, and though I had no idea what they were reading, I wondered if it were poetry or perhaps a favorite novel, something intimate to share with a loved one.
I love books, and though some of you know about my excess love of dresses, I do own many more books than I do dresses. I live in a house, built in 1908 with three floors of living space, five bedrooms, my study on the third floor plus a basement. In every room, including the first floor hallway and the basement, excepting the kitchen, the bathroom and the dining room, there are bookcases. I love my books even more than I love my dresses, and when my children tell me I had better start clearing out some of these books, because they certainly do not want to do it, I tell them to go stuff it. I remind them that they each have given me some trouble, so I will simply return the favor.
I realize that many people today read on their phones or on their computers and tablets, but for me, there is nothing like holding a book in my hands. A book feels like a companion, even a friend, and though I am sure there are people who feel that way about their electronics, that is not my experience. And so, when I saw the images in The Times, I could not help but smile with a feeling of deep satisfaction and even joy. Reading is such a pleasure and even a passion to me, though there are times when my reading disturbs and even upsets me. Great writing often introduces thoughts and themes that challenge our everyday conventions, and yes, that can be disturbing. Reading can goad us to think, and the thoughts that emerge are not always comfortable. Books have changed the world by changing people and changing how they understand themselves and their world.
As Protestants, we are People of the Word. While the Roman Catholics have the sacramental system, we Protestants are focused on the written Word, which was why it was such a major turning point in history, when Martin Luther translated the Bible into German. Others had translated the Bible before Luther into other languages, like English, and they paid with their lives. Church leaders realized it was dangerous when people could read and interpret the Word for themselves. And so, we continue to read and ponder, and the images I saw in the Times reminded me how central reading is to human beings.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends
Last April the New York Times printed some wonderfully touching images of New Yorkers reading in public places To read in the midst of a busy city is an act of determination and concentration, because so much noise and confusion must be actively ignored. The Times noted that in 1911 the New York Public Library’s 42nd Street branch opened its doors, and more than 50,000 persons visited that day. And ever since, people have been reading inside and outside the building, people gathering all around, on its steps and even its sidewalk, reading while they are walking. Another image was from 1935, when Bryant Park, along with other city parks, opened outdoor reading rooms. They lasted during the summer months until 1943 and then opened again in 2003.
Times Square in 1962 opened an all-night bookstore, stocking 100,000 paperback books and not one of them was pornographic, which for Times Square in that era, was something worth bragging about. You could see the intense concentration and enjoyment on people’s faces as they read. One woman was standing upright, holding a book and simply reading, oblivious, it seemed, to everything else that might have been happening around her. Another image from 1961 shows Barnard students reading outside---all of them dressed in skirts or dresses, looking seriously engaged in their reading.
There were pictures of children in New York City libraries being read to as their bodies stretched and arched toward the reader, so they could better see the pictures in the book or hear the spoken word. One image showed a child reading Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss, and again, there was no doubt that the child cared deeply about the words on the pages.
In 1906 The Times published a quartet of sonnets about a train guard, who was smitten with a passenger who took the local, not the express train, so she could have more time to read her novel. And indeed, there were images on the subway of people reading. I recognized some of these images from the 70’s and 80’s when the subway cars were ugly, covered with graffiti. Yet there were people, ignoring the graffiti by being completely engrossed in a book.
Images showed people reading in all different positions, standing up, leaning against a tree or even a lamppost, or sitting on a park bench, sometimes alone, sometimes with other strangers. There were images of people lying down on the grass in Central Park with their shoes off and their heads propped up with a rolled up blanket to make reading more comfortable. Sometimes there was a couple reading to each other, and though I had no idea what they were reading, I wondered if it were poetry or perhaps a favorite novel, something intimate to share with a loved one.
I love books, and though some of you know about my excess love of dresses, I do own many more books than I do dresses. I live in a house, built in 1908 with three floors of living space, five bedrooms, my study on the third floor plus a basement. In every room, including the first floor hallway and the basement, excepting the kitchen, the bathroom and the dining room, there are bookcases. I love my books even more than I love my dresses, and when my children tell me I had better start clearing out some of these books, because they certainly do not want to do it, I tell them to go stuff it. I remind them that they each have given me some trouble, so I will simply return the favor.
I realize that many people today read on their phones or on their computers and tablets, but for me, there is nothing like holding a book in my hands. A book feels like a companion, even a friend, and though I am sure there are people who feel that way about their electronics, that is not my experience. And so, when I saw the images in The Times, I could not help but smile with a feeling of deep satisfaction and even joy. Reading is such a pleasure and even a passion to me, though there are times when my reading disturbs and even upsets me. Great writing often introduces thoughts and themes that challenge our everyday conventions, and yes, that can be disturbing. Reading can goad us to think, and the thoughts that emerge are not always comfortable. Books have changed the world by changing people and changing how they understand themselves and their world.
As Protestants, we are People of the Word. While the Roman Catholics have the sacramental system, we Protestants are focused on the written Word, which was why it was such a major turning point in history, when Martin Luther translated the Bible into German. Others had translated the Bible before Luther into other languages, like English, and they paid with their lives. Church leaders realized it was dangerous when people could read and interpret the Word for themselves. And so, we continue to read and ponder, and the images I saw in the Times reminded me how central reading is to human beings.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
GOD AS THIEF, GOD AS DISRUPTER
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
August 7, 2022
On July 16, 1945 in a New Mexican desert at a site nicknamed Trinity by Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, the first artificial nuclear explosion took place. Even Oppenheimer was not exactly sure what would happen, but when the explosion finally occurred and the emitted light looked like a thousands suns, what ran through Oppenheimer's mind was a line from the scared Hindu text, The Bagavaad Gita, when God said, "I am become death, shatterer of worlds, waiting that hour that ripens to their doom." Oppenheimer would live to regret his involvement in the making of the bomb, because he became convinced it would lead to humanity's doom. Nonetheless, it was impressive that Oppenheimer actually knew those lines from the Gita, just as he knew that the Hindus have a name for God the destroyer, Shiva.
Now in our Bible there are some images of God as the destroyer. Consider the flood in the Old Testament and in the Book of Revelation, when the old order is destroyed in order to make way for the new. Yet for the most part we modern day Christians find those texts troubling and embarrassing as we try to make God into a nice and comfortable companion whose job it is to help us through all the various messes with which life presents us. We don’t want to feel uncomfortable by a God who might be out to destroy or disrupt.
In today's text there is a subtle suggestion on the part of Jesus that God (or at least God's work) might well be experienced like a thief in the night. If the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You almost be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour. Why did Jesus pair the Son of Man, who indeed does God's work as well as announcing the coming of the kingdom, with a thief? Thieves break into homes, disrupt people's lives and and rip people off. How is God anything like that?
Well, consider the lives of Jesus' disciples. Their lives and that of their families were mightily disrupted. Jesus came along and called them to follow him, and they left home, though many scholars say they were not away all the time. But still it is hard to imagine that families were happy to suddenly be without the labor of a son, husband, or father. When another son told Jesus that he wanted to follow him, but first he must bury his father, Jesus' response was, "Let the dead bury the dead." How do you think that went over in a society built on filial obligation? And yet people who followed Jesus felt called by something more compelling than their families. How do we reconcile that with our notion of responsibility and obligation?
If we take seriously the time in which the Gospel of Luke was written, somewhere between 80 and 90, we know there was a great deal of concern about the delay of Jesus' return. People had expected him to come back very soon and establish God's earthly kingdom. "Sell your possessions; give alms, make purses for yourselves that do not wear out.” If life on this earth as one knows it is about to end and the new kingdom is going to be established, a different ethic is called for, so be prepared for this new time. But Jesus did not quickly return, and so in the meantime the faithful have had to figure out how to live rightly and faithfully on this earth as they await the final consummation. And sometimes as people live, they do experience God as the great disturber of their lives, the one who comes in the middle of the night like a thief.
Some years ago, I had a student intern at my church in New Haven. He had been very successful in business, but in his 50’s felt the call to ministry. During his final year at Yale Divinity, he made a trip to El Salvador, where he visited the cathedral where Bishop Oscar Romero was murdered right in the middle of celebrating Mass, as he consecrated the bread and wine. Romero was murdered for his opposition to a government that oppressed and stole from its people.. Romero could have been quiet as many priests were, but he understood silence as unfaithfulness to Christ, and he paid with his life. Is this what God wanted him to do---to die? As my student told me, God does not desire Romero’s violent death any more than God desired Jesus’ violent death, but God does desire justice and truth, and when that is pursued, the opposition raises its ugly head. And lives are disrupted and in some instances even destroyed, the price for radical afaithfulness.
A woman, who is a guidance counselor in a high school, had an interesting situation with a family with whom she was also friends. The parents were Quakers, very serious Christians, and their daughter, who was valedictorian of her class, gained admission to Amherst College, where she wanted to go. But the parents wanted her to go to the honors college at U. of CT, so they could send another student from the high school to U. Conn. “You find a student,” they told the guidance department, “whom you think can get into U Conn and prosper there, but does not have the resources to pay. Tell the family you have an anonymous donor. We think this is the right thing to do; this is what our faith calls us to do.” Well, their daughter was very unhappy. She wanted to go to Amherst, this elite, excellent and expensive private college. The parents patiently explained their position. "You can get a fine education in the honors college at U Conn. You may want to go to Amherst, but you don't need to go there. We can help somebody else."
Well, things didn't go well in the family. Grandparents got involved, and they sided with their granddaughter. The fight was ugly, but the parents stood firm, and two students went to U Conn with the daughter eventually going to law school at Colombia, while the student they helped went to business school, earned an MBA, and now works for UNICEF. To the latter God must have seemed like the bountiful giver, but for the daughter God appeared as a kind of thief, stealing from her the elite and expensive education she thought she had earned and deserved. Her relationship with her parents is still difficult, and she has nothing to do with God or church, because she thinks her parents used God as an excuse to defend a certain perspective on the world, which she did not does not share. Today, she is a corporate lawyer.
God can and does disrupt lives, but we can and should ask the tough question that really has no definitive answer, "How does anyone really know what God is asking in any specific situation?" Sometimes people do mix up personal desire with that of God's, and since God is not in the habit of speaking directly in a voice that can be recorded and verified, we human beings must do a lot of guessing. Faith is not certainty. It is not certain knowledge. As was so eloquently written in the Book of Hebrews, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Faith is not something to be proven, but rather something to be risked, as Abraham risked, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer risked, as the people I spoke about today risked. They all believed that God was calling them to do something, and they risked that they were responding rightly. Did they know for sure? No. They could only take the risk, and that is the best that any person of faith can do. To demand more of faith, to demand certitude is to make faith into an idol-- an object fashioned by our own hands and our own desires.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
August 7, 2022
On July 16, 1945 in a New Mexican desert at a site nicknamed Trinity by Robert Oppenheimer, father of the atomic bomb, the first artificial nuclear explosion took place. Even Oppenheimer was not exactly sure what would happen, but when the explosion finally occurred and the emitted light looked like a thousands suns, what ran through Oppenheimer's mind was a line from the scared Hindu text, The Bagavaad Gita, when God said, "I am become death, shatterer of worlds, waiting that hour that ripens to their doom." Oppenheimer would live to regret his involvement in the making of the bomb, because he became convinced it would lead to humanity's doom. Nonetheless, it was impressive that Oppenheimer actually knew those lines from the Gita, just as he knew that the Hindus have a name for God the destroyer, Shiva.
Now in our Bible there are some images of God as the destroyer. Consider the flood in the Old Testament and in the Book of Revelation, when the old order is destroyed in order to make way for the new. Yet for the most part we modern day Christians find those texts troubling and embarrassing as we try to make God into a nice and comfortable companion whose job it is to help us through all the various messes with which life presents us. We don’t want to feel uncomfortable by a God who might be out to destroy or disrupt.
In today's text there is a subtle suggestion on the part of Jesus that God (or at least God's work) might well be experienced like a thief in the night. If the owner of the house had known at what hour the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. You almost be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour. Why did Jesus pair the Son of Man, who indeed does God's work as well as announcing the coming of the kingdom, with a thief? Thieves break into homes, disrupt people's lives and and rip people off. How is God anything like that?
Well, consider the lives of Jesus' disciples. Their lives and that of their families were mightily disrupted. Jesus came along and called them to follow him, and they left home, though many scholars say they were not away all the time. But still it is hard to imagine that families were happy to suddenly be without the labor of a son, husband, or father. When another son told Jesus that he wanted to follow him, but first he must bury his father, Jesus' response was, "Let the dead bury the dead." How do you think that went over in a society built on filial obligation? And yet people who followed Jesus felt called by something more compelling than their families. How do we reconcile that with our notion of responsibility and obligation?
If we take seriously the time in which the Gospel of Luke was written, somewhere between 80 and 90, we know there was a great deal of concern about the delay of Jesus' return. People had expected him to come back very soon and establish God's earthly kingdom. "Sell your possessions; give alms, make purses for yourselves that do not wear out.” If life on this earth as one knows it is about to end and the new kingdom is going to be established, a different ethic is called for, so be prepared for this new time. But Jesus did not quickly return, and so in the meantime the faithful have had to figure out how to live rightly and faithfully on this earth as they await the final consummation. And sometimes as people live, they do experience God as the great disturber of their lives, the one who comes in the middle of the night like a thief.
Some years ago, I had a student intern at my church in New Haven. He had been very successful in business, but in his 50’s felt the call to ministry. During his final year at Yale Divinity, he made a trip to El Salvador, where he visited the cathedral where Bishop Oscar Romero was murdered right in the middle of celebrating Mass, as he consecrated the bread and wine. Romero was murdered for his opposition to a government that oppressed and stole from its people.. Romero could have been quiet as many priests were, but he understood silence as unfaithfulness to Christ, and he paid with his life. Is this what God wanted him to do---to die? As my student told me, God does not desire Romero’s violent death any more than God desired Jesus’ violent death, but God does desire justice and truth, and when that is pursued, the opposition raises its ugly head. And lives are disrupted and in some instances even destroyed, the price for radical afaithfulness.
A woman, who is a guidance counselor in a high school, had an interesting situation with a family with whom she was also friends. The parents were Quakers, very serious Christians, and their daughter, who was valedictorian of her class, gained admission to Amherst College, where she wanted to go. But the parents wanted her to go to the honors college at U. of CT, so they could send another student from the high school to U. Conn. “You find a student,” they told the guidance department, “whom you think can get into U Conn and prosper there, but does not have the resources to pay. Tell the family you have an anonymous donor. We think this is the right thing to do; this is what our faith calls us to do.” Well, their daughter was very unhappy. She wanted to go to Amherst, this elite, excellent and expensive private college. The parents patiently explained their position. "You can get a fine education in the honors college at U Conn. You may want to go to Amherst, but you don't need to go there. We can help somebody else."
Well, things didn't go well in the family. Grandparents got involved, and they sided with their granddaughter. The fight was ugly, but the parents stood firm, and two students went to U Conn with the daughter eventually going to law school at Colombia, while the student they helped went to business school, earned an MBA, and now works for UNICEF. To the latter God must have seemed like the bountiful giver, but for the daughter God appeared as a kind of thief, stealing from her the elite and expensive education she thought she had earned and deserved. Her relationship with her parents is still difficult, and she has nothing to do with God or church, because she thinks her parents used God as an excuse to defend a certain perspective on the world, which she did not does not share. Today, she is a corporate lawyer.
God can and does disrupt lives, but we can and should ask the tough question that really has no definitive answer, "How does anyone really know what God is asking in any specific situation?" Sometimes people do mix up personal desire with that of God's, and since God is not in the habit of speaking directly in a voice that can be recorded and verified, we human beings must do a lot of guessing. Faith is not certainty. It is not certain knowledge. As was so eloquently written in the Book of Hebrews, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things unseen. Faith is not something to be proven, but rather something to be risked, as Abraham risked, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer risked, as the people I spoke about today risked. They all believed that God was calling them to do something, and they risked that they were responding rightly. Did they know for sure? No. They could only take the risk, and that is the best that any person of faith can do. To demand more of faith, to demand certitude is to make faith into an idol-- an object fashioned by our own hands and our own desires.
August 4, 2022
Dear Friends,
The world was shocked when on July 8, Shinze Abe, the former Prime Minister of Japan, was assassinated with a home-made gun. No people were more shocked than the citizens of Japan, since gun ownership is rare. In 1958 a law was passed saying that “no one should possess a gun or sword”---though there are exceptions for hunting, sport, or industrial purposes. But the process to obtain a gun is rigorous: a thorough background check, a mental health evaluation, a written test as well as a shooting range test and a requirement to renew the gun license every three years. Japan is a nation of 125 million, and in 2019 there were nine deaths due to guns.
Japan’s story with guns is very different from our own, but then the American story is very different from most of the world. Low gun violence simply does not come because of few guns. Switzerland, for example, which has one of the highest per capita rates of gun ownership, does not suffer from the spate of gun violence and mass shootings that our country does. The same can be said for Canada. But in both these countries people say they rely on each other and government to keep them safe. The trust level (of people and laws) is high. And their trust of guns for providing safety is really quite low.
Now consider Mexico, certainly a very violent country. The guns are, however, owned and used by gang members and drug cartels. It is not easy for the average Mexican citizen to lay his or her hands on guns---and when they do, the guns are often coming from the United States. Between 2014 and 2018 70% of the guns in Mexico came from the U.S. In fact, in 2021 the Mexican government filed a suit against some U.S. based gun manufacturers, blaming them for the steady flow of guns. It is interesting to note that some Mexican politicians have tried to loosen gun laws so that people could carry guns in cars and in private companies, but the proposal was decisively defeated. And the most successful argument against it was, “Look at the United States! We certainly do not want to be anything like that!” People just do not seem to believe that owning a gun will be of much help to them. Unlike Canada and Switzerland, where trust of other people and government is high, such trust is very low in Mexico. Only 25% of Mexicans say they trust their government and only 12.4% say most people can be trusted. In the U.S. 39.6% say most other people can be trusted and in Switzerland it is 49.3%. Switzerland suffers about 50 murders a year and only 10% of those involve a gun. In contrast 67% of homicides in our country involve guns.
A professor at Ohio State University, Dr. Roth, has been conducting research on the relationship between trust, safety, and guns from the colonial era to the present situation. And what he has discovered is that low murder rates tend to be correlated with times when trust in government and fellow citizens is high. For example, at the end of World War ll, Americans tended to express a strong trust in government, and the murder rate was quite low. The 60’s and 70’s saw a rise in violence and a parallel drop in trust of both government and other people, followed by a rise in the trust of guns. Americans, unlike the rest of the world, do seem to have this TRUST in guns. While Americans believe that guns can and will keep them safe, other people in other nations have the opposite feeling: Guns are a danger, and we need to limit them.
In Dublane, Scotland 26 years ago, a teacher and 16 children were shot to death in a shocking mass shooting. This was the impetus for the United Kingdom to ban handguns. By 1996 pistol shooting had become the fastest growing sport in the U.K., and no one thought a ban on handguns would be possible. Campaigners for strict gun control received death threats, yet the ban did go through. Since its passage, 25 years ago, there has not been one single school shooting in the entire United Kingdom.
Australia pushed through a program to buyback guns after a massacre in 1996 in Port Arthur, Tasmania. The proportion of gun owners fell by 48% between 1997 and 2020. New Zealand banned ALL semi-automatic rifles less than ONE week after a mass shooter killed 51 worshippers in a mosque. And Canada, where many people are gun owners, tightened its gun laws after the 1989 mass shooting of 14 women at Ecole Polytechnique in Montreal. While the Uvalde Texas shooting did become the impetus for the passage of the first major federal gun safety legislation in over 25 years, which bolsters background checks for those under 21 and strengthens the red flag laws, Canada’s response to Uvalde was much tougher. Within a week of the shooting in Texas, Canada introduced legislation to FREEZE the buying, selling, and importing of handguns. Canada’s Prime Minister said, “We need only to look south of the border to know that if we do not take action firmly and rapidly, it gets worse and worse and more difficult to counter.” Our country, when it comes to guns, is apparently the standard NO ONE wants to follow.
It is quite fascinating that TRUST is such a major issue when it comes to guns and gun ownership. Trust in government, trust in people, and even trust in God can influence how people view guns. And certainly, how people grew up, whether or not guns were part of their culture, does have an impact as well. There was a gun tragedy in my own extended family. My father’s sister in law’s 17 year old nephew accidentally killed his 15 year old brother in a hunting accident. My parents hated guns, and though my father, a World War ll veteran, had to learn how to handle a gun, his wartime experience was behind a desk, not carrying a weapon. When he died in 2003 and his ashes were buried in a veteran’s cemetery in New Jersey, a gun salute was offered. “Oh please, no guns,” my mother said. My husband hated guns and I do too.”
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
The world was shocked when on July 8, Shinze Abe, the former Prime Minister of Japan, was assassinated with a home-made gun. No people were more shocked than the citizens of Japan, since gun ownership is rare. In 1958 a law was passed saying that “no one should possess a gun or sword”---though there are exceptions for hunting, sport, or industrial purposes. But the process to obtain a gun is rigorous: a thorough background check, a mental health evaluation, a written test as well as a shooting range test and a requirement to renew the gun license every three years. Japan is a nation of 125 million, and in 2019 there were nine deaths due to guns.
Japan’s story with guns is very different from our own, but then the American story is very different from most of the world. Low gun violence simply does not come because of few guns. Switzerland, for example, which has one of the highest per capita rates of gun ownership, does not suffer from the spate of gun violence and mass shootings that our country does. The same can be said for Canada. But in both these countries people say they rely on each other and government to keep them safe. The trust level (of people and laws) is high. And their trust of guns for providing safety is really quite low.
Now consider Mexico, certainly a very violent country. The guns are, however, owned and used by gang members and drug cartels. It is not easy for the average Mexican citizen to lay his or her hands on guns---and when they do, the guns are often coming from the United States. Between 2014 and 2018 70% of the guns in Mexico came from the U.S. In fact, in 2021 the Mexican government filed a suit against some U.S. based gun manufacturers, blaming them for the steady flow of guns. It is interesting to note that some Mexican politicians have tried to loosen gun laws so that people could carry guns in cars and in private companies, but the proposal was decisively defeated. And the most successful argument against it was, “Look at the United States! We certainly do not want to be anything like that!” People just do not seem to believe that owning a gun will be of much help to them. Unlike Canada and Switzerland, where trust of other people and government is high, such trust is very low in Mexico. Only 25% of Mexicans say they trust their government and only 12.4% say most people can be trusted. In the U.S. 39.6% say most other people can be trusted and in Switzerland it is 49.3%. Switzerland suffers about 50 murders a year and only 10% of those involve a gun. In contrast 67% of homicides in our country involve guns.
A professor at Ohio State University, Dr. Roth, has been conducting research on the relationship between trust, safety, and guns from the colonial era to the present situation. And what he has discovered is that low murder rates tend to be correlated with times when trust in government and fellow citizens is high. For example, at the end of World War ll, Americans tended to express a strong trust in government, and the murder rate was quite low. The 60’s and 70’s saw a rise in violence and a parallel drop in trust of both government and other people, followed by a rise in the trust of guns. Americans, unlike the rest of the world, do seem to have this TRUST in guns. While Americans believe that guns can and will keep them safe, other people in other nations have the opposite feeling: Guns are a danger, and we need to limit them.
In Dublane, Scotland 26 years ago, a teacher and 16 children were shot to death in a shocking mass shooting. This was the impetus for the United Kingdom to ban handguns. By 1996 pistol shooting had become the fastest growing sport in the U.K., and no one thought a ban on handguns would be possible. Campaigners for strict gun control received death threats, yet the ban did go through. Since its passage, 25 years ago, there has not been one single school shooting in the entire United Kingdom.
Australia pushed through a program to buyback guns after a massacre in 1996 in Port Arthur, Tasmania. The proportion of gun owners fell by 48% between 1997 and 2020. New Zealand banned ALL semi-automatic rifles less than ONE week after a mass shooter killed 51 worshippers in a mosque. And Canada, where many people are gun owners, tightened its gun laws after the 1989 mass shooting of 14 women at Ecole Polytechnique in Montreal. While the Uvalde Texas shooting did become the impetus for the passage of the first major federal gun safety legislation in over 25 years, which bolsters background checks for those under 21 and strengthens the red flag laws, Canada’s response to Uvalde was much tougher. Within a week of the shooting in Texas, Canada introduced legislation to FREEZE the buying, selling, and importing of handguns. Canada’s Prime Minister said, “We need only to look south of the border to know that if we do not take action firmly and rapidly, it gets worse and worse and more difficult to counter.” Our country, when it comes to guns, is apparently the standard NO ONE wants to follow.
It is quite fascinating that TRUST is such a major issue when it comes to guns and gun ownership. Trust in government, trust in people, and even trust in God can influence how people view guns. And certainly, how people grew up, whether or not guns were part of their culture, does have an impact as well. There was a gun tragedy in my own extended family. My father’s sister in law’s 17 year old nephew accidentally killed his 15 year old brother in a hunting accident. My parents hated guns, and though my father, a World War ll veteran, had to learn how to handle a gun, his wartime experience was behind a desk, not carrying a weapon. When he died in 2003 and his ashes were buried in a veteran’s cemetery in New Jersey, a gun salute was offered. “Oh please, no guns,” my mother said. My husband hated guns and I do too.”
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
MORE IS BETTER?
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
July 31, 2022
Luke 12: 13-21
We have no idea what the issue was between two brothers that would have prompted one of them to ask Jesus to tell his brother to share the family inheritance with him. It certainly was not uncommon for the oldest son to get most, if not all, of the inheritance, though in cases where there was great wealth, younger sons (and even daughters) could receive some share of the wealth. Perhaps this was a disgruntled younger son, who did not think the inheritance system was fair and so he wanted Jesus to intervene on his behalf. We simply do not know the circumstances. All we know is that Jesus refused to get involved in the family dispute. He apparently did not think the request here was so much about justice as it was about greed---about wanting more than is one’s due.
And so, Jesus simply responded by saying, “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” And then he went on to tell a parable about a rich man, who insisted on building bigger and better barns to store his copious crops, because more is better. More must be better. That’s the capitalistic motto, isn’t it, but Jesus did not live in a capitalistic economy, so it is obvious that one does not have to be a capitalist to want more. Wanting more seems to be something that is deep within us, even as we also know that riches do not give life its deepest meaning. But knowing that does not necessarily prevent us from wanting more or even acquiring more. People can rationally know that having a bigger house or a fancier car will not really bring them greater happiness, but they still can want them. I, for example, have more dresses than I could possibly wear in at least two or three years, but does not prevent me from buying more. No, because I like the pleasure that having lovely dress brings- me--even while I also know that all my dresses do not give to my life deep meaning. Am I a fool?
A fool is exactly what Jesus called the man who built all those barns. Is he a fool because he truly believed that the meaning of his life came down to having more? It is obvious he took great pleasure in his copious crops and barns, but if it was far more than pleasure he took; if he made his possessions the measure of his life--- that is spiritually deadening and foolish. He was going to die that night, so what good to him were all those barns and crops? There is no hint, by the way, that his death is a punishment for his greed. Death just happened to come to him with no warning. Perhaps if he had a warning, he might have considered what his life was truly all about. He might have asked himself what more really means.
We all know about more, because probably everyone here has been in circumstances where we not only wanted more, but also needed more. Maybe we needed a larger salary to pay tuition bills for kids in college, or to buy a house, or pay the property taxes that always seem to climb faster than our incomes. And though there is always a spiritual temptation involved in wanting more, it is also true that there are times when more really is better, when more truly does impact life in very positive ways.
Research has shown that when individual incomes in this country reach around $80,000 or 90,000 that is the tipping point---beyond this happiness does not increase with gains in wealth. Apparently, once people can comfortably pay their bills and then have extra money to do things they really enjoy--- going out to dinner, attending plays and concerts, traveling, the happiness quotient is quite high. But once people decide that all this is not enough; that is, once they want that bigger house in the fancier neighborhood---then when they actually get it, their happiness index either stays the same, or in many cases it actually decreases, because of a greater level of anxiety about the ability to maintain this standard. Research also indicates that people who live in neighborhoods, where the incomes of their neighbors are higher than theirs, are actually more prone to depression and even suicide than those with the same incomes, but who live in more modest neighborhoods. When you have less and are surrounded by people who have more, it is all too easy to become less happy and more focused on what you lack.
My youngest child, Caitlin, lived abroad for 12 years after college---in France and China and then 9 years in Thailand. She thought France never got over its grief of losing French as the international language; now English has that honor. China, she said, is a very competitive country, obsessed with having more. She also thought it was a mean country. She taught in an elite private school where the language of instruction was English, because all these successful and wealthy Chinese wanted their children to be completely fluent in English, so they could successfully compete in the world. Her fourth grade students were so anxious about their future success, she felt sorry for them. She was always telling them not to worry so much. But Thailand was a completely different experience. In a culture not driven by the desire or need to have more, people seemed to be happy with much less and grateful for what they have. She found it to be a much less anxious culture than our own and certainly China.
Yet greed can afflict anyone, which is why Jesus, though living in a culture, where most people were poor, still felt it important to teach a lesson about greed. Most of the people, who came to hear Jesus preach, were poor, and then as now the poor do need MORE for a better life. We know that Jesus was very concerned about justice and the redistribution of wealth. Many scholars believe he supported the Jubilee, when every 50 years, land and property were redistributed and returned to those who had lost them. But he also knew how dangerous it can be if the primary focus of life becomes getting and having. That certainly happens with the wealthy, but it can also happen if one is poor and lacks the basics. Life then becomes reduced to a struggle to get and have simply in order to survive. And that too can make life small and mean. Perhaps this is why Jesus refused to arbitrate a family inheritance squabble. He thought the focus was all wrong, just as the farmer’s focus on building bigger and better barns became all wrong. Both men were fools, because they did not realize that the focus on wealth can so easily become self-destructive and isolating.
In the case of the farmer, his isolation became so severe that in the course of three verses (17-19) he used the personal pronouns “I and my” nine times. The only conversation this man had was with himself, and it was all about what he was going to do with his wealth in the future: I will do this; I will pull down my barns and build bigger ones. I will say to my soul. In the immediate present his only goal was a kind of hedonistic pleasure: “relax, eat, drink and be merry.” No thought about anyone else, about how his wealth might be used on behalf of others. That is what greed does: it narrows the focus down to the self. It cuts off relationship.
This man was not only unaware of others and their needs, but he was also unaware of God and what God might well be asking of him. Such blindness to God is another mark of his foolishness. Psalm 14 says, “A fool says in his heart, There is no God,” which does not have to mean the denial of God’s existence, but rather a denial of God’s claim on one’s life. This rich man thought he had achieved everything on his own; he was clever and hard working, and so he was convinced that he owed nothing to anyone else, including God. The reward, he thought, belonged to him alone.
But Jesus told the story to remind his hearers and us that there are other claims on our lives. My and mine just don’t cut it. The rich man thought he was at the center of the story, and that is one of the great spiritual temptations---to think it is all about us. Whether rich, poor, or somewhere in between, any one of us can be greedy, so Jesus told the story to remind his hearers that no one is invulnerable to greed, and all should pay attention to where their focus is and needs to be.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
July 31, 2022
Luke 12: 13-21
We have no idea what the issue was between two brothers that would have prompted one of them to ask Jesus to tell his brother to share the family inheritance with him. It certainly was not uncommon for the oldest son to get most, if not all, of the inheritance, though in cases where there was great wealth, younger sons (and even daughters) could receive some share of the wealth. Perhaps this was a disgruntled younger son, who did not think the inheritance system was fair and so he wanted Jesus to intervene on his behalf. We simply do not know the circumstances. All we know is that Jesus refused to get involved in the family dispute. He apparently did not think the request here was so much about justice as it was about greed---about wanting more than is one’s due.
And so, Jesus simply responded by saying, “Be on your guard against all kinds of greed, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.” And then he went on to tell a parable about a rich man, who insisted on building bigger and better barns to store his copious crops, because more is better. More must be better. That’s the capitalistic motto, isn’t it, but Jesus did not live in a capitalistic economy, so it is obvious that one does not have to be a capitalist to want more. Wanting more seems to be something that is deep within us, even as we also know that riches do not give life its deepest meaning. But knowing that does not necessarily prevent us from wanting more or even acquiring more. People can rationally know that having a bigger house or a fancier car will not really bring them greater happiness, but they still can want them. I, for example, have more dresses than I could possibly wear in at least two or three years, but does not prevent me from buying more. No, because I like the pleasure that having lovely dress brings- me--even while I also know that all my dresses do not give to my life deep meaning. Am I a fool?
A fool is exactly what Jesus called the man who built all those barns. Is he a fool because he truly believed that the meaning of his life came down to having more? It is obvious he took great pleasure in his copious crops and barns, but if it was far more than pleasure he took; if he made his possessions the measure of his life--- that is spiritually deadening and foolish. He was going to die that night, so what good to him were all those barns and crops? There is no hint, by the way, that his death is a punishment for his greed. Death just happened to come to him with no warning. Perhaps if he had a warning, he might have considered what his life was truly all about. He might have asked himself what more really means.
We all know about more, because probably everyone here has been in circumstances where we not only wanted more, but also needed more. Maybe we needed a larger salary to pay tuition bills for kids in college, or to buy a house, or pay the property taxes that always seem to climb faster than our incomes. And though there is always a spiritual temptation involved in wanting more, it is also true that there are times when more really is better, when more truly does impact life in very positive ways.
Research has shown that when individual incomes in this country reach around $80,000 or 90,000 that is the tipping point---beyond this happiness does not increase with gains in wealth. Apparently, once people can comfortably pay their bills and then have extra money to do things they really enjoy--- going out to dinner, attending plays and concerts, traveling, the happiness quotient is quite high. But once people decide that all this is not enough; that is, once they want that bigger house in the fancier neighborhood---then when they actually get it, their happiness index either stays the same, or in many cases it actually decreases, because of a greater level of anxiety about the ability to maintain this standard. Research also indicates that people who live in neighborhoods, where the incomes of their neighbors are higher than theirs, are actually more prone to depression and even suicide than those with the same incomes, but who live in more modest neighborhoods. When you have less and are surrounded by people who have more, it is all too easy to become less happy and more focused on what you lack.
My youngest child, Caitlin, lived abroad for 12 years after college---in France and China and then 9 years in Thailand. She thought France never got over its grief of losing French as the international language; now English has that honor. China, she said, is a very competitive country, obsessed with having more. She also thought it was a mean country. She taught in an elite private school where the language of instruction was English, because all these successful and wealthy Chinese wanted their children to be completely fluent in English, so they could successfully compete in the world. Her fourth grade students were so anxious about their future success, she felt sorry for them. She was always telling them not to worry so much. But Thailand was a completely different experience. In a culture not driven by the desire or need to have more, people seemed to be happy with much less and grateful for what they have. She found it to be a much less anxious culture than our own and certainly China.
Yet greed can afflict anyone, which is why Jesus, though living in a culture, where most people were poor, still felt it important to teach a lesson about greed. Most of the people, who came to hear Jesus preach, were poor, and then as now the poor do need MORE for a better life. We know that Jesus was very concerned about justice and the redistribution of wealth. Many scholars believe he supported the Jubilee, when every 50 years, land and property were redistributed and returned to those who had lost them. But he also knew how dangerous it can be if the primary focus of life becomes getting and having. That certainly happens with the wealthy, but it can also happen if one is poor and lacks the basics. Life then becomes reduced to a struggle to get and have simply in order to survive. And that too can make life small and mean. Perhaps this is why Jesus refused to arbitrate a family inheritance squabble. He thought the focus was all wrong, just as the farmer’s focus on building bigger and better barns became all wrong. Both men were fools, because they did not realize that the focus on wealth can so easily become self-destructive and isolating.
In the case of the farmer, his isolation became so severe that in the course of three verses (17-19) he used the personal pronouns “I and my” nine times. The only conversation this man had was with himself, and it was all about what he was going to do with his wealth in the future: I will do this; I will pull down my barns and build bigger ones. I will say to my soul. In the immediate present his only goal was a kind of hedonistic pleasure: “relax, eat, drink and be merry.” No thought about anyone else, about how his wealth might be used on behalf of others. That is what greed does: it narrows the focus down to the self. It cuts off relationship.
This man was not only unaware of others and their needs, but he was also unaware of God and what God might well be asking of him. Such blindness to God is another mark of his foolishness. Psalm 14 says, “A fool says in his heart, There is no God,” which does not have to mean the denial of God’s existence, but rather a denial of God’s claim on one’s life. This rich man thought he had achieved everything on his own; he was clever and hard working, and so he was convinced that he owed nothing to anyone else, including God. The reward, he thought, belonged to him alone.
But Jesus told the story to remind his hearers and us that there are other claims on our lives. My and mine just don’t cut it. The rich man thought he was at the center of the story, and that is one of the great spiritual temptations---to think it is all about us. Whether rich, poor, or somewhere in between, any one of us can be greedy, so Jesus told the story to remind his hearers that no one is invulnerable to greed, and all should pay attention to where their focus is and needs to be.
July 27, 2022
Dear Friends,
On Monday, July 25, Pope Francis made a visit to the Canadian province of Alberta, where he offered a heart-felt apology for the abuse of Indigenous people, which occurred at residential schools the Canadian government had established. For over a century 60% or 70% of these schools were run by the Roman Catholic Church, while others were run by various Protestant sects and denominations as well as the Canadian government. The children, who attended these schools, were forcibly removed from their parents’ homes with the express goal of wiping out their indigenous language, culture, and religion. They were to be thoroughly assimilated into Canadian western culture and forget any connections they might remember from their former lives.
The Canadian government had apologized some years before as had Protestant denominations, but the Vatican stalled. A Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established by the Canadian government, had declared the schools to be a form of cultural genocide and had urged the Vatican to make a formal apology in person, but the Vatican held out. A little over a year ago, a shocking discovery was made in British Columbia when ground penetrating radar uncovered evidence that Indigenous children were buried in unmarked graves. Former students had attested to this and then evidence was uncovered in other areas as well. Denial was impossible, and so the ugly truth was acknowledged. Not only was cultural genocide committed, but also cruelty was visited upon the children: mental and physical abuse were suffered by many and some even died because of the neglect and abuse. Shocking is only one word to describe the cruelty. And so, the Pope travelled to Canada to make his formal apology and begin the long road toward reconciliation.
“I humbly beg forgiveness for the evil committed by so many Christians against the Indigenous peoples,” the Pope said. “I am sorry for the ways in which many members of the church and of religious communities cooperated, not least through indifference, in projects of cultural destruction and forced assimilation promoted by the government of that time which culminated in the system of residential schools.”
So, what difference does such an apology make? From what I have read, the response seems to have been quite positive. Indigenous people were genuinely moved that the Pope did come and speak words of sorrow in the hope that forgiveness would and could come. The acknowledgment of wrongdoing accompanying a request for forgiveness actually moved people away from rage and anger toward the hope that a new beginning is possible. Of course, there were those who felt the words were inadequate. Sorrow over the past can only go so far. If a new beginning is to come, it must come with action. And one possible action is reparations---payment to those who lived in the schools and survived and compensation to their heirs.
The Pope has promised further investigations, so more specifics can be learned, and a new beginning forged. What that new beginning might look like is left to the imagination. On the front page of the New York Times on Tuesday morning was a picture of the Pope in a wheelchair, sitting in a cemetery surrounded by white crosses. What was he thinking as he sat there? He knew that the Indigenous children who lay in the ground had no marker and no way of being known and remembered. Their identities were wiped out and their memory expunged from the Book of Life---not unlike what happened in the concentration camps in World War ll. Someone once said, “When we cannot remember, we hope that God will remember.” And how God remembers and what God does with the memory are not readily apparent to our limited ways of knowing and understanding.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
On Monday, July 25, Pope Francis made a visit to the Canadian province of Alberta, where he offered a heart-felt apology for the abuse of Indigenous people, which occurred at residential schools the Canadian government had established. For over a century 60% or 70% of these schools were run by the Roman Catholic Church, while others were run by various Protestant sects and denominations as well as the Canadian government. The children, who attended these schools, were forcibly removed from their parents’ homes with the express goal of wiping out their indigenous language, culture, and religion. They were to be thoroughly assimilated into Canadian western culture and forget any connections they might remember from their former lives.
The Canadian government had apologized some years before as had Protestant denominations, but the Vatican stalled. A Truth and Reconciliation Commission, established by the Canadian government, had declared the schools to be a form of cultural genocide and had urged the Vatican to make a formal apology in person, but the Vatican held out. A little over a year ago, a shocking discovery was made in British Columbia when ground penetrating radar uncovered evidence that Indigenous children were buried in unmarked graves. Former students had attested to this and then evidence was uncovered in other areas as well. Denial was impossible, and so the ugly truth was acknowledged. Not only was cultural genocide committed, but also cruelty was visited upon the children: mental and physical abuse were suffered by many and some even died because of the neglect and abuse. Shocking is only one word to describe the cruelty. And so, the Pope travelled to Canada to make his formal apology and begin the long road toward reconciliation.
“I humbly beg forgiveness for the evil committed by so many Christians against the Indigenous peoples,” the Pope said. “I am sorry for the ways in which many members of the church and of religious communities cooperated, not least through indifference, in projects of cultural destruction and forced assimilation promoted by the government of that time which culminated in the system of residential schools.”
So, what difference does such an apology make? From what I have read, the response seems to have been quite positive. Indigenous people were genuinely moved that the Pope did come and speak words of sorrow in the hope that forgiveness would and could come. The acknowledgment of wrongdoing accompanying a request for forgiveness actually moved people away from rage and anger toward the hope that a new beginning is possible. Of course, there were those who felt the words were inadequate. Sorrow over the past can only go so far. If a new beginning is to come, it must come with action. And one possible action is reparations---payment to those who lived in the schools and survived and compensation to their heirs.
The Pope has promised further investigations, so more specifics can be learned, and a new beginning forged. What that new beginning might look like is left to the imagination. On the front page of the New York Times on Tuesday morning was a picture of the Pope in a wheelchair, sitting in a cemetery surrounded by white crosses. What was he thinking as he sat there? He knew that the Indigenous children who lay in the ground had no marker and no way of being known and remembered. Their identities were wiped out and their memory expunged from the Book of Life---not unlike what happened in the concentration camps in World War ll. Someone once said, “When we cannot remember, we hope that God will remember.” And how God remembers and what God does with the memory are not readily apparent to our limited ways of knowing and understanding.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
The Prayer
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
July 24, 2022
Luke 11: 1-13
Most of you know the name of The Rev. Desmond Tutu, the South African Anglican bishop and anti-apartheid leader. Many considered him a modern saint. He died on December 26 of last year, and after his death all kinds of stories and remembrances were published. I read one about his visit to Harvard University some years ago, when he addressed a crowd of people, filled with activists of different ages. Expecting inspiration for their own struggles against poverty, war, and racism, many were disappointed when he spoke about prayer---about the power and potency of prayer, about how it had helped him and others in the struggle to bring change to South Africa. “Prayer,” he said, “was a teacher of patience and a daily reminder that God is working in history, that God’s justice would neither be mocked nor defeated and that finally God was the God of all, both the victims and the oppressors.” Some in the crowd grumbled, “What’s he talking about? “As long as the slaves prayed on their knees rather than fight on their feet, nothing much changed”’ Someone else said, “It was only when people came out of the church and started marching that Civil Rights got its due.” Tutu calmly replied by quoting Abraham Lincoln, “Many times I have been driven to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had no where else to go.” “Yes,” continued Tutu, “it takes strength and courage to move from your knees to your feet and act, but don’t underestimate the courage and strength it takes to move from your feet to your knees”.
Prayer: there is probably nothing in the religious life that confuses and unnerves us more than prayer. Many church goers openly admit they are not much good at prayer, and if you ask them to lead prayer, say at a church meeting or some other gathering, they often recoil in embarrassment, hoping that the clergy will do the praying. Public speaking is hard for many people, but public praying is even harder. Part of what makes prayer difficult for us is that we are not exactly sure what prayer is and what we can or should expect from prayer.
Oh sure, we think of prayer as talking to God, bringing our needs and desires, our wants and our fears before the divine majesty and mystery. When we pray, we often want God to do something, to fix something, though we are not sure what God is going to do with all the needs and requests. Some years ago, at a well-known medical school, there was a prayer study done among heart patients, and the results showed that people who were prayed over, whether they knew they were being prayed for or not, actually did considerably better in their recovery. On the other hand, many of us here can point to instances where we felt prayer did not work, at least in the way we were hoping. The person afflicted with cancer died despite our prayers; the needed job did not come through, the marriage collapsed despite our work and our prayers. So yes, we do sometimes wonder what good prayer really is.
I remember years ago, when I was in seminary a minister about to retire told me that he had come to the conclusion that prayer was a kind of therapy, changing the one doing the praying, but doing little to alter the outward circumstances. On the other hand, I knew a nun, who had spent 15 years, cloistered, praying for the world. Prayer, she told me, was like storming the gates of heaven with our pleas. She fervently believed that prayer does change things. Jesus told us to persist, to knock, to plead and never give up.
The Protestant reformer Martin Luther used to say that one of our mistakes with prayer is that we tend to think of it as a one way conversation---we do the talking (or the whining or complaining, as Luther was fond of saying) and God is supposed to do the listening and then the acting, changing life for the better. Now there is nothing wrong with asking God for things---that is certainly part of the tradition, and when we examine the Lord’s Prayer, as it is presented in Luke’s gospel, we find there are a number of petitions---the asking for daily bread, the request for the forgiveness of sin, and the avoidance of times of trial or temptation. But note: petition is not where the prayer begins. Rather it begins with an acknowledgment of God: Our Father, who art in heaven.
Now God in this first century culture was imagined as Father, but God can also be Mother, the Divine Parent, loving and caring for us, who although is concerned with earthly matters is also beyond earth, beyond our cares and concerns---in heaven. And this God is holy---that is what the word hallowed means, holy. With the acknowledgment of God’s identity as holy parent, the declaration is made that God’s kingdom, God’s rule, God’s will are to be accomplished on earth as they are in heaven. So, Jesus taught that before any human request or need is brought to God in prayer, the first step is an acknowledgment of God---God’s care for us as a parent and God’s rule in heaven and on earth.
Luther thought that if we could began prayer with such an acknowledgment, we would be helped to temper our insistence on getting our needs met. Our needs, wants and desires do not suddenly disappear, and indeed, they may be completely worthy and humanly very important. Jesus told us that God realizes we have needs, but the needs are to be viewed in relationship to God. This is what Desmond Tutu meant to communicate about the importance of prayer to him and to those who struggled with him for justice in South Africa. Tutu was a tireless worker for justice, and he fervently believed that God was with him in this struggle, but he began with God and not with the struggle, and for him this made all the difference. Prayer helped him to move from his knees to his feet and struggle for what he believed was right and good and just. Prayer for Bishop Tutu was more than talking to God, more than laying out human needs and crying out for justice: How long, O Lord, how long? Prayer also means listening to and for God. As the Psalmist sang so long ago, “Be still and know that I am God”. Prayer is also about that stillness.
When my husband and I visited Poland six Julys ago, we went to Auschwitz and Birkenau, the notorious concentration camps. There in one of the buildings was a rabbi, who was silently praying. I will tell you that one of the things that struck me was how quiet everyone was. People dare not speak above a whisper. I told the rabbi I was a Christian clergywoman, and I was not too sure what it meant to pray in a place like this. “Yes,” he acknowledged, there were many desperate prayers prayed here, many of them unanswered. Yet I believe that in such a place as this prayer can become God’s truth--- the certainty that pain is not empty; the world is not a void, and the soul is not alone. Your Jesus said to pray without ceasing, and when he prayed, Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven---that is a call to action—God’s action as well as our own.”
Putting his hands in his pocket, he pulled out some sheets of paper, and gave me one. “Here,” he said, “I carry copies of this, and I give it to people I meet whom I think would be interested.” What he gave me was a prayer, written by an unknown prisoner in the Ravensbruck Concentration Camp, and placed by the body of a dead child:
O Lord, remember not only the men and women of good will here, but remember also those of ill will. But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted on us. Remember the fruits we have bought, thanks to this suffering: our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage, our generosity, the greatness of heart, which has grown out of this, and when they come to judgment let all the fruits, which we have borne be their forgiveness.
What good does prayer do? Jesus never once explained prayer; he never said how it worked, or why it is that some prayers seem to be answered, while others are not. He told us simply, “When you pray, say this.” Our call as Christians is to pray, and what God does with our prayers, how God uses our prayers, we leave all that to God. We cannot know what we cannot know, but we can hope that there are prayers, which God uses to heal the world of its brokenness.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
July 24, 2022
Luke 11: 1-13
Most of you know the name of The Rev. Desmond Tutu, the South African Anglican bishop and anti-apartheid leader. Many considered him a modern saint. He died on December 26 of last year, and after his death all kinds of stories and remembrances were published. I read one about his visit to Harvard University some years ago, when he addressed a crowd of people, filled with activists of different ages. Expecting inspiration for their own struggles against poverty, war, and racism, many were disappointed when he spoke about prayer---about the power and potency of prayer, about how it had helped him and others in the struggle to bring change to South Africa. “Prayer,” he said, “was a teacher of patience and a daily reminder that God is working in history, that God’s justice would neither be mocked nor defeated and that finally God was the God of all, both the victims and the oppressors.” Some in the crowd grumbled, “What’s he talking about? “As long as the slaves prayed on their knees rather than fight on their feet, nothing much changed”’ Someone else said, “It was only when people came out of the church and started marching that Civil Rights got its due.” Tutu calmly replied by quoting Abraham Lincoln, “Many times I have been driven to my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had no where else to go.” “Yes,” continued Tutu, “it takes strength and courage to move from your knees to your feet and act, but don’t underestimate the courage and strength it takes to move from your feet to your knees”.
Prayer: there is probably nothing in the religious life that confuses and unnerves us more than prayer. Many church goers openly admit they are not much good at prayer, and if you ask them to lead prayer, say at a church meeting or some other gathering, they often recoil in embarrassment, hoping that the clergy will do the praying. Public speaking is hard for many people, but public praying is even harder. Part of what makes prayer difficult for us is that we are not exactly sure what prayer is and what we can or should expect from prayer.
Oh sure, we think of prayer as talking to God, bringing our needs and desires, our wants and our fears before the divine majesty and mystery. When we pray, we often want God to do something, to fix something, though we are not sure what God is going to do with all the needs and requests. Some years ago, at a well-known medical school, there was a prayer study done among heart patients, and the results showed that people who were prayed over, whether they knew they were being prayed for or not, actually did considerably better in their recovery. On the other hand, many of us here can point to instances where we felt prayer did not work, at least in the way we were hoping. The person afflicted with cancer died despite our prayers; the needed job did not come through, the marriage collapsed despite our work and our prayers. So yes, we do sometimes wonder what good prayer really is.
I remember years ago, when I was in seminary a minister about to retire told me that he had come to the conclusion that prayer was a kind of therapy, changing the one doing the praying, but doing little to alter the outward circumstances. On the other hand, I knew a nun, who had spent 15 years, cloistered, praying for the world. Prayer, she told me, was like storming the gates of heaven with our pleas. She fervently believed that prayer does change things. Jesus told us to persist, to knock, to plead and never give up.
The Protestant reformer Martin Luther used to say that one of our mistakes with prayer is that we tend to think of it as a one way conversation---we do the talking (or the whining or complaining, as Luther was fond of saying) and God is supposed to do the listening and then the acting, changing life for the better. Now there is nothing wrong with asking God for things---that is certainly part of the tradition, and when we examine the Lord’s Prayer, as it is presented in Luke’s gospel, we find there are a number of petitions---the asking for daily bread, the request for the forgiveness of sin, and the avoidance of times of trial or temptation. But note: petition is not where the prayer begins. Rather it begins with an acknowledgment of God: Our Father, who art in heaven.
Now God in this first century culture was imagined as Father, but God can also be Mother, the Divine Parent, loving and caring for us, who although is concerned with earthly matters is also beyond earth, beyond our cares and concerns---in heaven. And this God is holy---that is what the word hallowed means, holy. With the acknowledgment of God’s identity as holy parent, the declaration is made that God’s kingdom, God’s rule, God’s will are to be accomplished on earth as they are in heaven. So, Jesus taught that before any human request or need is brought to God in prayer, the first step is an acknowledgment of God---God’s care for us as a parent and God’s rule in heaven and on earth.
Luther thought that if we could began prayer with such an acknowledgment, we would be helped to temper our insistence on getting our needs met. Our needs, wants and desires do not suddenly disappear, and indeed, they may be completely worthy and humanly very important. Jesus told us that God realizes we have needs, but the needs are to be viewed in relationship to God. This is what Desmond Tutu meant to communicate about the importance of prayer to him and to those who struggled with him for justice in South Africa. Tutu was a tireless worker for justice, and he fervently believed that God was with him in this struggle, but he began with God and not with the struggle, and for him this made all the difference. Prayer helped him to move from his knees to his feet and struggle for what he believed was right and good and just. Prayer for Bishop Tutu was more than talking to God, more than laying out human needs and crying out for justice: How long, O Lord, how long? Prayer also means listening to and for God. As the Psalmist sang so long ago, “Be still and know that I am God”. Prayer is also about that stillness.
When my husband and I visited Poland six Julys ago, we went to Auschwitz and Birkenau, the notorious concentration camps. There in one of the buildings was a rabbi, who was silently praying. I will tell you that one of the things that struck me was how quiet everyone was. People dare not speak above a whisper. I told the rabbi I was a Christian clergywoman, and I was not too sure what it meant to pray in a place like this. “Yes,” he acknowledged, there were many desperate prayers prayed here, many of them unanswered. Yet I believe that in such a place as this prayer can become God’s truth--- the certainty that pain is not empty; the world is not a void, and the soul is not alone. Your Jesus said to pray without ceasing, and when he prayed, Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven---that is a call to action—God’s action as well as our own.”
Putting his hands in his pocket, he pulled out some sheets of paper, and gave me one. “Here,” he said, “I carry copies of this, and I give it to people I meet whom I think would be interested.” What he gave me was a prayer, written by an unknown prisoner in the Ravensbruck Concentration Camp, and placed by the body of a dead child:
O Lord, remember not only the men and women of good will here, but remember also those of ill will. But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted on us. Remember the fruits we have bought, thanks to this suffering: our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage, our generosity, the greatness of heart, which has grown out of this, and when they come to judgment let all the fruits, which we have borne be their forgiveness.
What good does prayer do? Jesus never once explained prayer; he never said how it worked, or why it is that some prayers seem to be answered, while others are not. He told us simply, “When you pray, say this.” Our call as Christians is to pray, and what God does with our prayers, how God uses our prayers, we leave all that to God. We cannot know what we cannot know, but we can hope that there are prayers, which God uses to heal the world of its brokenness.
July 14, 2022
Dear Friends,
This is truly incredible---the most exciting knowledge that has come our way in quite a long time. I am referring to the images that are coming from the James Webb Telescope, revealing what has been invisible details of the universe. I wrote about the Telescope some months ago, but now we can actually see images of multiple galaxies, stars bursting, dying and becoming nebulae. On Wednesday morning, I opened up The New York Times to see on the front page a picture of the cliffs of the Carina Nebula with stars in the background, surrounded by multiple galaxies. The light from these galaxies originated more than 13 billion years ago. The James Webb is going to give us images close to the dawn of time and the edge of the universe. This is truly spectacular!
The first image from Webb, which was shown on Monday, is named SMACS 0723. It is a patch of the sky that is visible in the Southern Hemisphere, and it includes a massive cluster of galaxies about 4 billion light years away from our earth. Before Webb the record for the earliest and farthest galaxy ever seen is 420 million years after the Big Bang, but astronomers expect Webb to break that record time and time again.
Astronomers are fascinated by the birth and death of stars. Most stars, including our sun, will come to an end, forming a nebula, which is like a colorful gas cloud. The cloud will expand and eventually fade away into the space between stars. But Webb shows that light is emitted from complex carbon molecules that travel through space, settling in clouds that eventually give birth to new stars, planets, and asteroids. These carbon molecules seem to be born from the same process that give rise to stars. There is so much to be learned and so much that is not yet understood. One astronomer commented that just as Hubble changed what was known, Webb will do the same. In many respects, he said, “we will have to rip up the previous work we have done and start over.”
I think we all can imagine how hard it is to rip up previous work and begin again. We human beings have this tendency to hang on to what we believe/think is true, and when new knowledge intrudes and does not square with what we thought we knew, it is painful, and we resist. I remember very well when my husband was a graduate student, and he had been working on a series of experiments for many months, hoping the work would lead to a thesis. Well, it came to nothing. He had to admit this line of thinking was a dead end. At first, he could not believe it; he did not want to believe it, because he had to throw out five months of solid experimentation. He tried to consider all kinds of different explanations for why things did not work out. He argued with his supervising professor. But finally, he was forced to conclude that this line of work and thought would not lead him to where he needed to go. He had to rip it up and start over. And then something new had the chance to be born. This also reminds me how very difficult, impossible really, it was for Albert Einstein to wrap his head around the fact that light can behave as both a wave and a particle (photon). “I do not believe,” he said, “that God plays dice with the universe.” He wanted to know God’s thoughts.
The Webb Telescope cost over $30 billion and took over 30 years to develop, the brainchild of at least 20,000 engineers, astronomers, and technicians from NASA, and the Canadian and European Space Agencies. On Tuesday there was a ceremony at which two of the astronomers congratulated and praised the teams that had worked so long and so well together. Dr. Mather claimed he had never worried that Webb would not succeed, while the other astronomer, Dr. Zurbuchen said, “I get paid to worry.” And perhaps God does too—worry, that is!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
This is truly incredible---the most exciting knowledge that has come our way in quite a long time. I am referring to the images that are coming from the James Webb Telescope, revealing what has been invisible details of the universe. I wrote about the Telescope some months ago, but now we can actually see images of multiple galaxies, stars bursting, dying and becoming nebulae. On Wednesday morning, I opened up The New York Times to see on the front page a picture of the cliffs of the Carina Nebula with stars in the background, surrounded by multiple galaxies. The light from these galaxies originated more than 13 billion years ago. The James Webb is going to give us images close to the dawn of time and the edge of the universe. This is truly spectacular!
The first image from Webb, which was shown on Monday, is named SMACS 0723. It is a patch of the sky that is visible in the Southern Hemisphere, and it includes a massive cluster of galaxies about 4 billion light years away from our earth. Before Webb the record for the earliest and farthest galaxy ever seen is 420 million years after the Big Bang, but astronomers expect Webb to break that record time and time again.
Astronomers are fascinated by the birth and death of stars. Most stars, including our sun, will come to an end, forming a nebula, which is like a colorful gas cloud. The cloud will expand and eventually fade away into the space between stars. But Webb shows that light is emitted from complex carbon molecules that travel through space, settling in clouds that eventually give birth to new stars, planets, and asteroids. These carbon molecules seem to be born from the same process that give rise to stars. There is so much to be learned and so much that is not yet understood. One astronomer commented that just as Hubble changed what was known, Webb will do the same. In many respects, he said, “we will have to rip up the previous work we have done and start over.”
I think we all can imagine how hard it is to rip up previous work and begin again. We human beings have this tendency to hang on to what we believe/think is true, and when new knowledge intrudes and does not square with what we thought we knew, it is painful, and we resist. I remember very well when my husband was a graduate student, and he had been working on a series of experiments for many months, hoping the work would lead to a thesis. Well, it came to nothing. He had to admit this line of thinking was a dead end. At first, he could not believe it; he did not want to believe it, because he had to throw out five months of solid experimentation. He tried to consider all kinds of different explanations for why things did not work out. He argued with his supervising professor. But finally, he was forced to conclude that this line of work and thought would not lead him to where he needed to go. He had to rip it up and start over. And then something new had the chance to be born. This also reminds me how very difficult, impossible really, it was for Albert Einstein to wrap his head around the fact that light can behave as both a wave and a particle (photon). “I do not believe,” he said, “that God plays dice with the universe.” He wanted to know God’s thoughts.
The Webb Telescope cost over $30 billion and took over 30 years to develop, the brainchild of at least 20,000 engineers, astronomers, and technicians from NASA, and the Canadian and European Space Agencies. On Tuesday there was a ceremony at which two of the astronomers congratulated and praised the teams that had worked so long and so well together. Dr. Mather claimed he had never worried that Webb would not succeed, while the other astronomer, Dr. Zurbuchen said, “I get paid to worry.” And perhaps God does too—worry, that is!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
When the Enemy Saves
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
July 10, 2022
Luke 10: 25-37
There is probably no more familiar story in the Bible than the Good Samaritan. Even people with no church background often know it. It used to be considered part of general western cultural knowledge, but in today’s society, that is probably changing. Anyway, I would guess that everyone here knows it. But it is always useful to revisit even the most familiar text to see if any new insights can emerge.
This parable is unique to Luke, though both Matthew and Mark have someone ask a question about which is the greatest commandment. The exchange in Luke is between a lawyer and Jesus and it begins with a question, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” In Matthew’s gospel the question is Which is the greatest commandment and in Mark’s gospel it is which is the first commandment, but Luke makes no attempt to rank the commandments. Like the quintessential teacher he is, Jesus responds to the question by asking questions: What is written in the law? What do you read there? And the lawyer responds by citing a verse from Deuteronomy and one from Leviticus. Love of God and love for neighbor permeate the Jewish law. And so, Jesus simply responds, “Do this and live.”
But the lawyer is not finished, and he then poses a question about the neighbor: Who is my neighbor? If eternal life is gained by loving God fully and loving the neighbor as oneself, it is interesting that this lawyer seems to know who God is, but he does not know the identity of his neighbor, and Jesus responds by telling the story of a man, beaten, and left for dead, who is helped and quite literally saved by a Samaritan. Now we are never directly told that the injured man is a Jew, but since Jesus is Jewish and the lawyer, who approaches Jesus is most likely Jewish, and the people, who would be hearing this story are probably a mixture of Jews and gentiles, who would know the enmity between the Samaritans the Jews, it is a safe interpretation to identify the man as Jewish. And what we see is a man, considered the enemy of the Jew, who helps and saves him.
The friction between Jew and Samaritan goes back to the days of the Assyrian invasion of the northern kingdom, Israel, in 722 BC, where Samaritans also lived. Although they read the same scriptures, the Jews considered Sinai the sacred mountain, while the Samaritans thought it was Mount Gerizim. But the real tension grew when after the Assyrians invaded, the Samaritans began to intermarry with them, and intermarriage to the Jewish was anathema. It was considered a pollution of the bloodline, and after that Samaritans were viewed as thoroughly unclean and polluted. So, Jews and Samaritans hated each other, and everyone knew it. No one listening to this story, Jew or gentile, would have expected the Samaritan to be the one who would offer aid. The priest and the Levite walked by on the other side of the road to avoid any contact with what they perhaps thought was a dead body. Priests could become ritually unclean if they touched a dead body, but Levites were only in danger of ritual contamination if they touched a dead body while performing their sacred duties.
When Jesus asked who the neighbor was to the man, the lawyer correctly answered, “The one who showed him mercy,” and then Jesus said, “Go, and do likewise.” And because of that command, we tend to see the story from the perspective of the Samaritan, and so we understand the ethical dimension of the story in terms of what we are called to do---render mercy and aid.
But what happens if we see the story from the perspective of the beaten man, the one left for dead. What does it mean when the one who helps you, the one who literally saves your life is your enemy? How does that change the meaning of the story for us? How do we carry that lesson into the actual living of our lives.
I have a very good friend and colleague, Kaz, who for three years, while he was a student at Yale Divinity School, was my student intern. Kaz has been serving for the past 10 years a church in Marlborough, MA. He is Polish with a PhD in law and he never thought he could become a minister because he is gay. But the United States was friendlier to gay pastors than the Reformed Church in Poland, so Kaz changed professions and countries of residence. He is now a dual citizen. Anyway, Kaz’s Nana, the mother of his mother, lived through the Second World War in Poland.
The Nazis hated the Slavs almost as much as they hated the Jews, which is why they invaded Poland in 1939 and Russia in June, 1941, despite the pact Hitler and Stalin had signed. The Germans murdered many Poles and forced others, like Kaz’s Nana to leave their homes. She was told to report to the train station, where she would be deported to another city or town. She had with her, her three year old daughter, who would become Kaz’s mother. While standing on the train platform, there was this young German soldier, not more than 17 or 18, and Kaz’s Nana described him as the perfect example of an Aryan---blond hair, blue eyes, handsome and strong. He stared at Kaz’s Nana and her little girl, and then he lifted his arm and pointed to the woods beyond the train station. “Run, Mother, run,” he commanded. And that is exactly what his nana did. Holding her daughter and the bag she was carrying, she ran to the woods. Cowering there for a while, considering what she would do next, she suddenly heard the sound of machine guns as she witnessed the people on the train platform being brutally shot down. She ran for her life, hiding in the woods until she found shelter in another town with other Poles, willing to help her and her child.
When she told the story to Kaz, she said even after all these years, she did not fully understand why she did what the young soldier told her to do. She did not understand why she believed him. “I hated the Germans,” she confessed. “They were less than human to me, so why did I listen to that boy? And why did he save me? Perhaps I reminded him of his mother, or perhaps your mother reminded him of his little sister. I don’t know. I only know that my life and the life of your mother were saved by someone who was my enemy and the enemy of Poland. And what that has meant for me is that after the war I was never able to successfully hate the Germans as so many other Poles did. Yes, I saw what they did. I saw the destruction of my beloved Warsaw and later I would learn the full story of their massacre of the Jews as well as the Poles. I knew all that, and yet because I was saved by one of them, I was forced to come to terms with the truth that guilt and innocence are not evenly shared. My life and the life of your mother were in that young man’s hands, and we are both alive because of him. He was my enemy, and yet he literally became my savior. He saved us from certain death.
When we see ourselves as the brutalized man, left to die by the side of the road, and consider what it might mean for us to be saved by the one we hate or consider our enemy, the parable of the Good Samaritan does take on a different ethical dimension, because it removes us from the position of power, where we all prefer to be, and puts us in the position of victim. And the world never looks the same to the powerful as it does to the victim. In this case the Samaritan, the enemy of the Jew, had power; he had agency, meaning he could act and act responsibly and virtuously. And that is admirable, and Jesus tells us, “Go and do likewise.” But there may be times in life when we are not in the position of power. We may find ourselves victimized---victimized by circumstances beyond our control, and then we are dependent upon others to show us the care and compassion we need. We don’t want to be victims and much of the time we do not want to be dependent, but life sometimes writes us into a story in which we would prefer not to play a role. But, when forced by circumstances, how do we respond? What do we learn and what can we learn when the one or ones who help us are not our family, not our friends, but the one we call enemy?
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
July 10, 2022
Luke 10: 25-37
There is probably no more familiar story in the Bible than the Good Samaritan. Even people with no church background often know it. It used to be considered part of general western cultural knowledge, but in today’s society, that is probably changing. Anyway, I would guess that everyone here knows it. But it is always useful to revisit even the most familiar text to see if any new insights can emerge.
This parable is unique to Luke, though both Matthew and Mark have someone ask a question about which is the greatest commandment. The exchange in Luke is between a lawyer and Jesus and it begins with a question, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” In Matthew’s gospel the question is Which is the greatest commandment and in Mark’s gospel it is which is the first commandment, but Luke makes no attempt to rank the commandments. Like the quintessential teacher he is, Jesus responds to the question by asking questions: What is written in the law? What do you read there? And the lawyer responds by citing a verse from Deuteronomy and one from Leviticus. Love of God and love for neighbor permeate the Jewish law. And so, Jesus simply responds, “Do this and live.”
But the lawyer is not finished, and he then poses a question about the neighbor: Who is my neighbor? If eternal life is gained by loving God fully and loving the neighbor as oneself, it is interesting that this lawyer seems to know who God is, but he does not know the identity of his neighbor, and Jesus responds by telling the story of a man, beaten, and left for dead, who is helped and quite literally saved by a Samaritan. Now we are never directly told that the injured man is a Jew, but since Jesus is Jewish and the lawyer, who approaches Jesus is most likely Jewish, and the people, who would be hearing this story are probably a mixture of Jews and gentiles, who would know the enmity between the Samaritans the Jews, it is a safe interpretation to identify the man as Jewish. And what we see is a man, considered the enemy of the Jew, who helps and saves him.
The friction between Jew and Samaritan goes back to the days of the Assyrian invasion of the northern kingdom, Israel, in 722 BC, where Samaritans also lived. Although they read the same scriptures, the Jews considered Sinai the sacred mountain, while the Samaritans thought it was Mount Gerizim. But the real tension grew when after the Assyrians invaded, the Samaritans began to intermarry with them, and intermarriage to the Jewish was anathema. It was considered a pollution of the bloodline, and after that Samaritans were viewed as thoroughly unclean and polluted. So, Jews and Samaritans hated each other, and everyone knew it. No one listening to this story, Jew or gentile, would have expected the Samaritan to be the one who would offer aid. The priest and the Levite walked by on the other side of the road to avoid any contact with what they perhaps thought was a dead body. Priests could become ritually unclean if they touched a dead body, but Levites were only in danger of ritual contamination if they touched a dead body while performing their sacred duties.
When Jesus asked who the neighbor was to the man, the lawyer correctly answered, “The one who showed him mercy,” and then Jesus said, “Go, and do likewise.” And because of that command, we tend to see the story from the perspective of the Samaritan, and so we understand the ethical dimension of the story in terms of what we are called to do---render mercy and aid.
But what happens if we see the story from the perspective of the beaten man, the one left for dead. What does it mean when the one who helps you, the one who literally saves your life is your enemy? How does that change the meaning of the story for us? How do we carry that lesson into the actual living of our lives.
I have a very good friend and colleague, Kaz, who for three years, while he was a student at Yale Divinity School, was my student intern. Kaz has been serving for the past 10 years a church in Marlborough, MA. He is Polish with a PhD in law and he never thought he could become a minister because he is gay. But the United States was friendlier to gay pastors than the Reformed Church in Poland, so Kaz changed professions and countries of residence. He is now a dual citizen. Anyway, Kaz’s Nana, the mother of his mother, lived through the Second World War in Poland.
The Nazis hated the Slavs almost as much as they hated the Jews, which is why they invaded Poland in 1939 and Russia in June, 1941, despite the pact Hitler and Stalin had signed. The Germans murdered many Poles and forced others, like Kaz’s Nana to leave their homes. She was told to report to the train station, where she would be deported to another city or town. She had with her, her three year old daughter, who would become Kaz’s mother. While standing on the train platform, there was this young German soldier, not more than 17 or 18, and Kaz’s Nana described him as the perfect example of an Aryan---blond hair, blue eyes, handsome and strong. He stared at Kaz’s Nana and her little girl, and then he lifted his arm and pointed to the woods beyond the train station. “Run, Mother, run,” he commanded. And that is exactly what his nana did. Holding her daughter and the bag she was carrying, she ran to the woods. Cowering there for a while, considering what she would do next, she suddenly heard the sound of machine guns as she witnessed the people on the train platform being brutally shot down. She ran for her life, hiding in the woods until she found shelter in another town with other Poles, willing to help her and her child.
When she told the story to Kaz, she said even after all these years, she did not fully understand why she did what the young soldier told her to do. She did not understand why she believed him. “I hated the Germans,” she confessed. “They were less than human to me, so why did I listen to that boy? And why did he save me? Perhaps I reminded him of his mother, or perhaps your mother reminded him of his little sister. I don’t know. I only know that my life and the life of your mother were saved by someone who was my enemy and the enemy of Poland. And what that has meant for me is that after the war I was never able to successfully hate the Germans as so many other Poles did. Yes, I saw what they did. I saw the destruction of my beloved Warsaw and later I would learn the full story of their massacre of the Jews as well as the Poles. I knew all that, and yet because I was saved by one of them, I was forced to come to terms with the truth that guilt and innocence are not evenly shared. My life and the life of your mother were in that young man’s hands, and we are both alive because of him. He was my enemy, and yet he literally became my savior. He saved us from certain death.
When we see ourselves as the brutalized man, left to die by the side of the road, and consider what it might mean for us to be saved by the one we hate or consider our enemy, the parable of the Good Samaritan does take on a different ethical dimension, because it removes us from the position of power, where we all prefer to be, and puts us in the position of victim. And the world never looks the same to the powerful as it does to the victim. In this case the Samaritan, the enemy of the Jew, had power; he had agency, meaning he could act and act responsibly and virtuously. And that is admirable, and Jesus tells us, “Go and do likewise.” But there may be times in life when we are not in the position of power. We may find ourselves victimized---victimized by circumstances beyond our control, and then we are dependent upon others to show us the care and compassion we need. We don’t want to be victims and much of the time we do not want to be dependent, but life sometimes writes us into a story in which we would prefer not to play a role. But, when forced by circumstances, how do we respond? What do we learn and what can we learn when the one or ones who help us are not our family, not our friends, but the one we call enemy?
July 6, 2022
Dear Friends,
Despite the horror of the gun assault on the Chicago suburb, Highland Park, leaving seven people dead and dozens wounded and the gun violence that daily afflicts the southside of Chicago without national attention, most Americans tried to enjoy the Fourth of July this past Monday. For two years celebrations of the 4th were severely limited because of Covid, so people were looking forward to trips and picnics and the iconic fireworks displays in various cities and towns across the nation. The Fourth is a day to remember and celebrate those achievements in our history, which make us proud, even as we also admit the nation has never lived up to its promise of liberty and justice for all. There are a number of events worth celebrating and remembering, and certainly one of the worthiest is the signing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 on July 2 by President Lyndon Johnson.
When Johnson was Senate Majority leader, he had pushed the Civil Rights Act of 1957 through Congress, and as President, he was determined to pass the stronger civil rights legislation that John F. Kennedy had wanted to pass in 1963 before he was assassinated in Dallas. In fact, five days after Kennedy’s murder, Johnson addressed Congress, “No memorial oration or eulogy could more eloquently honor President Kennedy’s memory than the earliest possible passage of the civil rights act for which he fought so long.”
In 1964 only 6.7% of Black Mississippians were registered to vote, and the summer of 1964 became known as Freedom Summer as people set out to register to vote black citizens of Mississippi. Bob Moses was a New York City teacher, who began to register people in 1961, and the registration continued through the next summers, with 1964 boasting the greatest number of volunteers going south to help with the drive. Three of the volunteers were James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner, and they disappeared near Philadelphia, Mississippi on June 21. No one had any idea where they were, but many suspected the worst, even as some Mississippians said it was all a hoax. There was outrage across the country, and Johnson tried to use that outrage to push hard for the passage of the Civil Rights Act.
The House of Representatives had been working to pass a bill since the summer of 1963, but all the following fall and winter it had been held up in the Rules Committee by its chair, a staunch segregationist from Virginia. Howard Smith. But over the winter of 1964 congressmen heard from so many of their constituents, angry about the hold up that Smith finally let it move out of Committee. On February 10, 1964 the House passed the bill and sent it to the Senate. The trouble with the Senate was that many of the southern Democrats tended to be staunch segregationists, so breaking the filibuster was not an easy task. In those years the filibuster demanded that people actually hold the floor by talking, so squads of senators took turns speaking and reading. Richard Russell, a Democrat from Georgia and a friend of Lyndon Johnson, made his feelings known when he said, “We will resist to the bitter end any measure or any movement which would have a tendency to bring about the social equality and intermingling and the amalgamation of the races in our states.”
As the spring settled on the nation, many people, both Black and White, demonstrated in favor of the legislation. The Senate was three votes shy of breaking the filibuster, and there were Republicans, who though supporting civil rights, did not want to support more government regulation in the economic lives of business, so they refused to pass the bill. On June 18 Black people jumped into a Whites Only swimming pool in St. Augustine, Florida, and then the owner was caught on camera dumping acid into the pool. The image of a White man pouring acid into a pool to prevent Black persons from swimming was too much for some people, and the choke hold on the Senate was broken. The Republican Senator from Illinois, Everett Dirksen, then delivered the three votes necessary to break the filibuster to the majority leader, Mike Mansfield. The Senate passed the bill on June 19 and sent its version back to the House. The seething anger over the missing three civil rights workers gave Johnson the fire to pressure the House to pass the bill. Johnson signed the bill on July 2.
But right before writing his name on the bill, he addressed the nation. Johnson spoke of the triumph of the American Revolution, but he also said that those who founded the new nation realized that “freedom would be secure only if each generation fought to renew and enlarge its meaning.” The purpose of the law,” he said, “is simple. It does not restrict the freedom of any American so long as he respects the rights of others. It does say that those who are equal before God shall now be equal in the polling booths, in the classrooms, in the factories, and in hotels, restaurants, movie theaters, and other places that provide service to the public.”
On August 4, 1964 the three bodies of the murdered civil rights workers were unearthed in a dam near Philadelphia, Mississippi. The Ku Klux Klan had been responsible for the murders, one of them a law enforcement officer. As much hope as the nation felt in the signing of the bill on that July 2, the three murdered bodies were a reminder of just how far fear and hatred can viciously reach. The same is true today, which is why Jesus reminded his followers to be “gentle as doves and as wise as serpents.”
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Despite the horror of the gun assault on the Chicago suburb, Highland Park, leaving seven people dead and dozens wounded and the gun violence that daily afflicts the southside of Chicago without national attention, most Americans tried to enjoy the Fourth of July this past Monday. For two years celebrations of the 4th were severely limited because of Covid, so people were looking forward to trips and picnics and the iconic fireworks displays in various cities and towns across the nation. The Fourth is a day to remember and celebrate those achievements in our history, which make us proud, even as we also admit the nation has never lived up to its promise of liberty and justice for all. There are a number of events worth celebrating and remembering, and certainly one of the worthiest is the signing of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 on July 2 by President Lyndon Johnson.
When Johnson was Senate Majority leader, he had pushed the Civil Rights Act of 1957 through Congress, and as President, he was determined to pass the stronger civil rights legislation that John F. Kennedy had wanted to pass in 1963 before he was assassinated in Dallas. In fact, five days after Kennedy’s murder, Johnson addressed Congress, “No memorial oration or eulogy could more eloquently honor President Kennedy’s memory than the earliest possible passage of the civil rights act for which he fought so long.”
In 1964 only 6.7% of Black Mississippians were registered to vote, and the summer of 1964 became known as Freedom Summer as people set out to register to vote black citizens of Mississippi. Bob Moses was a New York City teacher, who began to register people in 1961, and the registration continued through the next summers, with 1964 boasting the greatest number of volunteers going south to help with the drive. Three of the volunteers were James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, Michael Schwerner, and they disappeared near Philadelphia, Mississippi on June 21. No one had any idea where they were, but many suspected the worst, even as some Mississippians said it was all a hoax. There was outrage across the country, and Johnson tried to use that outrage to push hard for the passage of the Civil Rights Act.
The House of Representatives had been working to pass a bill since the summer of 1963, but all the following fall and winter it had been held up in the Rules Committee by its chair, a staunch segregationist from Virginia. Howard Smith. But over the winter of 1964 congressmen heard from so many of their constituents, angry about the hold up that Smith finally let it move out of Committee. On February 10, 1964 the House passed the bill and sent it to the Senate. The trouble with the Senate was that many of the southern Democrats tended to be staunch segregationists, so breaking the filibuster was not an easy task. In those years the filibuster demanded that people actually hold the floor by talking, so squads of senators took turns speaking and reading. Richard Russell, a Democrat from Georgia and a friend of Lyndon Johnson, made his feelings known when he said, “We will resist to the bitter end any measure or any movement which would have a tendency to bring about the social equality and intermingling and the amalgamation of the races in our states.”
As the spring settled on the nation, many people, both Black and White, demonstrated in favor of the legislation. The Senate was three votes shy of breaking the filibuster, and there were Republicans, who though supporting civil rights, did not want to support more government regulation in the economic lives of business, so they refused to pass the bill. On June 18 Black people jumped into a Whites Only swimming pool in St. Augustine, Florida, and then the owner was caught on camera dumping acid into the pool. The image of a White man pouring acid into a pool to prevent Black persons from swimming was too much for some people, and the choke hold on the Senate was broken. The Republican Senator from Illinois, Everett Dirksen, then delivered the three votes necessary to break the filibuster to the majority leader, Mike Mansfield. The Senate passed the bill on June 19 and sent its version back to the House. The seething anger over the missing three civil rights workers gave Johnson the fire to pressure the House to pass the bill. Johnson signed the bill on July 2.
But right before writing his name on the bill, he addressed the nation. Johnson spoke of the triumph of the American Revolution, but he also said that those who founded the new nation realized that “freedom would be secure only if each generation fought to renew and enlarge its meaning.” The purpose of the law,” he said, “is simple. It does not restrict the freedom of any American so long as he respects the rights of others. It does say that those who are equal before God shall now be equal in the polling booths, in the classrooms, in the factories, and in hotels, restaurants, movie theaters, and other places that provide service to the public.”
On August 4, 1964 the three bodies of the murdered civil rights workers were unearthed in a dam near Philadelphia, Mississippi. The Ku Klux Klan had been responsible for the murders, one of them a law enforcement officer. As much hope as the nation felt in the signing of the bill on that July 2, the three murdered bodies were a reminder of just how far fear and hatred can viciously reach. The same is true today, which is why Jesus reminded his followers to be “gentle as doves and as wise as serpents.”
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
The Repairability Index
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
July 3, 2022
2 Kings 5: 1-14
I recently read that France now requires an index on certain electronic products, like cell phones and computers, that lets the consumer know how difficult it might be to get it repaired or even buy replacement parts. Apparently, you can look up the code and see how challenging or expensive a fix might be. It is supposed to help consumers make informed judgments before buying a product or wasting a great deal of money and time trying to get it repaired. It is not perfect, of course, but it does help, and apparently people have been relatively pleased with the results.
It is good to have an idea of how challenging it might be to fix something, but when it comes to human beings coming up with an accurate repairability index would be, well, extremely difficult. While it is certainly true that medicine gives odds on something working or not and insurance companies will consider the odds of healing before agreeing to spending a pile of money on a particular procedure, accurate predicting is extremely challenging. I have a college friend, who has been suffering for over 25 years from a rare form of slow growing cancer where these tiny carcinoids appear in different organs of the body. Because they are so slow growing, they do not respond to chemo, but they have responded to some new radical forms of treatment, very, very expensive, I might add. One shot is over $60,000 and the new radiation therapy he is about to receive in July is over $600,000. He told me a few weeks ago that the insurance always initially rejects the treatment, but Alex is a very smart corporate lawyer, and so far, he has always outfoxed the insurance company, which has ended up paying and paying year after year. And he has outlived all the predictions. His repairability index, though judged low, has turned out to be amazingly high.
Yes, human beings are tricky creatures when it comes to predicting their repairability, and no more so than when it comes to predicting psychological and spiritual recovery. I have seen addicts have their recovery programs rejected or at least questioned after they have failed numerous other ones, but then, miraculously, after the next attempt, against all predictions, healing took hold. Who can figure?
Our story today from the Second Book of Kings is about repairability, or healing. Naaman, a mighty warrior from Syria, is afflicted with leprosy, what is now known as Hansen’s disease. Though in biblical times, it was treated as a dreaded disease and highly infectious, my husband tells me it is not all that infectious and most of the time it is not all that serious, although it can become so. It is possible for the body to be almost eaten to shreds by these little sores that can cover and consume the body. So Naaman was suffering from leprosy. His name, by the way, literally means pleasant or pleasing---interesting, because the Syrians and the Israelites were often at war, but here we meet a pleasant foreigner. A servant, who was an Israelite, captured in a raid, told Naaman’s wife that he should seek healing form Elisha, the prophet, who had replaced Elijah about whom we read last week. And Naaman’s king mistakenly thought he had to send copious gifts to the King of Israel in order to ask for healing for his mighty warrior. The Israelite king took this as a grave insult, tearing his clothes, at the mere suggestion that he might have power over healing, and so Elisha, the prophet, had to intervene and set the king straight. And this is how it often is in real life. The high and the mighty are so easily offended because they tend to think everything is about them.
And Naaman made the same mistake. He became offended when Elisha failed to address him in person with the instructions to wash seven times in the River Jordan. He thought the rivers in Syria must be even better for healing. So, like the King of Israel, he too became bent out of shape. But look who brought Naaman back to reality---again the lowly, the servants. They reminded Naaman that if he had been given a challenging and difficult task, he would have done it, but because the task was so easy, he thought he was above its simplicity. But, despite his pride, he listened to the servants, followed the instructions about bathing and was healed. Sometimes that’s all it takes---enough humility to listen and respond.
A friend of mine recently told me a story about her neighbor, a man around 70, who had not spoken to his parents in over 50 years. Apparently, it had to do with Viet Nam. His father had been a decorated flier in World War Il, and when the son was drafted, he went to Canada rather than serve in a war he considered unwinnable and unjust. The father was furious with his son, and apparently said some pretty terrible things, accusing his son of cowardice, telling him he was ashamed to call him his son. “You,” he accused, “are no longer my son.” And so, the son left for Canada and never returned to the United States. Well, the father, now in his 90’s, was dying of Alzheimer’s, and the son, despite the terrible rift in their relationship, actually regretted the rupture. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long,” he told my friend. “I should have gone there years ago, but I am stubborn and proud, and I was waiting for my father to reach out. But he never did. Besides, I just did not know what to say. I did not know how to get over the breach. And now my father does not even have enough of a working brain to know me and know my sorrow. Now it is too late.”
Well, one day his 14 year old grandson was over the house and the man was speaking to his wife once again about the situation. “And my poor mother,” he was saying to his wife. “She had nothing to do with it, but she did not think she could buck my father, and I was so angry at her, because I thought she did not have the strength to do the right thing.” And do you know what that 14 year old said? “Grandpa, why didn’t you have the strength to do the right thing? Why don’t you go NOW and say, “I’m sorry?” Out of the mouth of babes.
And so, the man went. He flew to Chicago and arrived at the nursing home, where his father had been living for the past two years. Entering his father’s room, he immediately recognized the wizened old man, lying in the bed. His hands were placed flat on the sheet, and though gnarled with age, the son still recognized the strength that had once been in them. His mother was sitting in a chair, hunched and tired looking, but she immediately recognized her son, and wrapped her arms around him in a loving embrace. “I’m sorry,” the son said, and when his father heard those words, he opened his eyes and stared. The son sat down next to his father and took his hand and held it for three days until the man died. His last breath was a peaceful one.
We human beings have this tendency to trip over our pride, which often prevents us from not only doing the right thing but even recognizing the right thing. And sometimes it is the small ones, the less experienced ones, the least of these, like children, adolescents, or servants, who see what we are so often blind to as well as blinded by. Not everything can be repaired. Some things, including relationships, are never fixed. That family would never recover the 50 years of anger and bitterness that were surrendered to pride. But something did happen; something was repaired, and even if not perfectly, it was worth the trip, worth the effort, even if the repairability index seemed very low.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
July 3, 2022
2 Kings 5: 1-14
I recently read that France now requires an index on certain electronic products, like cell phones and computers, that lets the consumer know how difficult it might be to get it repaired or even buy replacement parts. Apparently, you can look up the code and see how challenging or expensive a fix might be. It is supposed to help consumers make informed judgments before buying a product or wasting a great deal of money and time trying to get it repaired. It is not perfect, of course, but it does help, and apparently people have been relatively pleased with the results.
It is good to have an idea of how challenging it might be to fix something, but when it comes to human beings coming up with an accurate repairability index would be, well, extremely difficult. While it is certainly true that medicine gives odds on something working or not and insurance companies will consider the odds of healing before agreeing to spending a pile of money on a particular procedure, accurate predicting is extremely challenging. I have a college friend, who has been suffering for over 25 years from a rare form of slow growing cancer where these tiny carcinoids appear in different organs of the body. Because they are so slow growing, they do not respond to chemo, but they have responded to some new radical forms of treatment, very, very expensive, I might add. One shot is over $60,000 and the new radiation therapy he is about to receive in July is over $600,000. He told me a few weeks ago that the insurance always initially rejects the treatment, but Alex is a very smart corporate lawyer, and so far, he has always outfoxed the insurance company, which has ended up paying and paying year after year. And he has outlived all the predictions. His repairability index, though judged low, has turned out to be amazingly high.
Yes, human beings are tricky creatures when it comes to predicting their repairability, and no more so than when it comes to predicting psychological and spiritual recovery. I have seen addicts have their recovery programs rejected or at least questioned after they have failed numerous other ones, but then, miraculously, after the next attempt, against all predictions, healing took hold. Who can figure?
Our story today from the Second Book of Kings is about repairability, or healing. Naaman, a mighty warrior from Syria, is afflicted with leprosy, what is now known as Hansen’s disease. Though in biblical times, it was treated as a dreaded disease and highly infectious, my husband tells me it is not all that infectious and most of the time it is not all that serious, although it can become so. It is possible for the body to be almost eaten to shreds by these little sores that can cover and consume the body. So Naaman was suffering from leprosy. His name, by the way, literally means pleasant or pleasing---interesting, because the Syrians and the Israelites were often at war, but here we meet a pleasant foreigner. A servant, who was an Israelite, captured in a raid, told Naaman’s wife that he should seek healing form Elisha, the prophet, who had replaced Elijah about whom we read last week. And Naaman’s king mistakenly thought he had to send copious gifts to the King of Israel in order to ask for healing for his mighty warrior. The Israelite king took this as a grave insult, tearing his clothes, at the mere suggestion that he might have power over healing, and so Elisha, the prophet, had to intervene and set the king straight. And this is how it often is in real life. The high and the mighty are so easily offended because they tend to think everything is about them.
And Naaman made the same mistake. He became offended when Elisha failed to address him in person with the instructions to wash seven times in the River Jordan. He thought the rivers in Syria must be even better for healing. So, like the King of Israel, he too became bent out of shape. But look who brought Naaman back to reality---again the lowly, the servants. They reminded Naaman that if he had been given a challenging and difficult task, he would have done it, but because the task was so easy, he thought he was above its simplicity. But, despite his pride, he listened to the servants, followed the instructions about bathing and was healed. Sometimes that’s all it takes---enough humility to listen and respond.
A friend of mine recently told me a story about her neighbor, a man around 70, who had not spoken to his parents in over 50 years. Apparently, it had to do with Viet Nam. His father had been a decorated flier in World War Il, and when the son was drafted, he went to Canada rather than serve in a war he considered unwinnable and unjust. The father was furious with his son, and apparently said some pretty terrible things, accusing his son of cowardice, telling him he was ashamed to call him his son. “You,” he accused, “are no longer my son.” And so, the son left for Canada and never returned to the United States. Well, the father, now in his 90’s, was dying of Alzheimer’s, and the son, despite the terrible rift in their relationship, actually regretted the rupture. “I don’t know why I stayed away so long,” he told my friend. “I should have gone there years ago, but I am stubborn and proud, and I was waiting for my father to reach out. But he never did. Besides, I just did not know what to say. I did not know how to get over the breach. And now my father does not even have enough of a working brain to know me and know my sorrow. Now it is too late.”
Well, one day his 14 year old grandson was over the house and the man was speaking to his wife once again about the situation. “And my poor mother,” he was saying to his wife. “She had nothing to do with it, but she did not think she could buck my father, and I was so angry at her, because I thought she did not have the strength to do the right thing.” And do you know what that 14 year old said? “Grandpa, why didn’t you have the strength to do the right thing? Why don’t you go NOW and say, “I’m sorry?” Out of the mouth of babes.
And so, the man went. He flew to Chicago and arrived at the nursing home, where his father had been living for the past two years. Entering his father’s room, he immediately recognized the wizened old man, lying in the bed. His hands were placed flat on the sheet, and though gnarled with age, the son still recognized the strength that had once been in them. His mother was sitting in a chair, hunched and tired looking, but she immediately recognized her son, and wrapped her arms around him in a loving embrace. “I’m sorry,” the son said, and when his father heard those words, he opened his eyes and stared. The son sat down next to his father and took his hand and held it for three days until the man died. His last breath was a peaceful one.
We human beings have this tendency to trip over our pride, which often prevents us from not only doing the right thing but even recognizing the right thing. And sometimes it is the small ones, the less experienced ones, the least of these, like children, adolescents, or servants, who see what we are so often blind to as well as blinded by. Not everything can be repaired. Some things, including relationships, are never fixed. That family would never recover the 50 years of anger and bitterness that were surrendered to pride. But something did happen; something was repaired, and even if not perfectly, it was worth the trip, worth the effort, even if the repairability index seemed very low.
June 28, 2022
Dear Friends
My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Guyette, believed in the power of biography to shape the minds and moral character of her students. She was always telling us stories of people, who made a difference. Sometimes they were persons of historical significance, known to many, and at other times they were people who just did what was good and right without public fanfare or knowledge. I thought of Mrs. Guyette the other day, when I came across the obituary of a woman name Andree Geulen, who died at the age of 100. Mrs. Guyette would have loved her story, and she would have loved even more the sharing of it with her young and impressionable students.
Andree Geulen was born in 1921 and grew up in a Roman Catholic family. Later she taught in a Belgian all girls boarding school in Brussels, when her Jewish students were suddenly ordered by the occupying Nazis to put a yellow star on their uniforms. The Jewish girls were so humiliated by this that Andree remembers how they would clutch their notebooks to their chests in an effort to hide the hated yellow star. And so, what did the teacher do? She had all her students, Jews and non-Jews alike, put aprons on over their uniforms, which hid the stars. A few weeks later she noticed that some of her Jewish students were no longer in class. It did not take her long to discover the terrible reason: The students, along with their families, had been rounded up and were on their way to Auschwitz.
The horrified teacher knew that she had to do something, and so she volunteered with The Committee for the Defense of the Jews, which hid Jewish children in convents, farms, monasteries, boarding schools and with other families, willing to hide Jewish children. “It was a race against time,” she said. “I had addresses of Jewish families and it was my job to get to the Jewish children before the Gestapo did.” Between the fall of 1942 and September, 1944 Geulen personally saved between 300 and 400 children. When she died on May 31 in a Belgium nursing home, she was the last survivor of a cadre of twelve women who worked for the Committee and saved over 4000 Jewish children. As we can imagine, the work of the Committee was not only dangerous, it was also emotionally harrowing. Parents would give up their children to these women without knowing where their children were going or even if they would ever see them again. Many of these parents died in concentration camps.
In 2017 there was an exhibition at Queens College about the Belgian resistance, and Andree Geulen was there. She described how torturous it was to pull children away from parents, who begged to know where their children were going. But no information was ever given to the parents to keep everything as secret as possible. Ms. Geulen said if she had been a mother at the time, she does not think she would have been able to do what she did. She described how each child was given a new name and was told not to tell anyone she or he was Jewish. Of course, young children did not understand this at all, and Ms. Geulen recalls being on a train with a young girl, when another passenger asked the girl her name. The child turned to Ms. Geulen and asked, “Should I tell her my new name or my old one?” Luckily, the passenger was not at all sympathetic to the Nazis.
In May, 1943 the Nazis raided the boarding school, where Ms. Geulen was teaching, where twelve Jewish children were hidden. The school’s headmistress and her husband were sent to concentration camps from which they never returned, but though Ms. Geulen was questioned, she was never arrested or faced any charges. She always believed her blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin as well as her impeccable German worked to her advantage when it came to dealing with Nazis. After all, she presented with the “perfect visage” of an Aryan! When being questioned, one German officer asked her, “Are you not ashamed of teaching Jewish children?” Her response: “Are you not ashamed of persecuting Jewish children?”
After the war was over, she worked hard to reunite the children with their parents, but this too was emotionally grueling work. The youngest children often did not remember their parents, and they did not want to leave the only family they had known. And sometimes it was extremely painful to put the children in orphanages when it was finally recognized that the parents would not be returning.
In 1989 Andree Geulen was honored by Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum and center for research in Jerusalem. She has a place on the Avenue of the Righteous Among the Nations, a recognition given to non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews from the Nazi horror. I recall visiting the Museum in 2006 and walking along the outside avenue, reading the names of people from all over the world. One of my fellow travelers remarked, “There are way too few names here.” True, and if there had been a groundswell of protest from the gentiles, there would have been no Holocaust. The Nazis managed to do their murderous work because there was hardly an objection from the wider population. Where there was substantial objection---such as from the Roman Catholic Church in Bulgaria—the Jews fared much better.
In the last decades of her life, Ms. Geulen found a new career in documenting some of the stories of the hidden Belgian children. One of them, Helene Weiss, discovered Ms. Geulen’s address and sent her a letter of gratitude as well as some pictures of her children and grandchildren. “If it weren’t for you,” she wrote, “they would not be here.” How true! As I said, my sixth grade teacher would have loved this story, and she would have loved even more telling us the story and then asking us questions to encourage us to think more deeply about what goodness is and why it matters if we pursue it.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends
My sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Guyette, believed in the power of biography to shape the minds and moral character of her students. She was always telling us stories of people, who made a difference. Sometimes they were persons of historical significance, known to many, and at other times they were people who just did what was good and right without public fanfare or knowledge. I thought of Mrs. Guyette the other day, when I came across the obituary of a woman name Andree Geulen, who died at the age of 100. Mrs. Guyette would have loved her story, and she would have loved even more the sharing of it with her young and impressionable students.
Andree Geulen was born in 1921 and grew up in a Roman Catholic family. Later she taught in a Belgian all girls boarding school in Brussels, when her Jewish students were suddenly ordered by the occupying Nazis to put a yellow star on their uniforms. The Jewish girls were so humiliated by this that Andree remembers how they would clutch their notebooks to their chests in an effort to hide the hated yellow star. And so, what did the teacher do? She had all her students, Jews and non-Jews alike, put aprons on over their uniforms, which hid the stars. A few weeks later she noticed that some of her Jewish students were no longer in class. It did not take her long to discover the terrible reason: The students, along with their families, had been rounded up and were on their way to Auschwitz.
The horrified teacher knew that she had to do something, and so she volunteered with The Committee for the Defense of the Jews, which hid Jewish children in convents, farms, monasteries, boarding schools and with other families, willing to hide Jewish children. “It was a race against time,” she said. “I had addresses of Jewish families and it was my job to get to the Jewish children before the Gestapo did.” Between the fall of 1942 and September, 1944 Geulen personally saved between 300 and 400 children. When she died on May 31 in a Belgium nursing home, she was the last survivor of a cadre of twelve women who worked for the Committee and saved over 4000 Jewish children. As we can imagine, the work of the Committee was not only dangerous, it was also emotionally harrowing. Parents would give up their children to these women without knowing where their children were going or even if they would ever see them again. Many of these parents died in concentration camps.
In 2017 there was an exhibition at Queens College about the Belgian resistance, and Andree Geulen was there. She described how torturous it was to pull children away from parents, who begged to know where their children were going. But no information was ever given to the parents to keep everything as secret as possible. Ms. Geulen said if she had been a mother at the time, she does not think she would have been able to do what she did. She described how each child was given a new name and was told not to tell anyone she or he was Jewish. Of course, young children did not understand this at all, and Ms. Geulen recalls being on a train with a young girl, when another passenger asked the girl her name. The child turned to Ms. Geulen and asked, “Should I tell her my new name or my old one?” Luckily, the passenger was not at all sympathetic to the Nazis.
In May, 1943 the Nazis raided the boarding school, where Ms. Geulen was teaching, where twelve Jewish children were hidden. The school’s headmistress and her husband were sent to concentration camps from which they never returned, but though Ms. Geulen was questioned, she was never arrested or faced any charges. She always believed her blond hair, blue eyes, and fair skin as well as her impeccable German worked to her advantage when it came to dealing with Nazis. After all, she presented with the “perfect visage” of an Aryan! When being questioned, one German officer asked her, “Are you not ashamed of teaching Jewish children?” Her response: “Are you not ashamed of persecuting Jewish children?”
After the war was over, she worked hard to reunite the children with their parents, but this too was emotionally grueling work. The youngest children often did not remember their parents, and they did not want to leave the only family they had known. And sometimes it was extremely painful to put the children in orphanages when it was finally recognized that the parents would not be returning.
In 1989 Andree Geulen was honored by Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum and center for research in Jerusalem. She has a place on the Avenue of the Righteous Among the Nations, a recognition given to non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews from the Nazi horror. I recall visiting the Museum in 2006 and walking along the outside avenue, reading the names of people from all over the world. One of my fellow travelers remarked, “There are way too few names here.” True, and if there had been a groundswell of protest from the gentiles, there would have been no Holocaust. The Nazis managed to do their murderous work because there was hardly an objection from the wider population. Where there was substantial objection---such as from the Roman Catholic Church in Bulgaria—the Jews fared much better.
In the last decades of her life, Ms. Geulen found a new career in documenting some of the stories of the hidden Belgian children. One of them, Helene Weiss, discovered Ms. Geulen’s address and sent her a letter of gratitude as well as some pictures of her children and grandchildren. “If it weren’t for you,” she wrote, “they would not be here.” How true! As I said, my sixth grade teacher would have loved this story, and she would have loved even more telling us the story and then asking us questions to encourage us to think more deeply about what goodness is and why it matters if we pursue it.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Return To Your Home
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville
June 19, 2022
Luke 8: 26-39
It was very unusual for us Jews to go into gentile territory. Though Jesus had this tendency to surprise us, even he did not go very often where the gentiles lived. But this time he did. We all had been in a boat, when suddenly this fierce storm came up on the Sea of Galilee. Jesus was sleeping, so we woke him up, accusing him of not caring if we perished. He calmed the storm and then castigated us for our little faith. And right after that calming, he decided to take us into gentile territory. Why? Sometimes I think he just liked to shock us to the point we would be forced to rethink and reconsider some of our assumptions. With Jesus you could never remain settled, that is, where you were comfortable. Just in case you have not figured it out, I am one of the disciples---which one it does not matter, at least not in this story.
So, there we were in the country of the Gerasenes, on the opposite shore from Galilee, and immediately we were confronted by this wild man, possessed by demons. The poor man’s feet and hands were bloody from his restraints, which he managed to pull off, but not without harm to himself. His eyes had this wild look about them, and he was practically naked. He had no home; he lived among the tombs, which for us Jews is unclean territory. I think that if we were not so afraid of him, we would have felt compassion for his situation. I mean he was unwanted by everyone; his family did not know how to cope with him, and the townspeople were afraid. To be possessed by a demon is a fearful thing, so how can you blame people for abandoning him. No one could do anything with this man---except Jesus. And the strange thing was that immediately the demons recognized Jesus’ power and authority. No one else had, not even we disciples. We thought of Jesus as an extraordinary teacher and healer, but no one would have called him “the Son of the Most High God,” which is what the demon called Jesus. And that struck us as more than strange; there was something frightening about it, because it was to us a signal that Jesus was much more than we realized. But how was it that the demon knew what we did not? That was a mystery.
Jesus commanded the evil spirit to come out of the man and it obeyed him, but only after Jesus did two things. First, he asked the spirit’s name, which was Legion, a word meaning many, but also a word for a company of Roman soldiers, numbering 5 or 6,000, which now, when I think back on it, was a play on words, a way of acknowledging that living under Roman rule was not only hard for us Jews, but also a challenge for gentiles. And the second thing that happened before the spirits emerged from the man was their request that they not be forced to return to the abyss, which was simply a word for the place of God’s enemies. The evil spirits wanted to go into the herd of pigs, and when Jesus allowed them to do so, the pigs raced off the edge of the bank, into the lake, where they were drowned, at least the pigs were drowned, but we disciples had our doubts about the spirits. I think it takes more than water to get rid of the evil spirits---but perhaps this was meant as a subtle reference to baptism, where the old self dies and a new one is reborn. And I can tell you that this man was reborn. He was completely remade, in his right mind, clothed, clean, respectable.
But the townspeople were not happy; they were afraid. And, of course, the owners of the pigs were pretty upset. No one knew what to think about what had just happened. And when people are confused like that; when their minds do not know the categories to put certain experiences into, well, fear rules. They recognized they were in completely new territory, and so they thought the best solution was for Jesus to leave. And Jesus complied with their request. He offered no argument at all. He got into the boat and was ready to depart, but the healed man wanted to go with us. He begged Jesus to take him along, and I can tell you there was something heart breaking, almost a bit pathetic about the man’s request. I remember thinking to myself, “Well, he has nowhere else to go. His family and community had rejected him, so why would he go back? But how could we take a gentile with us? What would people think? What would they say? I did not see how it could possibly work. But Jesus turned him down flat. No discussion at all. Jesus told him he must return to his home and declare what God had done for him. And so, he went. In a sense I think we can say he was the first evangelist, but evangelizing not in a distant place, but rather the place he had called home.
Home: consider what that word means. Now in my time most people remained at home. Rarely did they move away from the place they were born. But this poor man was expelled from his home. For years he could not go home, and now Jesus commanded him to return. But I could not help but wonder if he really wanted to go. As much as we might love home and as much as sick people want nothing more than to return home, we also should understand that sometimes home is a hard place to be. Sometimes home is the place that treats you like an outsider, perhaps because you are different---hold different opinions about this or that, or you may have a different kind of life style--- then home does not really feel like home. And perhaps this is how it was for the Gerasene.
Jesus certainly realized how challenging home can be. He hardly had an easy relationship with his home. His family thought him out of his mind, and there were some instances in which his own townspeople had their full of what they thought was his nonsense, even wanting to push him off a cliff. So surely Jesus realized how tough home can be and how hard it sometimes is to go home. No wonder one of your own novelists would write millennia after I lived, You Can’t Go Home Again, because sometimes you can’t. Sometimes you change so much that home does not really feel like home any more, and the people you have known and loved don’t recognize who you have become.
I think it was that way for Jesus. He never seemed to be comfortable in Nazareth, and I don’t think most people were comfortable having him there. His family loved him, but they did not understand him, and so there was this breach that could not be overcome. We all noticed it, because whenever we disciples went home, we had a real homecoming. Oh, people wondered why we were off with this strange man, but you should understand that we did regularly return honme. We had work to do at home, homes to care for, families to provide for, fishing to do. WE were not ALWAYS on the road with Jesus, away from home But Jesus, even when he was back home, he was far away.
I don’t know how it was for the healed Gerasene. Perhaps he could go home again. Perhaps his family and friends were relieved that he was well. I understood that he had been sick for quite a long time, so I can imagine that going home was not easy for him. He had been through something his family and the people of his town would never fully understand---neither his illness nor his healing. But such is life. We often are with people who have been through experiences we will never have or never fully understand, and so they stand on different ground from us---like the soldier I recently met who had been in Afghanistan.
He said he was doing a lot better after two years of living in hell. But he also said that his family, including his wife, could never understand what he had been through; they could not feel what he felt. And they could not understand why sometimes being home is so painful for him, why home no longer means what it once did. “All we can do,” the soldier told me, “is acknowledge the lack of shared experience and understanding. We can listen to each other, and hope that listening is enough.” Well, I hope it is enough, but listening is hard work, something that many people do not want to do. And so, I wonder if people bothered to listen to the Gerasene man. Did they listen to his experience of sickness and healing, or did they turn away in fear and confusion? How about all of you? Do you listen, or do you turn away as well?
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville
June 19, 2022
Luke 8: 26-39
It was very unusual for us Jews to go into gentile territory. Though Jesus had this tendency to surprise us, even he did not go very often where the gentiles lived. But this time he did. We all had been in a boat, when suddenly this fierce storm came up on the Sea of Galilee. Jesus was sleeping, so we woke him up, accusing him of not caring if we perished. He calmed the storm and then castigated us for our little faith. And right after that calming, he decided to take us into gentile territory. Why? Sometimes I think he just liked to shock us to the point we would be forced to rethink and reconsider some of our assumptions. With Jesus you could never remain settled, that is, where you were comfortable. Just in case you have not figured it out, I am one of the disciples---which one it does not matter, at least not in this story.
So, there we were in the country of the Gerasenes, on the opposite shore from Galilee, and immediately we were confronted by this wild man, possessed by demons. The poor man’s feet and hands were bloody from his restraints, which he managed to pull off, but not without harm to himself. His eyes had this wild look about them, and he was practically naked. He had no home; he lived among the tombs, which for us Jews is unclean territory. I think that if we were not so afraid of him, we would have felt compassion for his situation. I mean he was unwanted by everyone; his family did not know how to cope with him, and the townspeople were afraid. To be possessed by a demon is a fearful thing, so how can you blame people for abandoning him. No one could do anything with this man---except Jesus. And the strange thing was that immediately the demons recognized Jesus’ power and authority. No one else had, not even we disciples. We thought of Jesus as an extraordinary teacher and healer, but no one would have called him “the Son of the Most High God,” which is what the demon called Jesus. And that struck us as more than strange; there was something frightening about it, because it was to us a signal that Jesus was much more than we realized. But how was it that the demon knew what we did not? That was a mystery.
Jesus commanded the evil spirit to come out of the man and it obeyed him, but only after Jesus did two things. First, he asked the spirit’s name, which was Legion, a word meaning many, but also a word for a company of Roman soldiers, numbering 5 or 6,000, which now, when I think back on it, was a play on words, a way of acknowledging that living under Roman rule was not only hard for us Jews, but also a challenge for gentiles. And the second thing that happened before the spirits emerged from the man was their request that they not be forced to return to the abyss, which was simply a word for the place of God’s enemies. The evil spirits wanted to go into the herd of pigs, and when Jesus allowed them to do so, the pigs raced off the edge of the bank, into the lake, where they were drowned, at least the pigs were drowned, but we disciples had our doubts about the spirits. I think it takes more than water to get rid of the evil spirits---but perhaps this was meant as a subtle reference to baptism, where the old self dies and a new one is reborn. And I can tell you that this man was reborn. He was completely remade, in his right mind, clothed, clean, respectable.
But the townspeople were not happy; they were afraid. And, of course, the owners of the pigs were pretty upset. No one knew what to think about what had just happened. And when people are confused like that; when their minds do not know the categories to put certain experiences into, well, fear rules. They recognized they were in completely new territory, and so they thought the best solution was for Jesus to leave. And Jesus complied with their request. He offered no argument at all. He got into the boat and was ready to depart, but the healed man wanted to go with us. He begged Jesus to take him along, and I can tell you there was something heart breaking, almost a bit pathetic about the man’s request. I remember thinking to myself, “Well, he has nowhere else to go. His family and community had rejected him, so why would he go back? But how could we take a gentile with us? What would people think? What would they say? I did not see how it could possibly work. But Jesus turned him down flat. No discussion at all. Jesus told him he must return to his home and declare what God had done for him. And so, he went. In a sense I think we can say he was the first evangelist, but evangelizing not in a distant place, but rather the place he had called home.
Home: consider what that word means. Now in my time most people remained at home. Rarely did they move away from the place they were born. But this poor man was expelled from his home. For years he could not go home, and now Jesus commanded him to return. But I could not help but wonder if he really wanted to go. As much as we might love home and as much as sick people want nothing more than to return home, we also should understand that sometimes home is a hard place to be. Sometimes home is the place that treats you like an outsider, perhaps because you are different---hold different opinions about this or that, or you may have a different kind of life style--- then home does not really feel like home. And perhaps this is how it was for the Gerasene.
Jesus certainly realized how challenging home can be. He hardly had an easy relationship with his home. His family thought him out of his mind, and there were some instances in which his own townspeople had their full of what they thought was his nonsense, even wanting to push him off a cliff. So surely Jesus realized how tough home can be and how hard it sometimes is to go home. No wonder one of your own novelists would write millennia after I lived, You Can’t Go Home Again, because sometimes you can’t. Sometimes you change so much that home does not really feel like home any more, and the people you have known and loved don’t recognize who you have become.
I think it was that way for Jesus. He never seemed to be comfortable in Nazareth, and I don’t think most people were comfortable having him there. His family loved him, but they did not understand him, and so there was this breach that could not be overcome. We all noticed it, because whenever we disciples went home, we had a real homecoming. Oh, people wondered why we were off with this strange man, but you should understand that we did regularly return honme. We had work to do at home, homes to care for, families to provide for, fishing to do. WE were not ALWAYS on the road with Jesus, away from home But Jesus, even when he was back home, he was far away.
I don’t know how it was for the healed Gerasene. Perhaps he could go home again. Perhaps his family and friends were relieved that he was well. I understood that he had been sick for quite a long time, so I can imagine that going home was not easy for him. He had been through something his family and the people of his town would never fully understand---neither his illness nor his healing. But such is life. We often are with people who have been through experiences we will never have or never fully understand, and so they stand on different ground from us---like the soldier I recently met who had been in Afghanistan.
He said he was doing a lot better after two years of living in hell. But he also said that his family, including his wife, could never understand what he had been through; they could not feel what he felt. And they could not understand why sometimes being home is so painful for him, why home no longer means what it once did. “All we can do,” the soldier told me, “is acknowledge the lack of shared experience and understanding. We can listen to each other, and hope that listening is enough.” Well, I hope it is enough, but listening is hard work, something that many people do not want to do. And so, I wonder if people bothered to listen to the Gerasene man. Did they listen to his experience of sickness and healing, or did they turn away in fear and confusion? How about all of you? Do you listen, or do you turn away as well?
TOUGH WORDS IN TOUGH TIMES
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
June 26, 2022
1 Kings 19: 1-15a
Luke 9: 51-62
Two weeks ago I was at a theology seminar called, “The Word of God,” and one of my colleagues brought up a point that none of us had previously considered. Referring to the Lord’s Prayer, which we all understand to be a model for prayer---after all, Jesus said, “When you pray, pray like this”---she pointed out that nowhere does this prayer include praying for the sick. Jesus healed the sick, but when he gave us the Lord’s Prayer as a model for our praying, he did not include the sick. I find that very strange, she mused.
I never thought about that, someone else said, but I suppose we should not be surprised. We always think that following Jesus is going to make our lives easier, safer, more comfortable, but actually the opposite is true. Jesus is so demanding. And then our discussion turned to a recent scripture lesson---the one about the Gerasene demonic, who after being healed of his horrible malady was not permitted to follow Jesus as he begged to do, but instead was told to return home to the people who had rejected him ---a very difficult assignment, to say the least. Jesus did not give the man a break, though he had spent years, possessed by demons, rejected by his family and community, forced to live among the tombs, where his body was often lacerated on the rocks and his spirit, ripped to shreds by demons or what we today might call epilepsy or some other illness. Jesus did not hesitate to say tough words in tough times.
And in today’s lessons we have more of the same---more difficult assignments, more tough words in tough times. God or Jesus does not let up. First, consider Elijah, who was nothing if not zealous for God. He had been confronting King Ahab and his queen, Jezebel, about their worship of Baal, and in a contest Elijah beat her prophets, who failed to make fire to burn up the offering to Baal. Elijah’s prayer to God brought success, and then Elijah saw to it that Jezebel’s 450 prophets were put to the sword. So, is it any wonder that Jezebel was rip roaring angry and promised to repay Elijah in kind? And so, Elijah ran. Weary to the bone, both physically and spiritually, he pretty much felt he had nothing more to give. He was ready to give up everything, including his life. And there on a mountain top, God walked by---and Elijah met God not in the power of the wind, the earthquake or fire, but in the sound of sheer silence. That’s how it sometimes is in life, isn’t it? We want a word, an answer, a reassurance, and all we get is silence. But notice the silence did not last; maybe Elijah would have preferred the silence to the tough words God spoke, ordering him to Damascus, where he was to anoint two kings and a prophet. No, his work was not yet done. He was not yet allowed to rest. More tough words in what was for Elijah very tough times.
And in our lesson from Luke we meet a tough and exacting Jesus, who also doesn’t let up. Unlike Elijah Jesus does not countenance violence against those who will not receive him, and he sternly castigated his disciples for misunderstanding the call to righteousness. But Jesus made it clear to a would be follower that he could not expect comfort or even a stable home. And to the one who wanted to bury his father before following Jesus, he was told, “Let the dead bury the dead.” That would be bad enough in our day, but in Jesus’ time, obligations of parents to children and children to parents were rigidly applied. A son must bury his father, and to fail to do so would be considered a severe breaking of the law to honor parents. That Jesus would say such a thing would have been heard as completely shocking---so much so, most people would have walked away in anger and disgust. And that really is point: the demands on the followers are so severe that most people turn around and walk away.
Maybe, someone at my seminar suggested, the church is for catching people who walk away from the hard demands of discipleship. The church is easier on us than Jesus is, and then she told us this story about a time she was working at a fairly wealthy Episcopal Church. She had this parishioner whose infection led to sepsis, and she almost died, but after her organs were washed in bleach, she turned the corner and was on the mend. It was then she had a dream, and in her dream, Jesus came to her and said, “You know that soup kitchen your church wants to build by expanding its kitchen, costing nearly one million dollars? I want you to pay for it. You’ve got the money.”
And the woman in her dream was quite shocked, and said to Jesus, “Why are you bothering me with this now? Can’t you see I have been very sick. I almost died.”
“That is no excuse,” said Jesus. You did not die, and so I expect you to do something big. You can make a difference in this case, so do it.
But the church is going to borrow the money, she told Jesus. The church can afford to take out a loan; they will be able to repay it easily
.
That is not the point, Jesus insisted. The point is: I want you to pay for it. You need to pay for it. And so, the woman, who was quite unnerved, called her minister to come to the hospital. And she told her the story.
How do you know it really was Jesus, the minister asked?
Well, she said, I know this was not my idea. I never would have thought this up. I don’t like giving away so much of my money. I am not happy about it.
Then, maybe you should not do it, the minister said. Maybe you will regret it later, after you are out of the hospital and fully recovered.
I probably will regret it, but that is not the point. The point is Jesus told me to do it, and so, I had better listen.
Has Jesus ever told you to do something like this before?
No, never, she said, which is why I believe it was Jesus.
You know, the minister said, when we have been very sick, the mind can play all kinds of games with us. I think you need to wait a while before you do any check writing---just to make sure.
Make sure of what, she asked?
Make sure that you want to do this.
I already told you, I don’t want to do it, but this is what Jesus told me to do, so I am going to listen. What kind of minister are you, anyway? Why are you so suspicious of Jesus?
It’s not Jesus I’m suspicious of; it’s you. I don’t want to deal with you after you decide that you made a big mistake. I don’t want to be accused of squeezing money out of you.
It seems to me, the woman said very sternly, you are using the word I far too much. This is not about you; it is about Jesus and what Jesus wants. Most of the time Jesus is not so clear, but this one time he is, so I am going to listen, and I would think that as a minister you would listen too.
Well, I think I will have to discuss it with the Consistory. They can make the final decision.
And the final decision was to accept the check. But no one on the Consistory was comfortable, and no one really believed that Jesus told her to do it. It is all in her mind, they said; her conscience is speaking to her.
But, someone at the seminar asked, isn’t this how God works? Doesn’t God use our minds, our consciences, and our imaginations? What else does God have to work with?
The trouble is, someone else said, we are all so acclimated to ambiguity and unknowing that we run away from anything that suggests the certainty of God. Yes, much of the time we are uncertain and ambiguous, but there are these times when God does get through, and thank God some people listen, even if the words are tough in tough times.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
June 26, 2022
1 Kings 19: 1-15a
Luke 9: 51-62
Two weeks ago I was at a theology seminar called, “The Word of God,” and one of my colleagues brought up a point that none of us had previously considered. Referring to the Lord’s Prayer, which we all understand to be a model for prayer---after all, Jesus said, “When you pray, pray like this”---she pointed out that nowhere does this prayer include praying for the sick. Jesus healed the sick, but when he gave us the Lord’s Prayer as a model for our praying, he did not include the sick. I find that very strange, she mused.
I never thought about that, someone else said, but I suppose we should not be surprised. We always think that following Jesus is going to make our lives easier, safer, more comfortable, but actually the opposite is true. Jesus is so demanding. And then our discussion turned to a recent scripture lesson---the one about the Gerasene demonic, who after being healed of his horrible malady was not permitted to follow Jesus as he begged to do, but instead was told to return home to the people who had rejected him ---a very difficult assignment, to say the least. Jesus did not give the man a break, though he had spent years, possessed by demons, rejected by his family and community, forced to live among the tombs, where his body was often lacerated on the rocks and his spirit, ripped to shreds by demons or what we today might call epilepsy or some other illness. Jesus did not hesitate to say tough words in tough times.
And in today’s lessons we have more of the same---more difficult assignments, more tough words in tough times. God or Jesus does not let up. First, consider Elijah, who was nothing if not zealous for God. He had been confronting King Ahab and his queen, Jezebel, about their worship of Baal, and in a contest Elijah beat her prophets, who failed to make fire to burn up the offering to Baal. Elijah’s prayer to God brought success, and then Elijah saw to it that Jezebel’s 450 prophets were put to the sword. So, is it any wonder that Jezebel was rip roaring angry and promised to repay Elijah in kind? And so, Elijah ran. Weary to the bone, both physically and spiritually, he pretty much felt he had nothing more to give. He was ready to give up everything, including his life. And there on a mountain top, God walked by---and Elijah met God not in the power of the wind, the earthquake or fire, but in the sound of sheer silence. That’s how it sometimes is in life, isn’t it? We want a word, an answer, a reassurance, and all we get is silence. But notice the silence did not last; maybe Elijah would have preferred the silence to the tough words God spoke, ordering him to Damascus, where he was to anoint two kings and a prophet. No, his work was not yet done. He was not yet allowed to rest. More tough words in what was for Elijah very tough times.
And in our lesson from Luke we meet a tough and exacting Jesus, who also doesn’t let up. Unlike Elijah Jesus does not countenance violence against those who will not receive him, and he sternly castigated his disciples for misunderstanding the call to righteousness. But Jesus made it clear to a would be follower that he could not expect comfort or even a stable home. And to the one who wanted to bury his father before following Jesus, he was told, “Let the dead bury the dead.” That would be bad enough in our day, but in Jesus’ time, obligations of parents to children and children to parents were rigidly applied. A son must bury his father, and to fail to do so would be considered a severe breaking of the law to honor parents. That Jesus would say such a thing would have been heard as completely shocking---so much so, most people would have walked away in anger and disgust. And that really is point: the demands on the followers are so severe that most people turn around and walk away.
Maybe, someone at my seminar suggested, the church is for catching people who walk away from the hard demands of discipleship. The church is easier on us than Jesus is, and then she told us this story about a time she was working at a fairly wealthy Episcopal Church. She had this parishioner whose infection led to sepsis, and she almost died, but after her organs were washed in bleach, she turned the corner and was on the mend. It was then she had a dream, and in her dream, Jesus came to her and said, “You know that soup kitchen your church wants to build by expanding its kitchen, costing nearly one million dollars? I want you to pay for it. You’ve got the money.”
And the woman in her dream was quite shocked, and said to Jesus, “Why are you bothering me with this now? Can’t you see I have been very sick. I almost died.”
“That is no excuse,” said Jesus. You did not die, and so I expect you to do something big. You can make a difference in this case, so do it.
But the church is going to borrow the money, she told Jesus. The church can afford to take out a loan; they will be able to repay it easily
.
That is not the point, Jesus insisted. The point is: I want you to pay for it. You need to pay for it. And so, the woman, who was quite unnerved, called her minister to come to the hospital. And she told her the story.
How do you know it really was Jesus, the minister asked?
Well, she said, I know this was not my idea. I never would have thought this up. I don’t like giving away so much of my money. I am not happy about it.
Then, maybe you should not do it, the minister said. Maybe you will regret it later, after you are out of the hospital and fully recovered.
I probably will regret it, but that is not the point. The point is Jesus told me to do it, and so, I had better listen.
Has Jesus ever told you to do something like this before?
No, never, she said, which is why I believe it was Jesus.
You know, the minister said, when we have been very sick, the mind can play all kinds of games with us. I think you need to wait a while before you do any check writing---just to make sure.
Make sure of what, she asked?
Make sure that you want to do this.
I already told you, I don’t want to do it, but this is what Jesus told me to do, so I am going to listen. What kind of minister are you, anyway? Why are you so suspicious of Jesus?
It’s not Jesus I’m suspicious of; it’s you. I don’t want to deal with you after you decide that you made a big mistake. I don’t want to be accused of squeezing money out of you.
It seems to me, the woman said very sternly, you are using the word I far too much. This is not about you; it is about Jesus and what Jesus wants. Most of the time Jesus is not so clear, but this one time he is, so I am going to listen, and I would think that as a minister you would listen too.
Well, I think I will have to discuss it with the Consistory. They can make the final decision.
And the final decision was to accept the check. But no one on the Consistory was comfortable, and no one really believed that Jesus told her to do it. It is all in her mind, they said; her conscience is speaking to her.
But, someone at the seminar asked, isn’t this how God works? Doesn’t God use our minds, our consciences, and our imaginations? What else does God have to work with?
The trouble is, someone else said, we are all so acclimated to ambiguity and unknowing that we run away from anything that suggests the certainty of God. Yes, much of the time we are uncertain and ambiguous, but there are these times when God does get through, and thank God some people listen, even if the words are tough in tough times.
SUFFERING FOR WHAT?
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
June 12, 2022
Romans 5: 1-5
Last week, Pentecost Sunday, we heard the story from Acts, when the Spirit blew like a mighty wind, bringing understanding to the whole gathered community. We also heard portions of the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ laid out the law of higher righteousness. In Matthew’s gospel to have the Spirit of Christ means living that law---caring for the least of these and renouncing violence and acts of raw power grabbing. In other words, in Matthew’s gospel followers of Christ are recognized through what they do. But when we arrive at Paul’s Letters, the example and teachings of Jesus Christ are not so apparent. Paul never repeats any of our favorite parables, showing what a good life looks like, and he rarely refers to Jesus’ life at all---except his death on the cross. For Paul having the Spirit of Christ is not so much about doing as it is about being; not so much about the outward action in the world, as it is about the inward turning toward Christ in faith and hope. The Spirit gives faith, and faith is supposed to endure the sufferings life brings.
Let’s face it, suffering is a major challenge in life, and quite frankly, it is probably the most serious challenge to the Christian faith, to any faith. People have literally stopped believing in God because they have suffered terrible pain and sorrow, and they wonder how it is that a good and gracious God can permit such sufferings. What has impressed me in my ministry, including work in hospitals, is that people can often endure assaults on their own bodies, but when the same happens to someone they love, especially to a child, that is when the struggle can easily move to another level.
I knew this woman whose 6 year old was dying of leukemia. It was a long, drawn out battle and after he died, she told me what was left inside of her was NOTHING. “It is like a big black hole in me,” she said, “sucking in all the life and light I ever had, leaving nothing but utter and complete darkness. I could feel nothing for anyone, not my husband, not my friends, nothing. God too became nothing to me. While my child was fighting to live, I could pray and even sometimes become angry at God, but once my son died, God too was swallowed up into that giant black hole. My husband and I separated less than a year after Galen died, and then we quickly divorced. We were not angry at each other; we did not blame each other. It was just that there was nothing left. We both became empty shells of what we once had been.”
What would any of us dare to say to her? Who among us would have the nerve to quote this passage from Romans: We boast in our suffering, knowing that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces character and character produces hope and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love had been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit? Perhaps some might think her faith weak, but who has the right to judge another’s faith? She did not think of her faith as weak; she was active in her local Presbyterian Church; she prayed and read the Bible regularly, and she pondered the big questions. She did not expect easy answers, and she did not expect God to repair all the brokenness in the world. Though she hoped and fervently prayed that her son would live, when he died, she told me she did not even blame God for his death. It was just that suddenly God had become a nothing, a shocking irrelevancy.
Now, perhaps in time, even years, she might regain her balance and perhaps she will find God or God find her. We never know how our spiritual lives will change, evolve, and grow. We can go through something harrowing, and then come out on the other side after a very long, dark journey, finding ourselves to be different persons, stronger, more courageous, more faithful. At the time we were going through the experience and even in the aftermath, we could not see one foot ahead of us, but we never know what or how life will teach us, and we never know how God will use our experiences to change us.
When I worked in New Haven, I would often walk across the Green, and sometimes on a lovely day, I would just sit there for a short while. That’s when I met this young man, who had returned from Iraq, a psychological casualty of the war. He and I just struck up a conversation one day, and whenever he saw me, it was obvious he wanted to talk. He told me all about his breakdown, how he had lost his bearings. His three best friends had been killed and then his commanding officer, whom he liked and trusted, stepped on a landmine, also killed. “I broke apart,” he told me. “I was in such bad shape, they me sent home.” But home was not an easy place to be. His father had been an officer in Viet Nam with all kinds of medals and citations for bravery. “My father does not make any allowances for what he thinks is weakness,” he told me, “but then my father makes no room in his life for anything like vulnerability. He pushes it all down deep inside. And maybe that helps him cope. But I am not like my father. I am beginning to understand that my feelings are really not weaknesses at all, but a kind of strength. I have become friendly with this minister at the Unitarian Church, and he and I talk about God a lot. And I am discovering that the less I try to make God conform to my idea of what God should do or be, the more I find God to be a help and comfort to me. I don’t know very much about God, he said, but I don’t have to. I just need God to know me. And somehow, I think God does.
Our passage from Romans got me to thinking about that young man, remembering all our conversations. His suffering had produced endurance, and his endurance produced character and his character produced hope. And his hope did not disappoint him, and he would not give up, no matter how wounded his psyche and soul were. Why was his pain so different from that mother’s? But just as none of us can truly judge another’s faith, we cannot judge another’s pain. But that mother had more than her own pain to bear; she also had her child’s whom she loved and had to watch die, helpless to do anything but wait and watch. Wounds are not all the same, and people bear different wounds differently.
I don’t think this passage from Romans is something we have the right to say to someone else, who is in pain. We can say it to ourselves, but we don’t have enough authority to say it to another. Remember, Paul wrote this letter to the Christian Church in Rome, and writing is not exactly the same thing as saying something to someone’s face, especially someone in great pain. The church in Rome did have its sufferings; there were persecutions and all kinds of misunderstandings and accusations, and I would imagine that sometimes God did seem at a distance. Perhaps there were times God seemed to disappoint. But they endured, as Paul also endured. Just as we too sometimes endure. And our endurance is a kind of victory. We get through it, and though we may look back and wonder how we endured it all, nonetheless, our endurance brought us out to the other side. We can then feel stronger, though at the time of our endurance, we did not recognize anything that looked like strength. Having endured our character is built up and then we can look to hope. And hope that really is hope and remains hope does not disappoint. It is like what that young man said about God: the less he tried to get God to conform to what he thought God should do and be, the more God was a comfort and help to him. And perhaps the same is true of hope. The more we can embrace hope without trying to fill in all the details of what we think hope should deliver, then hope can truly be a comfort and help to us.
None of us escapes suffering, though some suffer more than others, and it is also true that some can use their sufferings in ways that build them up rather than rip them apart and down. Jesus certainly suffered, not only the ignoble indignity of a cruel death on a cross, but he also suffered what he experienced as God’s abandonment. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why, indeed, but at least he called out, My God, my God. There is something in that word that is endurance, an endurance of character and a hope that all manner of things shall finally be made well by a good and gracious God.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
June 12, 2022
Romans 5: 1-5
Last week, Pentecost Sunday, we heard the story from Acts, when the Spirit blew like a mighty wind, bringing understanding to the whole gathered community. We also heard portions of the Sermon on the Mount, where Christ laid out the law of higher righteousness. In Matthew’s gospel to have the Spirit of Christ means living that law---caring for the least of these and renouncing violence and acts of raw power grabbing. In other words, in Matthew’s gospel followers of Christ are recognized through what they do. But when we arrive at Paul’s Letters, the example and teachings of Jesus Christ are not so apparent. Paul never repeats any of our favorite parables, showing what a good life looks like, and he rarely refers to Jesus’ life at all---except his death on the cross. For Paul having the Spirit of Christ is not so much about doing as it is about being; not so much about the outward action in the world, as it is about the inward turning toward Christ in faith and hope. The Spirit gives faith, and faith is supposed to endure the sufferings life brings.
Let’s face it, suffering is a major challenge in life, and quite frankly, it is probably the most serious challenge to the Christian faith, to any faith. People have literally stopped believing in God because they have suffered terrible pain and sorrow, and they wonder how it is that a good and gracious God can permit such sufferings. What has impressed me in my ministry, including work in hospitals, is that people can often endure assaults on their own bodies, but when the same happens to someone they love, especially to a child, that is when the struggle can easily move to another level.
I knew this woman whose 6 year old was dying of leukemia. It was a long, drawn out battle and after he died, she told me what was left inside of her was NOTHING. “It is like a big black hole in me,” she said, “sucking in all the life and light I ever had, leaving nothing but utter and complete darkness. I could feel nothing for anyone, not my husband, not my friends, nothing. God too became nothing to me. While my child was fighting to live, I could pray and even sometimes become angry at God, but once my son died, God too was swallowed up into that giant black hole. My husband and I separated less than a year after Galen died, and then we quickly divorced. We were not angry at each other; we did not blame each other. It was just that there was nothing left. We both became empty shells of what we once had been.”
What would any of us dare to say to her? Who among us would have the nerve to quote this passage from Romans: We boast in our suffering, knowing that suffering produces endurance and endurance produces character and character produces hope and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love had been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit? Perhaps some might think her faith weak, but who has the right to judge another’s faith? She did not think of her faith as weak; she was active in her local Presbyterian Church; she prayed and read the Bible regularly, and she pondered the big questions. She did not expect easy answers, and she did not expect God to repair all the brokenness in the world. Though she hoped and fervently prayed that her son would live, when he died, she told me she did not even blame God for his death. It was just that suddenly God had become a nothing, a shocking irrelevancy.
Now, perhaps in time, even years, she might regain her balance and perhaps she will find God or God find her. We never know how our spiritual lives will change, evolve, and grow. We can go through something harrowing, and then come out on the other side after a very long, dark journey, finding ourselves to be different persons, stronger, more courageous, more faithful. At the time we were going through the experience and even in the aftermath, we could not see one foot ahead of us, but we never know what or how life will teach us, and we never know how God will use our experiences to change us.
When I worked in New Haven, I would often walk across the Green, and sometimes on a lovely day, I would just sit there for a short while. That’s when I met this young man, who had returned from Iraq, a psychological casualty of the war. He and I just struck up a conversation one day, and whenever he saw me, it was obvious he wanted to talk. He told me all about his breakdown, how he had lost his bearings. His three best friends had been killed and then his commanding officer, whom he liked and trusted, stepped on a landmine, also killed. “I broke apart,” he told me. “I was in such bad shape, they me sent home.” But home was not an easy place to be. His father had been an officer in Viet Nam with all kinds of medals and citations for bravery. “My father does not make any allowances for what he thinks is weakness,” he told me, “but then my father makes no room in his life for anything like vulnerability. He pushes it all down deep inside. And maybe that helps him cope. But I am not like my father. I am beginning to understand that my feelings are really not weaknesses at all, but a kind of strength. I have become friendly with this minister at the Unitarian Church, and he and I talk about God a lot. And I am discovering that the less I try to make God conform to my idea of what God should do or be, the more I find God to be a help and comfort to me. I don’t know very much about God, he said, but I don’t have to. I just need God to know me. And somehow, I think God does.
Our passage from Romans got me to thinking about that young man, remembering all our conversations. His suffering had produced endurance, and his endurance produced character and his character produced hope. And his hope did not disappoint him, and he would not give up, no matter how wounded his psyche and soul were. Why was his pain so different from that mother’s? But just as none of us can truly judge another’s faith, we cannot judge another’s pain. But that mother had more than her own pain to bear; she also had her child’s whom she loved and had to watch die, helpless to do anything but wait and watch. Wounds are not all the same, and people bear different wounds differently.
I don’t think this passage from Romans is something we have the right to say to someone else, who is in pain. We can say it to ourselves, but we don’t have enough authority to say it to another. Remember, Paul wrote this letter to the Christian Church in Rome, and writing is not exactly the same thing as saying something to someone’s face, especially someone in great pain. The church in Rome did have its sufferings; there were persecutions and all kinds of misunderstandings and accusations, and I would imagine that sometimes God did seem at a distance. Perhaps there were times God seemed to disappoint. But they endured, as Paul also endured. Just as we too sometimes endure. And our endurance is a kind of victory. We get through it, and though we may look back and wonder how we endured it all, nonetheless, our endurance brought us out to the other side. We can then feel stronger, though at the time of our endurance, we did not recognize anything that looked like strength. Having endured our character is built up and then we can look to hope. And hope that really is hope and remains hope does not disappoint. It is like what that young man said about God: the less he tried to get God to conform to what he thought God should do and be, the more God was a comfort and help to him. And perhaps the same is true of hope. The more we can embrace hope without trying to fill in all the details of what we think hope should deliver, then hope can truly be a comfort and help to us.
None of us escapes suffering, though some suffer more than others, and it is also true that some can use their sufferings in ways that build them up rather than rip them apart and down. Jesus certainly suffered, not only the ignoble indignity of a cruel death on a cross, but he also suffered what he experienced as God’s abandonment. My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why, indeed, but at least he called out, My God, my God. There is something in that word that is endurance, an endurance of character and a hope that all manner of things shall finally be made well by a good and gracious God.
Turning the Other Cheek?
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville,
June 5, 2022
Matthew 5: 38-48
Today is Pentecost Sunday, when we celebrate the coming of the Spirit. You heard the dramatic story in the book of Acts about the Spirit’s arrival, how it blew like a mighty wind, bringing understanding as it descended upon the the gahtered community. But what is this Spirit? We all use this word spirit rather loosely, talking about a spirit of freedom, a spirit of forgiveness, a spirit of inclusion and tolerance, a spirit of understanding and truth. But when Christians refer to Pentecost, the reference is not to a general spirit, but rather to Christ’s Spirit, and in Matthew’s gospel something very specific was meant---- radical care and concern for the poor---the least of these--- and embracing a particular form of non-violence. To have the spirit of Christ mandated that life was to conform to the law of higher righteousness.
Let’s turn to the text and consider what these words actually meant in their original context. Jesus is being very political here, meaning that he understands who has the power, in this case Rome, and how that power is to be answered by people who do not have the same power Rome has. Let’s begin with: “Do not resist one who is evil.” Now the English word resist is a translation of a Greek word, which means literally against an armed rebellion. So the meaning might be better stated: “Do not repay evil by an armed rebellion.” Palestine was under Roman occupation. Twenty years before Jesus walked this earth, there had been an armed rebellion of Galileans against Rome, which resulted in over 2000 crucifixions, lining the roads into and out of Galilean towns. It is not farfetched to think that some of those who heard Jesus preach had friends and relatives who meant that cruel end. So, Jesus is not preaching an unrealistic ethical purity here. He wants his hearers to understand exactly how armed rebellion ends.
Consider the rule: If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other. Pay attention to the word right, because in order to hit someone with an open fist or hand on the right cheek, one must use the left hand. But this was a right handed society; only the most unclean tasks were performed with the left hand. If one wanted to strike a blow with the right hand, one would need to deliver it to the left cheek. But Jesus said the right one. What he is describing is a situation in which someone delivers a slap using the back side of the right hand to the right cheek---the kind of slap a master would deliver to his servant, a father to his son, an officer to someone lower in rank. This is not about a violent fight, but rather an act of humiliation and insult delivered to those considered inferior. So to turn the other cheek, the left one, to a superior who has just humiliated them says “Your slap of humiliation did not work. You are going to have to strike me on the left cheek and to do that you are going to have to use your open right hand or right fist. I am going to force you to acknowledge me as your equal. I will not be humiliated by your back handed slap.
Now for the next example: If someone would sue you and take your coat, let him have your cloak as well. We have an issue here with translation. The word coat is the outer garment, but the word cloak in the Greek usually means the inner garment, the underwear. The situation Jesus is describing is a legal one in which a person has pledged his or her coat as collateral. In Exodus it says, If ever you take your neighbor’s garment in pledge, you shall restore it to him before the sun goes down, for that is their only covering. It would only be the very poor who would have nothing but their coat to offer as collateral. Jesus is describing a situation in which a poor person has been hauled into court, because he cannot repay the loan to get his coat back. So Jesus counsels him to give away his underwear and stand there naked. But nakedness was strickly taboo in ancient Israel, and the shame and the curse fell not upon the naked one but upon the person viewing the nakedness. This goes back to the Old Testament story when one of Noah’s sons saw him naked when Noah was drunk. Noah then cursed his son for beholding his nakedness. So by stripping off the inner garments in court, the debtor brings the creditor into the same situation that brought down a curse upon Noah’s son. The system is unmasked as one worthy of cursing.
Now for the last example. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him 2 miles. Again, this is a very specific situation, drawn from the practice of limiting the amount of forced labor a Roman soldier could compel a subject citizen to carry his heavy pack, usually weighing between 65 and 85 pounds. A soldier could insist that someone carry his pack one mile. Indeed, there were markers along the roadside designating the allowable distance. To force a subject to go beyond the mile imposed fines on the soldier. And yet here Jesus is counseling the offer of another mile. What would a soldier think if another mile were offered? Are you insulting my strength? Are you trying to get me into trouble? So, the initiative has been taken by the oppressed, and the oppressor is put on the defensive.
So what does all this mean for us today? Obviously, our world has changed, and mainline Protestants are neither fundamentalists nor originalists, who would deny that the meaning changes over time. We do not live in Jesus’ time and place, which means that we are burdened with the task of figuring out for ourselves what it might mean for us to have the spirit of Christ. What kind of lives are we to live? How are we to make choices? What is wrong and what is right? People often want definite answers, insisting on simplicity in what is a very complicated world. And yet that complicated world is the one in which God meets us and speaks to us. And it is God who must reckon with the fact that all God’s people neither hear nor understand in the same way. And if God must reckon with that difference then so must we.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville,
June 5, 2022
Matthew 5: 38-48
Today is Pentecost Sunday, when we celebrate the coming of the Spirit. You heard the dramatic story in the book of Acts about the Spirit’s arrival, how it blew like a mighty wind, bringing understanding as it descended upon the the gahtered community. But what is this Spirit? We all use this word spirit rather loosely, talking about a spirit of freedom, a spirit of forgiveness, a spirit of inclusion and tolerance, a spirit of understanding and truth. But when Christians refer to Pentecost, the reference is not to a general spirit, but rather to Christ’s Spirit, and in Matthew’s gospel something very specific was meant---- radical care and concern for the poor---the least of these--- and embracing a particular form of non-violence. To have the spirit of Christ mandated that life was to conform to the law of higher righteousness.
Let’s turn to the text and consider what these words actually meant in their original context. Jesus is being very political here, meaning that he understands who has the power, in this case Rome, and how that power is to be answered by people who do not have the same power Rome has. Let’s begin with: “Do not resist one who is evil.” Now the English word resist is a translation of a Greek word, which means literally against an armed rebellion. So the meaning might be better stated: “Do not repay evil by an armed rebellion.” Palestine was under Roman occupation. Twenty years before Jesus walked this earth, there had been an armed rebellion of Galileans against Rome, which resulted in over 2000 crucifixions, lining the roads into and out of Galilean towns. It is not farfetched to think that some of those who heard Jesus preach had friends and relatives who meant that cruel end. So, Jesus is not preaching an unrealistic ethical purity here. He wants his hearers to understand exactly how armed rebellion ends.
Consider the rule: If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other. Pay attention to the word right, because in order to hit someone with an open fist or hand on the right cheek, one must use the left hand. But this was a right handed society; only the most unclean tasks were performed with the left hand. If one wanted to strike a blow with the right hand, one would need to deliver it to the left cheek. But Jesus said the right one. What he is describing is a situation in which someone delivers a slap using the back side of the right hand to the right cheek---the kind of slap a master would deliver to his servant, a father to his son, an officer to someone lower in rank. This is not about a violent fight, but rather an act of humiliation and insult delivered to those considered inferior. So to turn the other cheek, the left one, to a superior who has just humiliated them says “Your slap of humiliation did not work. You are going to have to strike me on the left cheek and to do that you are going to have to use your open right hand or right fist. I am going to force you to acknowledge me as your equal. I will not be humiliated by your back handed slap.
Now for the next example: If someone would sue you and take your coat, let him have your cloak as well. We have an issue here with translation. The word coat is the outer garment, but the word cloak in the Greek usually means the inner garment, the underwear. The situation Jesus is describing is a legal one in which a person has pledged his or her coat as collateral. In Exodus it says, If ever you take your neighbor’s garment in pledge, you shall restore it to him before the sun goes down, for that is their only covering. It would only be the very poor who would have nothing but their coat to offer as collateral. Jesus is describing a situation in which a poor person has been hauled into court, because he cannot repay the loan to get his coat back. So Jesus counsels him to give away his underwear and stand there naked. But nakedness was strickly taboo in ancient Israel, and the shame and the curse fell not upon the naked one but upon the person viewing the nakedness. This goes back to the Old Testament story when one of Noah’s sons saw him naked when Noah was drunk. Noah then cursed his son for beholding his nakedness. So by stripping off the inner garments in court, the debtor brings the creditor into the same situation that brought down a curse upon Noah’s son. The system is unmasked as one worthy of cursing.
Now for the last example. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him 2 miles. Again, this is a very specific situation, drawn from the practice of limiting the amount of forced labor a Roman soldier could compel a subject citizen to carry his heavy pack, usually weighing between 65 and 85 pounds. A soldier could insist that someone carry his pack one mile. Indeed, there were markers along the roadside designating the allowable distance. To force a subject to go beyond the mile imposed fines on the soldier. And yet here Jesus is counseling the offer of another mile. What would a soldier think if another mile were offered? Are you insulting my strength? Are you trying to get me into trouble? So, the initiative has been taken by the oppressed, and the oppressor is put on the defensive.
So what does all this mean for us today? Obviously, our world has changed, and mainline Protestants are neither fundamentalists nor originalists, who would deny that the meaning changes over time. We do not live in Jesus’ time and place, which means that we are burdened with the task of figuring out for ourselves what it might mean for us to have the spirit of Christ. What kind of lives are we to live? How are we to make choices? What is wrong and what is right? People often want definite answers, insisting on simplicity in what is a very complicated world. And yet that complicated world is the one in which God meets us and speaks to us. And it is God who must reckon with the fact that all God’s people neither hear nor understand in the same way. And if God must reckon with that difference then so must we.
June 9, 2022
In 1958 the young, tall, lanky, and brilliant pianist from Texas named Van Cliburn won the Tchaikovsky Piano Competition in Moscow, perhaps the most renown and competitive piano competition in the entire world. This was in the midst of the Cold War, and the story goes (perhaps apocryphal) that the judges actually called Nikita Khrushchev to determine what they should do. Apparently, the Russians did not relish the idea of giving victory to an American. The question was simple: Is he the best? And when the answer came back in the affirmative, Van Cliburn was named the winner. It was viewed as a victory for the world and for the arts. Power politics would not have the final say.
The challenge continues. In an auditorium at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth another competition is underway: The Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, one of the most prestigious competitions in classical music. It too has defied power politics by refusing to bend to the pressure of banning Russian musicians. Among the contestants are six Russians, two from Belarus and one from the Ukraine. The Russian pianists are far from comfortable, and some of them have stated their opposition to the war in Ukraine. Many of them live outside of Russia, and one simply said, “I am trying to stay focused on the music.” Another woman said she believes it is her duty as an artist to show solidarity with Ukraine. Another Russian pianist said he thought it was important for the Russian artists to be present at the competition to show there is another side to Russia beside the aggression of Putin. One pianist said that while he felt distant from contemporary Russian culture, yet he does feel a connection to Russia through its great music. This person will begin graduate study at the Yale School of Music in the fall.
We can imagine that it is hardly easy to be Russian in these circumstances. Many organizations have cut ties with Russian artists and athletes. Some people, in fact, have been very critical of the Van Cliburn’s refusal to play politics. The war is viewed as immoral by most countries, and there are many people who feel that only the complete isolation of Russia, including its artists, will send the correct message. And yet how does banning a talented 23 year old pianist, who has worked hard his whole young life to perfect his art and has no political power over the course of the war, help Ukraine and the world to become a more peaceful place? Such a question is hardly trivial. And it is not trivial that the pianists from Russia, Belarus and the one Ukrainian sat together, speaking in Russia about the interpretation of music, various teachers, and the feel of the onstage piano.
Some will argue that the arts play a healing role in the world. Beauty is something that brings people together and the recognition of great talent, no matter the country of origin, draws people together in a way that few other events do. The great Russian writer, Dostoevsky, once remarked, “Beauty will save the world,” and so it can seem foolish and short sighted to refuse to seat those who can make people weep over the exquisite rendition of a piece of music. Furthermore, in this case, the one Ukrainian pianist has no problem with the presence of the Russians and has gone out of his way to be encouraging. But the competition has also made it clear that it will tolerate no pro-war statements from any of the players. If such positions are declared, the threat is immediate expulsion from the competition.
There is no doubt, however, that the war does play a role. The chair of the Jury, Marin Alsop, who is also a renown conductor, says you can feel the tension and the intense emotion. “Perhaps it is projection” he admits, “but I do not think so.” The sole Ukrainian pianist, Dmytro Choni, from Kyiv, said he believes that in dark times music can serve as a therapy. “The goal of music is to unite people, to give relief from what is going on in the world. Music can be a cure, a treatment. It has always been like this, but maybe in these times it is especially relevant.” May it be so.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
In 1958 the young, tall, lanky, and brilliant pianist from Texas named Van Cliburn won the Tchaikovsky Piano Competition in Moscow, perhaps the most renown and competitive piano competition in the entire world. This was in the midst of the Cold War, and the story goes (perhaps apocryphal) that the judges actually called Nikita Khrushchev to determine what they should do. Apparently, the Russians did not relish the idea of giving victory to an American. The question was simple: Is he the best? And when the answer came back in the affirmative, Van Cliburn was named the winner. It was viewed as a victory for the world and for the arts. Power politics would not have the final say.
The challenge continues. In an auditorium at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth another competition is underway: The Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, one of the most prestigious competitions in classical music. It too has defied power politics by refusing to bend to the pressure of banning Russian musicians. Among the contestants are six Russians, two from Belarus and one from the Ukraine. The Russian pianists are far from comfortable, and some of them have stated their opposition to the war in Ukraine. Many of them live outside of Russia, and one simply said, “I am trying to stay focused on the music.” Another woman said she believes it is her duty as an artist to show solidarity with Ukraine. Another Russian pianist said he thought it was important for the Russian artists to be present at the competition to show there is another side to Russia beside the aggression of Putin. One pianist said that while he felt distant from contemporary Russian culture, yet he does feel a connection to Russia through its great music. This person will begin graduate study at the Yale School of Music in the fall.
We can imagine that it is hardly easy to be Russian in these circumstances. Many organizations have cut ties with Russian artists and athletes. Some people, in fact, have been very critical of the Van Cliburn’s refusal to play politics. The war is viewed as immoral by most countries, and there are many people who feel that only the complete isolation of Russia, including its artists, will send the correct message. And yet how does banning a talented 23 year old pianist, who has worked hard his whole young life to perfect his art and has no political power over the course of the war, help Ukraine and the world to become a more peaceful place? Such a question is hardly trivial. And it is not trivial that the pianists from Russia, Belarus and the one Ukrainian sat together, speaking in Russia about the interpretation of music, various teachers, and the feel of the onstage piano.
Some will argue that the arts play a healing role in the world. Beauty is something that brings people together and the recognition of great talent, no matter the country of origin, draws people together in a way that few other events do. The great Russian writer, Dostoevsky, once remarked, “Beauty will save the world,” and so it can seem foolish and short sighted to refuse to seat those who can make people weep over the exquisite rendition of a piece of music. Furthermore, in this case, the one Ukrainian pianist has no problem with the presence of the Russians and has gone out of his way to be encouraging. But the competition has also made it clear that it will tolerate no pro-war statements from any of the players. If such positions are declared, the threat is immediate expulsion from the competition.
There is no doubt, however, that the war does play a role. The chair of the Jury, Marin Alsop, who is also a renown conductor, says you can feel the tension and the intense emotion. “Perhaps it is projection” he admits, “but I do not think so.” The sole Ukrainian pianist, Dmytro Choni, from Kyiv, said he believes that in dark times music can serve as a therapy. “The goal of music is to unite people, to give relief from what is going on in the world. Music can be a cure, a treatment. It has always been like this, but maybe in these times it is especially relevant.” May it be so.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
June 2, 2022
Dear Friends,
Lucy Harper is on a mission. In fact, she has been on a mission for at least seven years as she tries to encourage Americans to think about their country in a different way. Distressed over the deep divisions in cultural and political issues, she has been traveling across the nation, teaching classes and leading workshops telling people, “America is not a political prize to be fought over, but an idea to be fought for.” Her success, she admits, is not overly impressive.
In 2015 she became part of the American Network, an organization whose goal is to create groups or networks of Americans, who work to help their communities look at the nation “through the lens of values.” Everyone, she says, knows about “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” enshrined in the Declaration of Independence, but the values of the United States really come down to balance: freedom and equality, law and ethics, common wealth and private wealth, unity and diversity. All these different values, which sometimes do conflict, must be balanced, she maintains. And it the balance, even the desire for balance that is the problem today. People no longer want to work toward balance.
She and her husband have been teaching a course on The American Vision at The University of Miami’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. Yet she has noticed that there are current events courses being taught, some from a liberal and others from a conservative perspective. The ideological splits are so deep, she maintains, that different courses are taught to avoid the nasty interactions that result when people bring their ideological bent to class. She finds this deeply discouraging and dangerous. So now she is trying another approach---though the medium of a play. Some of the nation’s most renown thinkers, like Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Elizabeth Cady Stanton share the stage as they debate what makes America what it is or wants to be. She does not know what the impact will be. The play opens this weekend at Principia College in Elsah, Illinois, and it will move on to the University of California at Berkley in the fall. Her hope is that the play will spark thought and debate among people, whose minds can change when they meet IDEAS, different from their own. We have arrived at a point, she claims, where we only want to talk with people, who think as we do. But that kind of insular thinking is bringing us to the brink of disaster. We must find a new way to open ourselves to a wider realm of thinking and feeling. The world, after all, is a big place, and it is hard to appreciate the bigness if we are so committed to our own little place in the world.
I wonder what Jesus would have thought of this approach. He certainly never traveled very far from his home, perhaps not more than 70 miles or so, and he probably tended to stay within the Jewish community, though there is little doubt that his interaction with gentiles, made an impact, forcing him beyond the world he knew so well. He became a reformer of Jewish law, believing that the law of higher righteousness or love was more important for the flourishing of life than following the strict letter of the law. From where did that idea come? I imagine Jesus as a master of conversation, both listening to others as he also thought and taught. Perhaps in conversing with so many different people, he began to see a new approach to law and to life. Talking and listening, listening, and talking. We all could do a bit more of both, and we could do it with the blessings of God in Jesus Christ.
Blessings always,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Lucy Harper is on a mission. In fact, she has been on a mission for at least seven years as she tries to encourage Americans to think about their country in a different way. Distressed over the deep divisions in cultural and political issues, she has been traveling across the nation, teaching classes and leading workshops telling people, “America is not a political prize to be fought over, but an idea to be fought for.” Her success, she admits, is not overly impressive.
In 2015 she became part of the American Network, an organization whose goal is to create groups or networks of Americans, who work to help their communities look at the nation “through the lens of values.” Everyone, she says, knows about “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” enshrined in the Declaration of Independence, but the values of the United States really come down to balance: freedom and equality, law and ethics, common wealth and private wealth, unity and diversity. All these different values, which sometimes do conflict, must be balanced, she maintains. And it the balance, even the desire for balance that is the problem today. People no longer want to work toward balance.
She and her husband have been teaching a course on The American Vision at The University of Miami’s Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. Yet she has noticed that there are current events courses being taught, some from a liberal and others from a conservative perspective. The ideological splits are so deep, she maintains, that different courses are taught to avoid the nasty interactions that result when people bring their ideological bent to class. She finds this deeply discouraging and dangerous. So now she is trying another approach---though the medium of a play. Some of the nation’s most renown thinkers, like Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Elizabeth Cady Stanton share the stage as they debate what makes America what it is or wants to be. She does not know what the impact will be. The play opens this weekend at Principia College in Elsah, Illinois, and it will move on to the University of California at Berkley in the fall. Her hope is that the play will spark thought and debate among people, whose minds can change when they meet IDEAS, different from their own. We have arrived at a point, she claims, where we only want to talk with people, who think as we do. But that kind of insular thinking is bringing us to the brink of disaster. We must find a new way to open ourselves to a wider realm of thinking and feeling. The world, after all, is a big place, and it is hard to appreciate the bigness if we are so committed to our own little place in the world.
I wonder what Jesus would have thought of this approach. He certainly never traveled very far from his home, perhaps not more than 70 miles or so, and he probably tended to stay within the Jewish community, though there is little doubt that his interaction with gentiles, made an impact, forcing him beyond the world he knew so well. He became a reformer of Jewish law, believing that the law of higher righteousness or love was more important for the flourishing of life than following the strict letter of the law. From where did that idea come? I imagine Jesus as a master of conversation, both listening to others as he also thought and taught. Perhaps in conversing with so many different people, he began to see a new approach to law and to life. Talking and listening, listening, and talking. We all could do a bit more of both, and we could do it with the blessings of God in Jesus Christ.
Blessings always,
Sandra
THREE WAR STORIES
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
Memorial Day Week-end, May 29, 2022
Exodus 21: 12-27
Matthew 5: 17-26
When I was a freshman in college, the required Humanities course included a number of classics on the subject of war: Herodotus, The History of the Persian Wars, Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolution and the great Russian novel, War and Peace by Tolstoy. Now this was in the midst of the Viet Nam War, and I can tell you we were not pleased with reading about war. When the regular professor was suddenly taken ill, we had this gentle, wise, retired professor. He understood the anger of the college students regarding Viet Nam, but he began the class by telling us a story from World War I, when the Germans set fire to the famous library in Louvain, Belgium.
When the President of the Library attempted to speak of the loss---irreplaceable ancient manuscripts and scrolls, he stuttered out the words, La Bibliotheque, French for library, but he could not go on. He broke down weeping. “I want you,” the professor told us, “to understand the depth of his grief, the loss of knowledge that could never be regained. You will have here the opportunity to read great thoughts and ideas, and the love of knowledge and the love of learning are civilizing forces that can fight against the barbarity of war. And something else, you will read this in Herodotus: As brutal as war is, sometimes war also shows forth great virtues: courage, compassion, self sacrifice, the grief of lost love. And virtue is part of what your education is about.”
Today I am going to tell you three brief stories of war, all from different wars, with different perspectives. And as you hear these true tales, put them in dialogue with what you heard from the Jewish law as well as from the gospel of Jesus Christ.
There was nothing in the background of Joshua Chamberlain that would have suggested he would become a great warrior. A professor at Bowdoin College in Maine, he taught rhetoric, natural theology, and languages. When the Civil War came, this husband and a father of four, age 33, enlisted in the Union Army, much to the grief of his wife, Fanny, whom he adored. Appalled at the secession of the southern states and morally opposed to slavery, in 1862 he entered the Union Army as a lieutenant colonel and three years later left the army as a General. Chamberlain commanded the 20th Maine, and on July 3,1863 Chamberlain and his men found themselves on a long escarpment called Cemetery Ridge facing the Confederate Army. This was the Battle of Gettysburg.
It was absolutely vital, General Meade told him, to hold your line at all costs, for if Lee could overwhelm the Union forces here, he would have a gateway into Washington, DC, and a victory which might convince England and France to support the Confederacy. Chamberlain received a chilling order from Meade that morning: “Any man who does not do his duty should be immediately executed.” But instilling fear was not Chamberlain’s method. He led by courageous example, fighting in the very heat of battle at the head of the battle lines. Finally, at one point, when the ammunition was almost gone and defeat seemed imminent, Chamberlain yelled out one word, Bayonet as he pulled out his and led the charge. The word caught like fire and swept along the ranks. The men charged ahead in a rage, following their leader, and the Confederates turned around and ran.
There would be other battles and other examples of Chamberlain’s great bravery, and his uncanny ability to cheat death many times over, but he is also remembered for a different kind of noble bravery. When General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox, the Confederates were starving, and the Union Army fed them. Three days later, Grant asked Chamberlain to command the ceremony in which the Confederate Army would formally surrender. Chamberlain described Lee as “a commanding form, superbly mounted, richly accoutered, of imposing bearing and noble countenance with an expression of deep sadness overmastered by deep strength.” When Chamberlain witnessed the downcast ranks of the defeated Confederate Army, he resolved to mark these defeated warriors by an act of respect, welcoming them back into the Union. Chamberlain ordered his buglers to sound and his soldiers to raise their weapons in a traditional salute. And Lee, shocked at this show of deep respect, then ordered his troops to return the same. There would be no exchange of hatred that day between the soldiers. “We are all on one side now,” Chamberlain said with hope in his heart.
Vera Brittain was studying at Oxford University, when, in 1915 she enlisted as a nurse in England’s armed services. Before the end of the war, she would serve in London, Malta and close to the Western Front in France. She lost all the men she loved to the war, including her fiancé, Roland Leighton, her brother, Edward and two very close friends. Vera was waiting for her fiancé to return on leave on Christmas, 1915, when the day after Christmas the phone rang. Running to receive the call, which she surely thought must be from Roland, she learned instead that he had died on December 23, 1915. He was shot while going to repair the barbed wire fencing in No Man’s Land.
Vera wrote in her book, Testament of Youth, “I would whisper like a maniac to the somber, indifferent light, “Oh, my love, so proud, so confident, so contemptuous of humiliation, you, who were meant to lead a forlorn hope, to fall in a great fight---just to be shot like a rat in the dark as you go to repair a fence. Why did you go so boldly and heedlessly into No Man’s Land, when you knew that your leave was so near? Dearest, why did you? Why did you?
And hardest of all for her to bear was the silence. He had left, she wrote, no message for those of us who loved him. He had gone down to the grave consciously indifferent to all of us who loved him so much. All throughout the first months of 1916, my letters and diaries emphasize again and again the grief of having no word to cherish through the long empty years. I waited and waited for the hope of a message, and though I had heard from his colonel, his company commander, a Catholic priest and was even visited by an officer, who wanted to help me, I learned all there was to learn about his death, including that at the end I had been quite forgotten. And so Vera lived with a grief that she transmuted into work for peace as well as a book, both a memoir and an elegy for the generation who came of age on the eve of the war and then vanished in its trenches.
Nicholas Winton came from a wealthy Jewish family, who had immigrated to England from Germany in the late 1800’s. By 1938 Nicholas was a successful stockbroker about to go to Switzerland on a vacation with a friend. But his friend called and told him he was in Prague helping refugees, who were trying to flee Hitler. Nicholas arrived in Prague on New Year’s Eve, 1938, and was shocked at what he witnessed: freezing refugee camps, filled with desperate people. Many were convinced that soon Hitler would arrive in Czechoslovakia, and then what would they do? How would they escape? Nicholas Winton then took a particular interest in a certain kind of refugee: those adults who were willing to stay but were trying to get their children out of the country. He set up an office in Prague and asked his mother to do the same in London. What do we need to do to get these children to safety in England? That was his mission.
He returned to London in January, 1939 with hundreds of photos and details of children. Though he continued to work as a stockbroker during the day, every evening he worked on his rescue plan. The Home Office in London had previously said it would accept unaccompanied Jewish children from Germany and Austria, but now it agreed to include Czechoslovakia. The bar was set high; he had to find families who would accept the children and also 50 pounds per child, today worth about $3500. Though many donated, he would also use his own money to fill in the many gaps. His first transport left Prague on March 14, 1939. There were two in April, one in May, one in June, two in July, and one in August. The journey ended at London’s Liverpool Street Station. As the children alighted from the train, they sat on benches on one side of a curtain and the new parents on the other side. As each name was called out, the children went through an opening in the curtain and were welcomed by the new parents on the other side. On September 1,1939 Nicholas Winton had scheduled his largest transport, but this was the day Germany invaded Poland, and the Second World War began. Almost all of them died in concentration camps.
No one would have ever known about Nicholas Winton, but his wife found a scrapbook, assembled by one of Nicholas’ assistants, and wanted to know who all these children were, and so Nicholas told her the story. The story made it to the newspapers and then on a BBC Program called, That’s Life. Winton was invited to the program, but he did not know that some of the grown up children he had saved were also there. The woman sitting next to Nicholas introduced herself as Vera Diamont, who came to London on a train from Prague in 1939. When the program’s host asked if there were any others present who made a similar trip, dozens stood up. Nicholas Winton, normally so reserved, broke down in tears. There were over 6000 people alive at that time in 1989 who were descendants of the 668 people he had saved. Among the saved were at least three Nobel Laureates. Nicholas Winton died in 2015 at the age of 106, cared for toward the end of his life by Vera Diamont, one of the people he saved.
War is indeed a terrible thing, brutal and ugly. But I think that old retired professor, who taught some humanities classes to me now over 50 years ago, knew of what he spoke. Sometimes in the worst of times virtue does assert itself and make itself known. And I think Jesus, as much as he was opposed to violence, would agree. He was, after all, a keen observer of the human condition, and he knew that sometimes out of the depths something great can emerge---great courage, great grief, great compassion.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT
Memorial Day Week-end, May 29, 2022
Exodus 21: 12-27
Matthew 5: 17-26
When I was a freshman in college, the required Humanities course included a number of classics on the subject of war: Herodotus, The History of the Persian Wars, Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War, Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolution and the great Russian novel, War and Peace by Tolstoy. Now this was in the midst of the Viet Nam War, and I can tell you we were not pleased with reading about war. When the regular professor was suddenly taken ill, we had this gentle, wise, retired professor. He understood the anger of the college students regarding Viet Nam, but he began the class by telling us a story from World War I, when the Germans set fire to the famous library in Louvain, Belgium.
When the President of the Library attempted to speak of the loss---irreplaceable ancient manuscripts and scrolls, he stuttered out the words, La Bibliotheque, French for library, but he could not go on. He broke down weeping. “I want you,” the professor told us, “to understand the depth of his grief, the loss of knowledge that could never be regained. You will have here the opportunity to read great thoughts and ideas, and the love of knowledge and the love of learning are civilizing forces that can fight against the barbarity of war. And something else, you will read this in Herodotus: As brutal as war is, sometimes war also shows forth great virtues: courage, compassion, self sacrifice, the grief of lost love. And virtue is part of what your education is about.”
Today I am going to tell you three brief stories of war, all from different wars, with different perspectives. And as you hear these true tales, put them in dialogue with what you heard from the Jewish law as well as from the gospel of Jesus Christ.
There was nothing in the background of Joshua Chamberlain that would have suggested he would become a great warrior. A professor at Bowdoin College in Maine, he taught rhetoric, natural theology, and languages. When the Civil War came, this husband and a father of four, age 33, enlisted in the Union Army, much to the grief of his wife, Fanny, whom he adored. Appalled at the secession of the southern states and morally opposed to slavery, in 1862 he entered the Union Army as a lieutenant colonel and three years later left the army as a General. Chamberlain commanded the 20th Maine, and on July 3,1863 Chamberlain and his men found themselves on a long escarpment called Cemetery Ridge facing the Confederate Army. This was the Battle of Gettysburg.
It was absolutely vital, General Meade told him, to hold your line at all costs, for if Lee could overwhelm the Union forces here, he would have a gateway into Washington, DC, and a victory which might convince England and France to support the Confederacy. Chamberlain received a chilling order from Meade that morning: “Any man who does not do his duty should be immediately executed.” But instilling fear was not Chamberlain’s method. He led by courageous example, fighting in the very heat of battle at the head of the battle lines. Finally, at one point, when the ammunition was almost gone and defeat seemed imminent, Chamberlain yelled out one word, Bayonet as he pulled out his and led the charge. The word caught like fire and swept along the ranks. The men charged ahead in a rage, following their leader, and the Confederates turned around and ran.
There would be other battles and other examples of Chamberlain’s great bravery, and his uncanny ability to cheat death many times over, but he is also remembered for a different kind of noble bravery. When General Lee surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox, the Confederates were starving, and the Union Army fed them. Three days later, Grant asked Chamberlain to command the ceremony in which the Confederate Army would formally surrender. Chamberlain described Lee as “a commanding form, superbly mounted, richly accoutered, of imposing bearing and noble countenance with an expression of deep sadness overmastered by deep strength.” When Chamberlain witnessed the downcast ranks of the defeated Confederate Army, he resolved to mark these defeated warriors by an act of respect, welcoming them back into the Union. Chamberlain ordered his buglers to sound and his soldiers to raise their weapons in a traditional salute. And Lee, shocked at this show of deep respect, then ordered his troops to return the same. There would be no exchange of hatred that day between the soldiers. “We are all on one side now,” Chamberlain said with hope in his heart.
Vera Brittain was studying at Oxford University, when, in 1915 she enlisted as a nurse in England’s armed services. Before the end of the war, she would serve in London, Malta and close to the Western Front in France. She lost all the men she loved to the war, including her fiancé, Roland Leighton, her brother, Edward and two very close friends. Vera was waiting for her fiancé to return on leave on Christmas, 1915, when the day after Christmas the phone rang. Running to receive the call, which she surely thought must be from Roland, she learned instead that he had died on December 23, 1915. He was shot while going to repair the barbed wire fencing in No Man’s Land.
Vera wrote in her book, Testament of Youth, “I would whisper like a maniac to the somber, indifferent light, “Oh, my love, so proud, so confident, so contemptuous of humiliation, you, who were meant to lead a forlorn hope, to fall in a great fight---just to be shot like a rat in the dark as you go to repair a fence. Why did you go so boldly and heedlessly into No Man’s Land, when you knew that your leave was so near? Dearest, why did you? Why did you?
And hardest of all for her to bear was the silence. He had left, she wrote, no message for those of us who loved him. He had gone down to the grave consciously indifferent to all of us who loved him so much. All throughout the first months of 1916, my letters and diaries emphasize again and again the grief of having no word to cherish through the long empty years. I waited and waited for the hope of a message, and though I had heard from his colonel, his company commander, a Catholic priest and was even visited by an officer, who wanted to help me, I learned all there was to learn about his death, including that at the end I had been quite forgotten. And so Vera lived with a grief that she transmuted into work for peace as well as a book, both a memoir and an elegy for the generation who came of age on the eve of the war and then vanished in its trenches.
Nicholas Winton came from a wealthy Jewish family, who had immigrated to England from Germany in the late 1800’s. By 1938 Nicholas was a successful stockbroker about to go to Switzerland on a vacation with a friend. But his friend called and told him he was in Prague helping refugees, who were trying to flee Hitler. Nicholas arrived in Prague on New Year’s Eve, 1938, and was shocked at what he witnessed: freezing refugee camps, filled with desperate people. Many were convinced that soon Hitler would arrive in Czechoslovakia, and then what would they do? How would they escape? Nicholas Winton then took a particular interest in a certain kind of refugee: those adults who were willing to stay but were trying to get their children out of the country. He set up an office in Prague and asked his mother to do the same in London. What do we need to do to get these children to safety in England? That was his mission.
He returned to London in January, 1939 with hundreds of photos and details of children. Though he continued to work as a stockbroker during the day, every evening he worked on his rescue plan. The Home Office in London had previously said it would accept unaccompanied Jewish children from Germany and Austria, but now it agreed to include Czechoslovakia. The bar was set high; he had to find families who would accept the children and also 50 pounds per child, today worth about $3500. Though many donated, he would also use his own money to fill in the many gaps. His first transport left Prague on March 14, 1939. There were two in April, one in May, one in June, two in July, and one in August. The journey ended at London’s Liverpool Street Station. As the children alighted from the train, they sat on benches on one side of a curtain and the new parents on the other side. As each name was called out, the children went through an opening in the curtain and were welcomed by the new parents on the other side. On September 1,1939 Nicholas Winton had scheduled his largest transport, but this was the day Germany invaded Poland, and the Second World War began. Almost all of them died in concentration camps.
No one would have ever known about Nicholas Winton, but his wife found a scrapbook, assembled by one of Nicholas’ assistants, and wanted to know who all these children were, and so Nicholas told her the story. The story made it to the newspapers and then on a BBC Program called, That’s Life. Winton was invited to the program, but he did not know that some of the grown up children he had saved were also there. The woman sitting next to Nicholas introduced herself as Vera Diamont, who came to London on a train from Prague in 1939. When the program’s host asked if there were any others present who made a similar trip, dozens stood up. Nicholas Winton, normally so reserved, broke down in tears. There were over 6000 people alive at that time in 1989 who were descendants of the 668 people he had saved. Among the saved were at least three Nobel Laureates. Nicholas Winton died in 2015 at the age of 106, cared for toward the end of his life by Vera Diamont, one of the people he saved.
War is indeed a terrible thing, brutal and ugly. But I think that old retired professor, who taught some humanities classes to me now over 50 years ago, knew of what he spoke. Sometimes in the worst of times virtue does assert itself and make itself known. And I think Jesus, as much as he was opposed to violence, would agree. He was, after all, a keen observer of the human condition, and he knew that sometimes out of the depths something great can emerge---great courage, great grief, great compassion.
May 26, 2022
Dear Friends,
What can any of us say about the terrible slaughter of 21 people in a Texas elementary school in Texas? Words fail us as our hearts break. Sometimes silence is the best response, yet we might also be moved to prayer. Here is a prayer written by Maren Tirabassi, a retired UCC minister and poet. Read it and use it as you are able.
God, rock the weeping parents
of Uvalde, Texas
in your tender arms.
Ease the fear and pain of brothers and sisters,
and sit beside them in nightmares.
Companion where comforting fails,
and hold those who grieve Eva Mireles,
and the other adult who died.
Ease the hearts of emergency responders,
of medical teams working now,
with the families of the injured.
Give calm moments
in the tornado of loss, guilt, confusion,
of family, friends, work mates
of Salvador Ramos,
and especially those
who know his grandmother.
Be with teachers and counselors
of the Robb Elementary School
as school ends abruptly
to recognize trauma
among survivors this month
and for years to come,
and bring counselors to the counselors
who will hold this in their hearts,
and teach us all the things
that make for peace.
Holy One, who calls – Woe
upon all who put a stone for stumbling
before any child, have mercy on us
if we do not remove weapons
from the hands of children,
and from the schools of children.
amen.
Written by Maren Tirabassi
Dear Friends,
What can any of us say about the terrible slaughter of 21 people in a Texas elementary school in Texas? Words fail us as our hearts break. Sometimes silence is the best response, yet we might also be moved to prayer. Here is a prayer written by Maren Tirabassi, a retired UCC minister and poet. Read it and use it as you are able.
God, rock the weeping parents
of Uvalde, Texas
in your tender arms.
Ease the fear and pain of brothers and sisters,
and sit beside them in nightmares.
Companion where comforting fails,
and hold those who grieve Eva Mireles,
and the other adult who died.
Ease the hearts of emergency responders,
of medical teams working now,
with the families of the injured.
Give calm moments
in the tornado of loss, guilt, confusion,
of family, friends, work mates
of Salvador Ramos,
and especially those
who know his grandmother.
Be with teachers and counselors
of the Robb Elementary School
as school ends abruptly
to recognize trauma
among survivors this month
and for years to come,
and bring counselors to the counselors
who will hold this in their hearts,
and teach us all the things
that make for peace.
Holy One, who calls – Woe
upon all who put a stone for stumbling
before any child, have mercy on us
if we do not remove weapons
from the hands of children,
and from the schools of children.
amen.
Written by Maren Tirabassi
May 18, 2022
Dear Friends,
There are times, when I retrieve my New York Times from the front steps, I almost dread what I might read---stories of war, gun violence, school failures, etc. But on Friday, May 13 on the front page was something that made my heart leap: First Visual Journey to the Center of Our Galaxy. There it was, a reddish orange and yellow ball, the first image of the black hole at the center of the Milky Way. It made me gasp. I remember decades ago reading about black holes as if they were theoretical, since no astronomer had yet seen one. But they were actually postulated over 100 years ago from the mathematics of Einstein’s 1915 Theory of Relativity. And now here it is, described by the Times as “a lumpy doughnut of radio emission framing empty space.” Another scientist called it “the gentle giant at the center of our universe.” This black hole was “discovered” 20 years ago, but until now no one had a direct picture.
This is not the first image of a black hole. In 2019 an image of a black hole in the Galaxy Messier 87 was captured, and that image is now in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. An astronomer at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics said, “We have seen what we thought was unseeable.” This is breathtakingly significant. We are pushing boundaries of knowledge that until very recently were believed to be impossible to push. All this can lead to a deeper understanding of gravity, galaxy evolution and how stars can generate quasars, which are “geysers of energy” that can be seen across the universe. In 1971 two scientists at Cambridge University in England suggested that massive black holes could be the source of quasars. While they had worked out the mathematics of it, no one had yet seen a black hole.
While Einstein’s Theory of Relativity led to the conclusion that black holes “exist,” that conclusion was not something Einstein liked or wanted. He did not approve of the idea that space-time could “quiver, bend, rip, expand and even disappear forever into the maw of a black hole.” The gravity of a black hole is so strong that not even light can escape it. Black holes seem to be all throughout the universe, at the center of every galaxy, some of them the result of stars that have collapsed inward and just keep going or growing. Materials like dust, gas, shredded stars fall into a black hole and are heated up millions of degrees in a dense storm of electromagnetic fields. Much of the material remains within the black hole, but some of it is “spit out,” like a great firestorm, and this is what is known as a quasar. These quasars are so bright they outshine galaxies many thousand times over.
The reason the black hole at the center of our Milky Way is called “the gentle giant” is because it is quite inefficient. Though incredibly bright, it only puts out a few hundred times as much energy as the sun, yet it is FOUR MILLION TIMES as massive. Compared to the black hole in M87, our black hole is one thousandth the mass, but it evolves more than a thousand times faster, altering its appearance every five minutes. In observing the black hole in M87, one physicist said, “It was like the great Buddha, just sitting here.” But observing our black hole is a completely different experience with its constant motion and changes.
In my study at home, I have a huge, framed poster of Albert Einstein with this quote from him: “I want to know God’s thoughts. The rest are details.” And yet it is these details out of which new knowledge will come and grow. I think it is marvelously exciting. The psalmist talks about “such knowledge being too wonderful for me.” And indeed, it is.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
There are times, when I retrieve my New York Times from the front steps, I almost dread what I might read---stories of war, gun violence, school failures, etc. But on Friday, May 13 on the front page was something that made my heart leap: First Visual Journey to the Center of Our Galaxy. There it was, a reddish orange and yellow ball, the first image of the black hole at the center of the Milky Way. It made me gasp. I remember decades ago reading about black holes as if they were theoretical, since no astronomer had yet seen one. But they were actually postulated over 100 years ago from the mathematics of Einstein’s 1915 Theory of Relativity. And now here it is, described by the Times as “a lumpy doughnut of radio emission framing empty space.” Another scientist called it “the gentle giant at the center of our universe.” This black hole was “discovered” 20 years ago, but until now no one had a direct picture.
This is not the first image of a black hole. In 2019 an image of a black hole in the Galaxy Messier 87 was captured, and that image is now in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. An astronomer at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics said, “We have seen what we thought was unseeable.” This is breathtakingly significant. We are pushing boundaries of knowledge that until very recently were believed to be impossible to push. All this can lead to a deeper understanding of gravity, galaxy evolution and how stars can generate quasars, which are “geysers of energy” that can be seen across the universe. In 1971 two scientists at Cambridge University in England suggested that massive black holes could be the source of quasars. While they had worked out the mathematics of it, no one had yet seen a black hole.
While Einstein’s Theory of Relativity led to the conclusion that black holes “exist,” that conclusion was not something Einstein liked or wanted. He did not approve of the idea that space-time could “quiver, bend, rip, expand and even disappear forever into the maw of a black hole.” The gravity of a black hole is so strong that not even light can escape it. Black holes seem to be all throughout the universe, at the center of every galaxy, some of them the result of stars that have collapsed inward and just keep going or growing. Materials like dust, gas, shredded stars fall into a black hole and are heated up millions of degrees in a dense storm of electromagnetic fields. Much of the material remains within the black hole, but some of it is “spit out,” like a great firestorm, and this is what is known as a quasar. These quasars are so bright they outshine galaxies many thousand times over.
The reason the black hole at the center of our Milky Way is called “the gentle giant” is because it is quite inefficient. Though incredibly bright, it only puts out a few hundred times as much energy as the sun, yet it is FOUR MILLION TIMES as massive. Compared to the black hole in M87, our black hole is one thousandth the mass, but it evolves more than a thousand times faster, altering its appearance every five minutes. In observing the black hole in M87, one physicist said, “It was like the great Buddha, just sitting here.” But observing our black hole is a completely different experience with its constant motion and changes.
In my study at home, I have a huge, framed poster of Albert Einstein with this quote from him: “I want to know God’s thoughts. The rest are details.” And yet it is these details out of which new knowledge will come and grow. I think it is marvelously exciting. The psalmist talks about “such knowledge being too wonderful for me.” And indeed, it is.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
What About Mothers?
Preached by Sandra Olsen
The First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
May 8, 2022
Some 40 years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, I remember this hot July night in Boston, when I had trouble sleeping. I was a month away from delivery, and I just could not get comfortable. Tossing and turning, I watched the hours on the clock tick by, knowing that work in an office with no air conditioning would be made more unbearable with no sleep. At around 5 AM or so, I finally fell asleep, and it was then I had this vivid dream. I dreamed that my husband gave birth for me, and coming to me with this beautiful baby, he was so proud of himself-=--not so much because he had made biological history, but because he thought he had saved me from an awful experience. “Look what I have done for you,” he said to me in my dream. “I have saved you from the agony of giving birth.” But instead of being grateful, I was horrified. Screaming at him, I yelled, “What have you done?” You have stolen from me a piece of the divine.” At that point I suddenly awoke and was grateful indeed to feel my belly still pregnant. Now that dream provoked me, because at that point in my life I did not really believe in God. Oh, I had been raised as a liberal Protestant in the Presbyterian Church, had gone to Sunday School and church my whole life, but in college, I began to think about God very differently, especially after reading thinkers like Freud, Feuerbach, Marx, and Nietzsche. Almost without realizing it, I no longer believed in the God of my childhood. And yet, here was my unconscious telling me that birth was a piece of the divine.
In my case it is simply a fact that pregnancy and childbirth quite literally sent me to seminary, because the experience pushed me to ponder the big questions: Looking at this beautiful infant who came into the world on an August evening, I suddenly found myself amazed that there is something and not nothing. What is creation, I wondered, and where does it come from? What or who is God. The god of my childhood had died, but surely faith did not have to be a childish business. And so, I went to seminary, because, as I told the Director of Admissions, “I wanted to learn HOW to think about God. But I don’t know if I ever would have gone without the experience of having a baby. Motherhood was the push.Motherhood pushes many people, including women in the bible. Women were expected to be mothers---that was their role--- and if they were not, they suffered the humiliation of barrenness---until God opened their wombs, as the biblical text usually put it. Remember Sarah, Abraham’s wife, who in her old age eventually bore Isaac. And then there was Hannah, who was desperate to have a baby, and finally conceived Samuel, who became the prophet to the king. And Elizabeth, who in her old age gave birth to John the Baptist. Then there is our text from Genesis. Rebekah gave birth to twins, Esau and Jacob. Now Rebecca was a schemer. She favored her younger son, Jacob, over the older one, Esau. Jacob too was a schemer, and the truth is, he was a lot brighter than his hotheaded older brother, who would give up his birthright for a bowl of soup. Rebekah undoubtedly realized where the talent lay, and so it was her idea to deceive Isaac into giving the paternal blessing to his younger son, when it should have gone to Esau.
And then there is our story from Mark, which shows us another mother, desperate for the healing of her daughter. Though Jesus had said he was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel, this mother would not take NO for an answer. We don’t know what the girl’s problem was, since in Jesus’ day unclean spirits were often blamed for all kinds of conditions, including epilepsy and mental illnesses. It is important to note that this mother was a foreigner, a Phoenician from Syria. Jesus was traveling through the region of Tyre in Phoenicia just north of upper Galilee, which in Jesus’ day was a predominantly Jewish area until you moved outside the city. We know nothing about this woman, whether she had a husband or what her social status was. We know only that she had a sick daughter. Now women were not allowed to accost males---though she did approah Jesus in someone’s house, which is where reputable women should be. She fell at his feet to make her request, a sign of deference. Now in the 5th chapter of Mark Jesus had already healed a foreigner so the foreign identity of the woman would not be enough to explain Jesus’ refusal. But that she a woman, a stranger to Jesus, would take it upon herself to enter a home and make such a bold request---that was beyond what social convention tolerated. And so, Jesus turned her down, calling her in so many words a dog. Well, she could not afford to take offense at the insult Jesus delivered. She was out to accomplish one task and that was the healing of her daughter. She did not care what Jesus called her. And so, she turned the insult around: Even the dogs eat the children’s crumbs, she said, and for her bold and clever persistence--- the only example in Mark, where Jesus is out maneuvered by anyone, male or femaile---Jesus consents to heal her daughter. That mother did what she had to do. And so do many mothers. They do what they have to do on behalf of their children, no matter the cost or the pain they have to bear. Consider Moses’ mother, who hid him in the bullrushes to save him from Pharoah’s decree that male babies be killed. It was Pharoah’s daughter who found the baby and raised Moses in the palace. His mother acted as a nursemaid, but she did not raise him. That was her loss for the sake of his life. She did what she had to do.
Some years ago, when I was working in a church on Long Island, a woman came to see me. She was a woman in her 60’s, not part of my congregation and at the time, which was about 35 years ago. She told me this story about giving birth to a baby girl when she was 15. This was around 1927 or so, when having a baby out of wedlock was scandalous. “I was going to give her up,” she said, “but my mother convinced me to keep the baby. “Your father and I will help you,” she insisted, “and they did. But when my daughter was around 3, something awful happened. My mother’s brother began to abuse my daughter. I caught him, and I was terrified it would only get worse. I was barely 18 at the time, and I had no idea what to do. I mean this was a time no one dared talk about such things. I couldn’t tell my parents; I couldn’t tell anyone, and so I gave my daughter away; I put her up for adoption to save her from my uncle. She was adopted very quickly, but when my parents found out, they disowned me, and for nearly 20 years they did not speak to me. After my uncle died, I told them the truth, and no one ever mentioned it again, but before my father died, he told me he believed me, because my uncle had apparently abused other little girls. “We never admitted it,” he said, “and we never talked about it.”
But this woman’s daughter, then in her mid 40’s, had managed to track her mother down and wanted a meeting. And the poor mother did not know what to do or what to say. What if my daughter does not think the truth is enough to make up for what I did? The truth does not take away my shame, though at the time I did what I I had to do.
I never learned this story’s ending because I never saw that mother again. But I have not forgotten her, because like so many mothers through the march of time, she did something desperate to protect her child. And that desperation continues---in the suburbs, in the cities, and in Ukraine today, when women are sending their children away to protect them. I don’t think you have to be a mother or a daughter to feel the powerful poignancy of that woman’s story, but I do think there is a reason that mothers and motherhood have such a prominent place in the bible. There is something in the role of motherhood that uniquely shows us what God in Jesus Christ is like, when suffering is taken on for the sake of others. Mothers do what they have to do, even when what they do brings pain and even shame upon themselves.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
The First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
May 8, 2022
Some 40 years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, I remember this hot July night in Boston, when I had trouble sleeping. I was a month away from delivery, and I just could not get comfortable. Tossing and turning, I watched the hours on the clock tick by, knowing that work in an office with no air conditioning would be made more unbearable with no sleep. At around 5 AM or so, I finally fell asleep, and it was then I had this vivid dream. I dreamed that my husband gave birth for me, and coming to me with this beautiful baby, he was so proud of himself-=--not so much because he had made biological history, but because he thought he had saved me from an awful experience. “Look what I have done for you,” he said to me in my dream. “I have saved you from the agony of giving birth.” But instead of being grateful, I was horrified. Screaming at him, I yelled, “What have you done?” You have stolen from me a piece of the divine.” At that point I suddenly awoke and was grateful indeed to feel my belly still pregnant. Now that dream provoked me, because at that point in my life I did not really believe in God. Oh, I had been raised as a liberal Protestant in the Presbyterian Church, had gone to Sunday School and church my whole life, but in college, I began to think about God very differently, especially after reading thinkers like Freud, Feuerbach, Marx, and Nietzsche. Almost without realizing it, I no longer believed in the God of my childhood. And yet, here was my unconscious telling me that birth was a piece of the divine.
In my case it is simply a fact that pregnancy and childbirth quite literally sent me to seminary, because the experience pushed me to ponder the big questions: Looking at this beautiful infant who came into the world on an August evening, I suddenly found myself amazed that there is something and not nothing. What is creation, I wondered, and where does it come from? What or who is God. The god of my childhood had died, but surely faith did not have to be a childish business. And so, I went to seminary, because, as I told the Director of Admissions, “I wanted to learn HOW to think about God. But I don’t know if I ever would have gone without the experience of having a baby. Motherhood was the push.Motherhood pushes many people, including women in the bible. Women were expected to be mothers---that was their role--- and if they were not, they suffered the humiliation of barrenness---until God opened their wombs, as the biblical text usually put it. Remember Sarah, Abraham’s wife, who in her old age eventually bore Isaac. And then there was Hannah, who was desperate to have a baby, and finally conceived Samuel, who became the prophet to the king. And Elizabeth, who in her old age gave birth to John the Baptist. Then there is our text from Genesis. Rebekah gave birth to twins, Esau and Jacob. Now Rebecca was a schemer. She favored her younger son, Jacob, over the older one, Esau. Jacob too was a schemer, and the truth is, he was a lot brighter than his hotheaded older brother, who would give up his birthright for a bowl of soup. Rebekah undoubtedly realized where the talent lay, and so it was her idea to deceive Isaac into giving the paternal blessing to his younger son, when it should have gone to Esau.
And then there is our story from Mark, which shows us another mother, desperate for the healing of her daughter. Though Jesus had said he was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel, this mother would not take NO for an answer. We don’t know what the girl’s problem was, since in Jesus’ day unclean spirits were often blamed for all kinds of conditions, including epilepsy and mental illnesses. It is important to note that this mother was a foreigner, a Phoenician from Syria. Jesus was traveling through the region of Tyre in Phoenicia just north of upper Galilee, which in Jesus’ day was a predominantly Jewish area until you moved outside the city. We know nothing about this woman, whether she had a husband or what her social status was. We know only that she had a sick daughter. Now women were not allowed to accost males---though she did approah Jesus in someone’s house, which is where reputable women should be. She fell at his feet to make her request, a sign of deference. Now in the 5th chapter of Mark Jesus had already healed a foreigner so the foreign identity of the woman would not be enough to explain Jesus’ refusal. But that she a woman, a stranger to Jesus, would take it upon herself to enter a home and make such a bold request---that was beyond what social convention tolerated. And so, Jesus turned her down, calling her in so many words a dog. Well, she could not afford to take offense at the insult Jesus delivered. She was out to accomplish one task and that was the healing of her daughter. She did not care what Jesus called her. And so, she turned the insult around: Even the dogs eat the children’s crumbs, she said, and for her bold and clever persistence--- the only example in Mark, where Jesus is out maneuvered by anyone, male or femaile---Jesus consents to heal her daughter. That mother did what she had to do. And so do many mothers. They do what they have to do on behalf of their children, no matter the cost or the pain they have to bear. Consider Moses’ mother, who hid him in the bullrushes to save him from Pharoah’s decree that male babies be killed. It was Pharoah’s daughter who found the baby and raised Moses in the palace. His mother acted as a nursemaid, but she did not raise him. That was her loss for the sake of his life. She did what she had to do.
Some years ago, when I was working in a church on Long Island, a woman came to see me. She was a woman in her 60’s, not part of my congregation and at the time, which was about 35 years ago. She told me this story about giving birth to a baby girl when she was 15. This was around 1927 or so, when having a baby out of wedlock was scandalous. “I was going to give her up,” she said, “but my mother convinced me to keep the baby. “Your father and I will help you,” she insisted, “and they did. But when my daughter was around 3, something awful happened. My mother’s brother began to abuse my daughter. I caught him, and I was terrified it would only get worse. I was barely 18 at the time, and I had no idea what to do. I mean this was a time no one dared talk about such things. I couldn’t tell my parents; I couldn’t tell anyone, and so I gave my daughter away; I put her up for adoption to save her from my uncle. She was adopted very quickly, but when my parents found out, they disowned me, and for nearly 20 years they did not speak to me. After my uncle died, I told them the truth, and no one ever mentioned it again, but before my father died, he told me he believed me, because my uncle had apparently abused other little girls. “We never admitted it,” he said, “and we never talked about it.”
But this woman’s daughter, then in her mid 40’s, had managed to track her mother down and wanted a meeting. And the poor mother did not know what to do or what to say. What if my daughter does not think the truth is enough to make up for what I did? The truth does not take away my shame, though at the time I did what I I had to do.
I never learned this story’s ending because I never saw that mother again. But I have not forgotten her, because like so many mothers through the march of time, she did something desperate to protect her child. And that desperation continues---in the suburbs, in the cities, and in Ukraine today, when women are sending their children away to protect them. I don’t think you have to be a mother or a daughter to feel the powerful poignancy of that woman’s story, but I do think there is a reason that mothers and motherhood have such a prominent place in the bible. There is something in the role of motherhood that uniquely shows us what God in Jesus Christ is like, when suffering is taken on for the sake of others. Mothers do what they have to do, even when what they do brings pain and even shame upon themselves.
NO ONE CAN HINDER GOD
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church, Unionville, CT
May 15, 2022
Acts 11: 1-18
This is a rather strange story from the Book of Acts. Peter was in trouble, because he had been consorting with gentiles, and so when he was in Jerusalem, he was asked (rather sternly, we might assume) for an explanation of his behavior. And so, Peter described the scene: A sheet had come down from heaven with all sorts of animals, reptiles and birds of prey, and Peter said he was commanded, “Kill and eat.” Now this would have been completely against the purity laws of Peter’s Jewish upbringing, and so he told God, “No,” not once but three times. “Nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth,” he insisted to God, and then everything was pulled back up to heaven. Three men came and took him along with some other followers to meet Cornelius, and Cornelius and his household were baptized by Peter, because Peter saw that the same Holy Spirit that had fallen on the followers of Jesus had also fallen on Cornelius’ household. And so Peter asked the people who were questioning, him, “Who was I that I could hinder God?” And not having a good answer to that question, his interlocutors were silenced.
As you heard in the introduction to this reading The Book of Acts is really a continuation of Luke’s Gospel, written, it is believed, by the same person, around the year 80 or so. While Luke tells the story of Jesus Christ, Acts tells the story of the gospel’s emergence into the wider world, which is the gentile world. Now Peter is generally credited with working in the Jewish world, while Paul is the great apostle to the gentiles, and indeed in the Pauline Letters, there is some tension between Peter and Paul concerning the inclusion of the gentiles in the covenant. Peter insisted that the gentiles must first become Jews by being circumcised, but Paul said this was completely unnecessary. Yet here in Acts we see quite clearly that Peter is willing to embrace the gentiles, because he understands this to be God’s intention and work, not his. In so many words he said, “Look, this isn’t my idea; this is what God wants, and we can’t hinder God.”
Of course, we human beings have a long history of hindering God, putting roadblocks in front of the divine intention to love and accept all people. There is a lot of hindrance going on in the world today---look at wars in Ukraine and Syria and Yemen, just for starters, and the mess in Palestine and the 18% poverty rate of children in our country. Is this what we think God desires? And what about World War ll, which killed between 70 and 80 million people 50 to 55 million civilians, non-combatants. Who can hinder God? Oh, we do a pretty good job of trying to do just that. And it is not at all clear how God is responding to our attempts at hindrance. Does God have a strategy, which in our limited and imperfect understanding, we simply cannot see?
When we consider the world of Jesus and now Peter, we do know that the tension between Jews and gentiles was palpable. Jesus probably thought his ministry was solely to the house of Israel. Just a few weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, we had a story about Jesus initially refusing to heal the daughter of a Syrophoenician woman, because she was not part of the ingroup, the house of Israel. And when Jesus’ disciples first began their ministry after Jesus’ resurrection, they most likely thought it was solely to the Jews. But something radical happened. The movement expanded way beyond Israel, drawing in the Greek and Roman world until finally Christianity became a religion of the gentiles, not the Jews. But when Peter went to Cornelius’ home and baptized him and his household after seeing the Holy Spirit falling upon them, it is doubtful Peter understood this as a world wide phenomenon. He was seeing it in terms of the individuals he was encountering. And that is the way most of us see things.
It is very difficult and challenging to look at broad historical movements and discern what God is doing in them and through them. To see the hand of God in the scope of history requires TIME, the ability to look back and reflect. Then we can perhaps discern something of God’s activity, even as we also can see the ways human beings have worked to hinder God. And so, is it any wonder that we often move to individual experiences and stories to see what God is intending and doing---as in the story of Cornelius and his household. And this is how Jesus taught. He told stories about individual people and their struggles to help people see and understand what God is up to in the daily living of lives.
You have heard me mention my former church in New Haven, which boasted a stunningly beautiful hand built Fisk organ and a paid choir, many of them educated at Yale’s School of Music. Sometimes a choir member would give a concert at the church, and it was at such an event, I met this woman, a student at the School of Music as well as a friend of the young woman giving the concert. She was African American and had grown up in Alabama, where her parents were both teachers in an African American high school in a small town. “We were pretty poor,” she told me, “because teachers in schools where black students were taught, were poorly paid, but we were a lot better off than others. My grandmother lived with us, and in her younger years, she had done back breaking farm work. She had the voice of an angel, an operatic quality voice, every bit as talented, I think, as someone like Leontine Price.
My grandmother sang in church; she sang at home. She sang everywhere she could, and I learned so much from her, even as I believe my gift of voice came through her. She could have been a star, but in those days, she had no chance at an education. I used to feel so sorry for her, because of all her lost opportunities. But my grandmother was never resentful, never downtrodden, and as my education has taken off, she is so grateful and joyful for all the opportunities that I have. “You see,” she recently told me, “No one can hinder God. They can put roadblocks in God’s path. They can even slow God’s movement down, but God always works around those roadblocks, God always finds a way to move ahead. And as God moves, God takes us along---even if we sometimes kick and scream as we are being taken.”
I don’t think there is a better summary of today’s bible reading than that grandmother’s words. We rarely have the vision and the wisdom to see the arc of God’s movement in the march of time and history. But we can sometimes see God’s movement in small chunks and slices of life, in our own stories and in the stories of others, whose lives cross our paths. No one can hinder God, she said. God just keeps moving and takes us along, even in spite of ourselves.
Preached by: Sandra Olsen
First Church, Unionville, CT
May 15, 2022
Acts 11: 1-18
This is a rather strange story from the Book of Acts. Peter was in trouble, because he had been consorting with gentiles, and so when he was in Jerusalem, he was asked (rather sternly, we might assume) for an explanation of his behavior. And so, Peter described the scene: A sheet had come down from heaven with all sorts of animals, reptiles and birds of prey, and Peter said he was commanded, “Kill and eat.” Now this would have been completely against the purity laws of Peter’s Jewish upbringing, and so he told God, “No,” not once but three times. “Nothing profane or unclean has ever entered my mouth,” he insisted to God, and then everything was pulled back up to heaven. Three men came and took him along with some other followers to meet Cornelius, and Cornelius and his household were baptized by Peter, because Peter saw that the same Holy Spirit that had fallen on the followers of Jesus had also fallen on Cornelius’ household. And so Peter asked the people who were questioning, him, “Who was I that I could hinder God?” And not having a good answer to that question, his interlocutors were silenced.
As you heard in the introduction to this reading The Book of Acts is really a continuation of Luke’s Gospel, written, it is believed, by the same person, around the year 80 or so. While Luke tells the story of Jesus Christ, Acts tells the story of the gospel’s emergence into the wider world, which is the gentile world. Now Peter is generally credited with working in the Jewish world, while Paul is the great apostle to the gentiles, and indeed in the Pauline Letters, there is some tension between Peter and Paul concerning the inclusion of the gentiles in the covenant. Peter insisted that the gentiles must first become Jews by being circumcised, but Paul said this was completely unnecessary. Yet here in Acts we see quite clearly that Peter is willing to embrace the gentiles, because he understands this to be God’s intention and work, not his. In so many words he said, “Look, this isn’t my idea; this is what God wants, and we can’t hinder God.”
Of course, we human beings have a long history of hindering God, putting roadblocks in front of the divine intention to love and accept all people. There is a lot of hindrance going on in the world today---look at wars in Ukraine and Syria and Yemen, just for starters, and the mess in Palestine and the 18% poverty rate of children in our country. Is this what we think God desires? And what about World War ll, which killed between 70 and 80 million people 50 to 55 million civilians, non-combatants. Who can hinder God? Oh, we do a pretty good job of trying to do just that. And it is not at all clear how God is responding to our attempts at hindrance. Does God have a strategy, which in our limited and imperfect understanding, we simply cannot see?
When we consider the world of Jesus and now Peter, we do know that the tension between Jews and gentiles was palpable. Jesus probably thought his ministry was solely to the house of Israel. Just a few weeks ago, on Mother’s Day, we had a story about Jesus initially refusing to heal the daughter of a Syrophoenician woman, because she was not part of the ingroup, the house of Israel. And when Jesus’ disciples first began their ministry after Jesus’ resurrection, they most likely thought it was solely to the Jews. But something radical happened. The movement expanded way beyond Israel, drawing in the Greek and Roman world until finally Christianity became a religion of the gentiles, not the Jews. But when Peter went to Cornelius’ home and baptized him and his household after seeing the Holy Spirit falling upon them, it is doubtful Peter understood this as a world wide phenomenon. He was seeing it in terms of the individuals he was encountering. And that is the way most of us see things.
It is very difficult and challenging to look at broad historical movements and discern what God is doing in them and through them. To see the hand of God in the scope of history requires TIME, the ability to look back and reflect. Then we can perhaps discern something of God’s activity, even as we also can see the ways human beings have worked to hinder God. And so, is it any wonder that we often move to individual experiences and stories to see what God is intending and doing---as in the story of Cornelius and his household. And this is how Jesus taught. He told stories about individual people and their struggles to help people see and understand what God is up to in the daily living of lives.
You have heard me mention my former church in New Haven, which boasted a stunningly beautiful hand built Fisk organ and a paid choir, many of them educated at Yale’s School of Music. Sometimes a choir member would give a concert at the church, and it was at such an event, I met this woman, a student at the School of Music as well as a friend of the young woman giving the concert. She was African American and had grown up in Alabama, where her parents were both teachers in an African American high school in a small town. “We were pretty poor,” she told me, “because teachers in schools where black students were taught, were poorly paid, but we were a lot better off than others. My grandmother lived with us, and in her younger years, she had done back breaking farm work. She had the voice of an angel, an operatic quality voice, every bit as talented, I think, as someone like Leontine Price.
My grandmother sang in church; she sang at home. She sang everywhere she could, and I learned so much from her, even as I believe my gift of voice came through her. She could have been a star, but in those days, she had no chance at an education. I used to feel so sorry for her, because of all her lost opportunities. But my grandmother was never resentful, never downtrodden, and as my education has taken off, she is so grateful and joyful for all the opportunities that I have. “You see,” she recently told me, “No one can hinder God. They can put roadblocks in God’s path. They can even slow God’s movement down, but God always works around those roadblocks, God always finds a way to move ahead. And as God moves, God takes us along---even if we sometimes kick and scream as we are being taken.”
I don’t think there is a better summary of today’s bible reading than that grandmother’s words. We rarely have the vision and the wisdom to see the arc of God’s movement in the march of time and history. But we can sometimes see God’s movement in small chunks and slices of life, in our own stories and in the stories of others, whose lives cross our paths. No one can hinder God, she said. God just keeps moving and takes us along, even in spite of ourselves.
“I’M GOING FISHING” OR GETTING BACK TO NORMAL
Preached by Sandra Olsen
May 2, 2022
John 21: 1-19
I’m going fishing: that is what Peter said, and the others agreed, “We’ll go with you.” On the one hand, it might sound like a rather mundane thing to do after all the horror of an execution and the excitement of a resurrection. Just last week they were all holed up in a room, terrified they might be arrested or worse, and what happened: Jesus showed up and said, “Peace be with you,” while blowing on them the Holy Spirit. After all that they go fishing? But, on the other hand, perhaps that is not such a crazy thing to do after all. Maybe what the disciples wanted more than anything else in the world was to get back to normal. But normal is not what they are about to get.
Remember what Jesus had said to Mary Magdalene, when she first recognized him outside the tomb? She wanted to hold on to him, but he told her, “No. I have not yet ascended to my Father.” There would be no holding on, no going back to once was. It was a new day, a new beginning, which would require change. But change is probably the last thing the disciples would have wanted. Normal, they wanted nothing more than to return to normality, and so should we really be surprised, that they decided to go fishing? They were about 80 miles or so from Jerusalem, on the Sea of Tiberius in their home territory of Galilee. Why wouldn’t they want to put some distance between themselves and Jerusalem, where their beloved leader had been tried and executed? So, home they went, probably hoping that home would return them to their normal lives. I can imagine that deep down they were hoping all this would just go away. Jesus can go to God, if that is what God and he want, but please, just leave us alone. We are too tired and too drained to do anything new.
I am sure that many of us have been reading or hearing about the Ukrainian refugees, and indeed, many of them say, “I just want to go home,” and some women and children have returned to Ukraine to be with their husbands and fathers. Others realize home is no more, but in their hearts and minds home is still there, the place that gives them a grounding and a hope that life can and will return someday to normal---even if not now. Without that hope of normalcy many would find coping almost impossible.
My son, Aaron, who lives in New York City, has a Ukrainian Jewish girlfriend, who immigrated to New York with her grandparents and parents, when she was 5 years old. You might recall that many Jews left Russia in the 80’s, because Jews in Russia and Russian held territories like Ukraine, were not treated well. Polina’s first language was Russian, and she still speaks it with her parents, since she is more fluent in Russian than in Ukrainian. I asked her once what it was like being an immigrant, and she said that because she was so young, she adjusted pretty quickly. She immediately began Kindergarten, and though she could not speak a word of English, she learned. She made friends, who were fascinated by her Russian, though some children accused her of making up sounds, because they could not believe this was a real language.
Her parents and grandparents struggled more, as we might expect, but they tried to make life normal by living in a Russian and a Ukrainian neighborhood in Queens, where they could buy traditional foods and speak Russian. But Polina said it didn’t take her long before she did not want to speak Russian, which at first upset her parents, until they realized that it would be easier for them to learn English, if they spoke it with Polina. They were enrolled in English classes, and though they would speak Russian to people in the neighborhood, they spoke English with Polina, until some years later when her parents felt their English was good enough so they could return to the normality of speaking their native tongue. You know, Polina told me, when your whole life becomes completely new, you need some things that feel like your old life, because that helps you to feel normal. And feeling normal gets you through.
And I think something like that happened to the disciples. For them fishing was the most normal thing in the world; that is what they had done before they met Jesus, and so after all the drama, fishing is what they wanted to return to. And look what happened: they came up empty, but that too, was normal. Some days the fishing was good; other days it was a big disappointment. And then there was Jesus, though they did not recognize him. He told them to put their nets in on the right side, and this time, they came up full, way beyond what was normal, which is a way of saying there will be no going back to what once was. Life would now be new and different.
Peter immediately jumped into the water, after putting his clothes on, which to me seems a bit strange, but that’s Peter, all heart, very little head. He is the one whom Jesus questions, “Do you love me more than these?” And Peter affirms his love for Jesus three times. This is a way of undoing Peter’s three time denial of Jesus in the courtyard after which the cock crowed and Peter wept out of shame. Jesus then commands Peter to feed and tend his sheep, which reminds us that love is more than a feeling. It is an action. Caring for others is the mark of true discipleship.
And then Jesus said something that was not very easy to hear. He told Peter that when he was young, he went and did what we want. It was your way. But now things have changed, and you too have changed. You will go places you would rather avoid, and you will deal with people you would prefer to ignore. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be pretty. You will have enemies, and you will be tested in ways that now you cannot foresee. But this is what it means to be my disciple, and if you love me, you will feed and tend my sheep and deal with people and places you would prefer to avoid.
And this is what Peter did. The man who denied Jesus three times ends up witnessing to the risen Christ with his life. Peter was crucified in Rome upside down, because he did not believe he was worthy to be crucified upright as Jesus was. The year was around 64, during the reign of mad Emperor Nero. John’s gospel was written somewhere between the years 90 and 100, so at least three decades after Peter’s death, and there is much poetic license in John’s gospel. It is not all straight history but it was written, as the gospel attests, that “we might believe,” that we might see the risen Christ in our lives. John’s gospel reminds us that Jesus sometimes shows up in the most ordinary of moments, while fishing and cooking breakfast on the beach, which means that Jesus can do the same for us, showing up in the mundane. The question is: Do we notice
Preached by Sandra Olsen
May 2, 2022
John 21: 1-19
I’m going fishing: that is what Peter said, and the others agreed, “We’ll go with you.” On the one hand, it might sound like a rather mundane thing to do after all the horror of an execution and the excitement of a resurrection. Just last week they were all holed up in a room, terrified they might be arrested or worse, and what happened: Jesus showed up and said, “Peace be with you,” while blowing on them the Holy Spirit. After all that they go fishing? But, on the other hand, perhaps that is not such a crazy thing to do after all. Maybe what the disciples wanted more than anything else in the world was to get back to normal. But normal is not what they are about to get.
Remember what Jesus had said to Mary Magdalene, when she first recognized him outside the tomb? She wanted to hold on to him, but he told her, “No. I have not yet ascended to my Father.” There would be no holding on, no going back to once was. It was a new day, a new beginning, which would require change. But change is probably the last thing the disciples would have wanted. Normal, they wanted nothing more than to return to normality, and so should we really be surprised, that they decided to go fishing? They were about 80 miles or so from Jerusalem, on the Sea of Tiberius in their home territory of Galilee. Why wouldn’t they want to put some distance between themselves and Jerusalem, where their beloved leader had been tried and executed? So, home they went, probably hoping that home would return them to their normal lives. I can imagine that deep down they were hoping all this would just go away. Jesus can go to God, if that is what God and he want, but please, just leave us alone. We are too tired and too drained to do anything new.
I am sure that many of us have been reading or hearing about the Ukrainian refugees, and indeed, many of them say, “I just want to go home,” and some women and children have returned to Ukraine to be with their husbands and fathers. Others realize home is no more, but in their hearts and minds home is still there, the place that gives them a grounding and a hope that life can and will return someday to normal---even if not now. Without that hope of normalcy many would find coping almost impossible.
My son, Aaron, who lives in New York City, has a Ukrainian Jewish girlfriend, who immigrated to New York with her grandparents and parents, when she was 5 years old. You might recall that many Jews left Russia in the 80’s, because Jews in Russia and Russian held territories like Ukraine, were not treated well. Polina’s first language was Russian, and she still speaks it with her parents, since she is more fluent in Russian than in Ukrainian. I asked her once what it was like being an immigrant, and she said that because she was so young, she adjusted pretty quickly. She immediately began Kindergarten, and though she could not speak a word of English, she learned. She made friends, who were fascinated by her Russian, though some children accused her of making up sounds, because they could not believe this was a real language.
Her parents and grandparents struggled more, as we might expect, but they tried to make life normal by living in a Russian and a Ukrainian neighborhood in Queens, where they could buy traditional foods and speak Russian. But Polina said it didn’t take her long before she did not want to speak Russian, which at first upset her parents, until they realized that it would be easier for them to learn English, if they spoke it with Polina. They were enrolled in English classes, and though they would speak Russian to people in the neighborhood, they spoke English with Polina, until some years later when her parents felt their English was good enough so they could return to the normality of speaking their native tongue. You know, Polina told me, when your whole life becomes completely new, you need some things that feel like your old life, because that helps you to feel normal. And feeling normal gets you through.
And I think something like that happened to the disciples. For them fishing was the most normal thing in the world; that is what they had done before they met Jesus, and so after all the drama, fishing is what they wanted to return to. And look what happened: they came up empty, but that too, was normal. Some days the fishing was good; other days it was a big disappointment. And then there was Jesus, though they did not recognize him. He told them to put their nets in on the right side, and this time, they came up full, way beyond what was normal, which is a way of saying there will be no going back to what once was. Life would now be new and different.
Peter immediately jumped into the water, after putting his clothes on, which to me seems a bit strange, but that’s Peter, all heart, very little head. He is the one whom Jesus questions, “Do you love me more than these?” And Peter affirms his love for Jesus three times. This is a way of undoing Peter’s three time denial of Jesus in the courtyard after which the cock crowed and Peter wept out of shame. Jesus then commands Peter to feed and tend his sheep, which reminds us that love is more than a feeling. It is an action. Caring for others is the mark of true discipleship.
And then Jesus said something that was not very easy to hear. He told Peter that when he was young, he went and did what we want. It was your way. But now things have changed, and you too have changed. You will go places you would rather avoid, and you will deal with people you would prefer to ignore. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be pretty. You will have enemies, and you will be tested in ways that now you cannot foresee. But this is what it means to be my disciple, and if you love me, you will feed and tend my sheep and deal with people and places you would prefer to avoid.
And this is what Peter did. The man who denied Jesus three times ends up witnessing to the risen Christ with his life. Peter was crucified in Rome upside down, because he did not believe he was worthy to be crucified upright as Jesus was. The year was around 64, during the reign of mad Emperor Nero. John’s gospel was written somewhere between the years 90 and 100, so at least three decades after Peter’s death, and there is much poetic license in John’s gospel. It is not all straight history but it was written, as the gospel attests, that “we might believe,” that we might see the risen Christ in our lives. John’s gospel reminds us that Jesus sometimes shows up in the most ordinary of moments, while fishing and cooking breakfast on the beach, which means that Jesus can do the same for us, showing up in the mundane. The question is: Do we notice
May 4, 2022
Dear Friends,
Mother’s Day is this Sunday, so I thought I would write about five heroic moms in New England’s history. Perhaps the image of mothers in former times is that they were expected to be quiet and submissive to their husbands, or if unmarried to some other male adult, like a father, brother, or uncle. But, as the saying goes, life happens, and women often took upon themselves roles of courage and heroism.
We all know how Ben Franklin left Boston to begin a new life in Philadelphia, but his sister in law, Ann Smith Franklin, also left Boston for a new life. Ann was married to James Franklin, Ben’s brother, but the two brothers did not get along very well. James was jailed in Boston for printing scandalous libel, which translated as criticism of the Puritans. James and Ann took their printing press and moved to Newport, Rhode Island, where they began publishing the Rhode Island Almanack. James died, leaving Ann with five children to support. When her printing business failed to bring in adequate money, she petitioned the General Assembly for a contract, allowing her to print the colony’s laws. She was hired! Not only did she raise alone three of her five children to adulthood, but she also established The Newport Mercury, which was published until her son’s death in 1762. Ann died in 1763 and her obituary described her as a woman of “economy and industry, who supported herself and her family and brought up her children in a genteel manner.”
Prudence Cummings Wright was a mother of five children when her husband marched off to defend Boston after the Battle of Lexington and Concord. With so many men gone to war, Prudence, like many other women, was left alone to cope with raising children and ensuring the family had adequate resources to survive. When she learned that British spies were passing on information through her town of Pepperell, she organized a militia with other women from the town. They dressed in men’s clothing and used farm implements for weapons, since the men had taken the muskets. The women would wait in the night for the spies, and when the horses approached, Prudence confronted them, dragging them off their horses and taking them to the tavern for questioning. One such encounter yielded her brother in law, who remained a committed loyalist to the Crown. The punishment was usually banishment from the colony. At a Town Meeting on March 19, 1777, the town of Pepperell voted to pay Prudence and her band of women for their service.
Mary Patten was a pregnant woman when she faced a crew of mutinous men and then took command of the ship. Mary came from a wealthy Boston family and learned navigation and sailing from her husband, Joshua. In 1856 she (only 19 years old) and her husband were sailing from New York to San Francisco, when Joshua became very ill. Mary navigated the ship while trying to nurse her husband back to health. The crew did not trust Mary’s skill and they tried to mutiny, but Mary was able to convince them that she knew what she was doing. She commanded the ship all the way to San Francisco, where she became an instant celebrity. Sadly, Joshua only lived a few more months and Mary died at the tender age of 24.
Toy Len Goon was born in 1891 in China, Guangdong Province. She did back breaking farm work until the age of 10, when she began to work as a servant for a wealthy merchant family. She married Dogan Goon upon his return to China after he had been working in Portland, Maine. The two of them immigrated to Portland, but in 1917 Dogan was arrested as an illegal resident. To avoid deportation, he agreed to serve in World War l. After the war, Toy Len and her husband worked hard in the laundry business in Portland, which they managed to establish on their own. The couple eventually had eight children, and after Dogan died, leaving Toy with eight children to support from age 3 to 16, she managed the laundry business and made sure her children were all educated. In 1957 the local newspaper reported that her son Carroll was a doctor, Richard, a businessman, Edward a research chemist, Albert, a lawyer, Josephine, a mother, Arthur, a navy veteran, studying to be an electrical engineer, Doris, a court reporter, and Janet a college student. In 1952 Toy Len was named Maine Mother of the Year.
Margaret Rudkin was a wealthy housewife, who lived in a Tudor mansion with her three sons and husband in Fairfield, CT. But when the stock market crashed in 1929 and her husband suffered an accident, she had to find a way to make a living. She began by selling apples and turkeys, but then turned to baking stone whole wheat bread. In August, 1937 she sold her first batch of Pepperidge Farm bread to her local grocery store. Eventually she moved her bakery from her kitchen into her garage and started baking white bread using unbleached flower. A specialty food store in New York ordered 35 loaves, and very soon more stores heard about the bread. Reader’s Digest did a story on her bread, and finally in 1940 Margaret moved her bakery to Norwalk, CT. She sold the bakery to Campbell Soup and became that company’s first female director.
So, as you can see from these short sketches, New England mothers have been accomplishing some pretty amazing feats throughout history. There is a well known saying about necessity being the mother of invention, and in these particular lives, we certainly see what women can do, when faced with challenges. As we celebrate mothers this Sunday and give thanks for the mothers in our lives, let us also remember the creativity and hard work of many mothers, who have gone before us. In so many ways, we stand on the shoulders of their achievements.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Mother’s Day is this Sunday, so I thought I would write about five heroic moms in New England’s history. Perhaps the image of mothers in former times is that they were expected to be quiet and submissive to their husbands, or if unmarried to some other male adult, like a father, brother, or uncle. But, as the saying goes, life happens, and women often took upon themselves roles of courage and heroism.
We all know how Ben Franklin left Boston to begin a new life in Philadelphia, but his sister in law, Ann Smith Franklin, also left Boston for a new life. Ann was married to James Franklin, Ben’s brother, but the two brothers did not get along very well. James was jailed in Boston for printing scandalous libel, which translated as criticism of the Puritans. James and Ann took their printing press and moved to Newport, Rhode Island, where they began publishing the Rhode Island Almanack. James died, leaving Ann with five children to support. When her printing business failed to bring in adequate money, she petitioned the General Assembly for a contract, allowing her to print the colony’s laws. She was hired! Not only did she raise alone three of her five children to adulthood, but she also established The Newport Mercury, which was published until her son’s death in 1762. Ann died in 1763 and her obituary described her as a woman of “economy and industry, who supported herself and her family and brought up her children in a genteel manner.”
Prudence Cummings Wright was a mother of five children when her husband marched off to defend Boston after the Battle of Lexington and Concord. With so many men gone to war, Prudence, like many other women, was left alone to cope with raising children and ensuring the family had adequate resources to survive. When she learned that British spies were passing on information through her town of Pepperell, she organized a militia with other women from the town. They dressed in men’s clothing and used farm implements for weapons, since the men had taken the muskets. The women would wait in the night for the spies, and when the horses approached, Prudence confronted them, dragging them off their horses and taking them to the tavern for questioning. One such encounter yielded her brother in law, who remained a committed loyalist to the Crown. The punishment was usually banishment from the colony. At a Town Meeting on March 19, 1777, the town of Pepperell voted to pay Prudence and her band of women for their service.
Mary Patten was a pregnant woman when she faced a crew of mutinous men and then took command of the ship. Mary came from a wealthy Boston family and learned navigation and sailing from her husband, Joshua. In 1856 she (only 19 years old) and her husband were sailing from New York to San Francisco, when Joshua became very ill. Mary navigated the ship while trying to nurse her husband back to health. The crew did not trust Mary’s skill and they tried to mutiny, but Mary was able to convince them that she knew what she was doing. She commanded the ship all the way to San Francisco, where she became an instant celebrity. Sadly, Joshua only lived a few more months and Mary died at the tender age of 24.
Toy Len Goon was born in 1891 in China, Guangdong Province. She did back breaking farm work until the age of 10, when she began to work as a servant for a wealthy merchant family. She married Dogan Goon upon his return to China after he had been working in Portland, Maine. The two of them immigrated to Portland, but in 1917 Dogan was arrested as an illegal resident. To avoid deportation, he agreed to serve in World War l. After the war, Toy Len and her husband worked hard in the laundry business in Portland, which they managed to establish on their own. The couple eventually had eight children, and after Dogan died, leaving Toy with eight children to support from age 3 to 16, she managed the laundry business and made sure her children were all educated. In 1957 the local newspaper reported that her son Carroll was a doctor, Richard, a businessman, Edward a research chemist, Albert, a lawyer, Josephine, a mother, Arthur, a navy veteran, studying to be an electrical engineer, Doris, a court reporter, and Janet a college student. In 1952 Toy Len was named Maine Mother of the Year.
Margaret Rudkin was a wealthy housewife, who lived in a Tudor mansion with her three sons and husband in Fairfield, CT. But when the stock market crashed in 1929 and her husband suffered an accident, she had to find a way to make a living. She began by selling apples and turkeys, but then turned to baking stone whole wheat bread. In August, 1937 she sold her first batch of Pepperidge Farm bread to her local grocery store. Eventually she moved her bakery from her kitchen into her garage and started baking white bread using unbleached flower. A specialty food store in New York ordered 35 loaves, and very soon more stores heard about the bread. Reader’s Digest did a story on her bread, and finally in 1940 Margaret moved her bakery to Norwalk, CT. She sold the bakery to Campbell Soup and became that company’s first female director.
So, as you can see from these short sketches, New England mothers have been accomplishing some pretty amazing feats throughout history. There is a well known saying about necessity being the mother of invention, and in these particular lives, we certainly see what women can do, when faced with challenges. As we celebrate mothers this Sunday and give thanks for the mothers in our lives, let us also remember the creativity and hard work of many mothers, who have gone before us. In so many ways, we stand on the shoulders of their achievements.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Faith and Doubt
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen at
The First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
April 24, 2022
On April 9, 1945, which was the Sunday after Easter, the German Lutheran pastor and theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, was conducting a worship service for a small group of men being held in the concentration camp at Flossenburg, Germany. He had been imprisoned for two years, and just a few days before, he had been transported to this new location. Bonhoeffer read the scriptures and preached a sermon, directly related to the meaning of their imprisonment and the hope that God would use it for a new beginning. Suddenly the door flung open. “Prisoner Bonhoeffer, come with us.” Everyone, including Bonhoeffer, knew exactly what this meant. Drawing one of his friends aside, he said, “This is the end, but for me, the beginning of new life.”
The only account of his death came from the prison doctor, who said that after the verdict was read, Bonhoeffer kneeled on the floor and prayed fervently. “I was deeply moved by the way this man prayed, so devout and certain that God heard his prayer. At the place of execution he once again said a short prayer, climbed the steps to the gallows, brave and composed. In the almost 50 years of my service as a doctor, I have never seen anyone approach death so submissive to God.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer is certainly one of the 20th century’s heroes of the Christian faith. Having grown up in an aristocratic and highly educated German family, he shocked his parents when he told them he was interested in studying theology. The family, after all, was not at all religious. His father was a famous psychiatrist and professor; his brothers studied law and science, but his parents believed strongly that their children should follow their interests, and so, even though they had strong misgivings about the church, they encouraged their son. He was an outstanding student, wrote two doctoral dissertations, and undoubtedly would have had a brilliant academic career---had the war not come.
Germany had a state church, and so when Hitler came to power, all Lutheran clergy, whose paychecks were signed by the state, were required to take an oath of loyalty to Hitler. Many, of course, did so willingly, while others signed with great misgivings, and still others would not sign at all. Bonhoeffer not only refused to sign, but he also helped to establish a resistance seminary at which he taught until it was closed by the Gestapo in 1937. Considering the taking of this oath to be an act of heresy, he said there is only one head of the church and that is Jesus Christ. There can be no pledge of absolute loyalty to anyone or anything except Christ. As a committed pacifist, he argued that the duty of the church is to stand with the victims, to work and pray for peace, and to love the neighbor as well as the enemy.
By 1941 Bonhoeffer had joined the anti-Nazi movement through the German military intelligence, which was seeking to overthrow Hitler. At first, he did no more than bring messages back and forth between Germany and England. But finally, all participants in the plot---even those like Bonhoeffer, whose role was not directly violent---were asked to agree that if the opportunity should come, they would be willing to end Hitler’s life. Now this constituted a terrible religious crisis for Bonhoeffer, who did not believe God ever commanded murder or assassination, not even the murder of a murderer. He despised what Hitler represented, but he also believed that Hitler was loved by God just as much as he was. He did not know what he should do, and all his prayers brought him no final answer.
On one cold afternoon in 1943 the conspirators met in a tiny room. All stood in a circle, while a gun was passed around, and if you could accept the gun, you were in the plot. If not, you were out. “There is no shame here,” one of the men said. “There are religious men among us whose conscience may not permit their participation in assassination.” Bonhoeffer stood in the circle and watched as the gun made its way toward him. One man took it; then the next and the next; someone stepped out, and the gun traveled to the next man. Soon it will come to me, Bonhoeffer thought, and still, I do not know what I will do, what I must do, what it is God would have me do. When the gun came to him, he put out his hand and took it. “God,” he prayed, “if this is your will, I need your mercy. If this is not your will, I need your mercy. Every moment of my life, I need your mercy.”
Consider that prayer and what it means for us in the context of our lives today as well as in the context of our Gospel reading. We live in an age, where many people claim that certitude is strength, while ambiguity and uncertainty are dismissed as weakness and confusion. The common assumption is that uncertainty and ambiguity lead to inaction and confusion, and so many people, across our globe, are drawn to religions and politics, which offer certainty, the knowing assurance of God’s will. Consider again Bonhoeffer’s words: “If this is your will, I need your mercy; if this is not your will, I need your mercy. Every moment of my life, I need your mercy.”
It was not the certainty of knowing God’s will, which led Bonhoeffer to act, for he realized that neither he nor any other human being could claim that certainty for his or her own. Rather, it was the conviction of the universal need for mercy, which finally gave him the courage to act, to take upon himself the responsibility for his decision. He picked up the gun, not seeking God’s approval, but acknowledging his need for mercy.
He had been part of the active resistance for four years, having been drawn in by his brother in law, who was a lawyer and took a stand against the Nazis based on his strong commitment to justice. His brother in law, in an attempt to get him to join the resistance, actually showed him pictures of Nazi atrocities. Bonhoeffer was horrified, but he still struggled, because his resistance to the Nazis and the German state was not so much about justice as it was about faithfulness. Faithfulness to Jesus Christ meant that no Christian could claim final loyalty to Hitler. But what form the resistance should take was never completely settled in his mind. He acted and decided without complete assurance that his actions and decisions conformed to God’s will. He lived with doubt, and he never expected faith to remove all doubt.
And this is why Thomas is so important. His story is in the gospel for a reason, reminding us how varied human personalities are and how those varieties bring different perspectives to life’s sundry situations. Thomas was no pushover; he had questions. He wanted to see for himself. That was the kind of person he was. That was how his heart and mind worked. While he did receive the gift of certainty---he saw and was invited to touch--- it is obvious that those who will follow will be unable to receive the same assurance he did. We cannot see and touch. Doubt for many of us will have its place, sometimes humbling us as we are reminded that we do not know as much as we think we know.
Martin Luther, the Protestant Reformer, defied Rome, declaring, “My conscience is captive to the Word of God. I cannot and will not recant.” He also said, “It is neither right nor prudent to go against conscience.” Luther did not believe that conscience was infallible any more than Bonhoeffer thought it was, but they both believed it was a strong guide, as imperfect as it is. God can and does speak through conscience, but we cannot hear and understand infallibly. Bonhoeffer’s conscience was committed to pacifism, and yet he acted against it. But consider the possibility that living with a clean conscience may not be the ultimate religious goal. Bonhoeffer’s life and death remind us that God calls us to act not with certainty but with faith—not faith in the rightness of our actions and the purity of our conscience, but faith in the love and mercy of God. If that is where our faith is placed, we can live with doubt; we can live without absolute certainty. And that is faith.
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen at
The First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
April 24, 2022
On April 9, 1945, which was the Sunday after Easter, the German Lutheran pastor and theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, was conducting a worship service for a small group of men being held in the concentration camp at Flossenburg, Germany. He had been imprisoned for two years, and just a few days before, he had been transported to this new location. Bonhoeffer read the scriptures and preached a sermon, directly related to the meaning of their imprisonment and the hope that God would use it for a new beginning. Suddenly the door flung open. “Prisoner Bonhoeffer, come with us.” Everyone, including Bonhoeffer, knew exactly what this meant. Drawing one of his friends aside, he said, “This is the end, but for me, the beginning of new life.”
The only account of his death came from the prison doctor, who said that after the verdict was read, Bonhoeffer kneeled on the floor and prayed fervently. “I was deeply moved by the way this man prayed, so devout and certain that God heard his prayer. At the place of execution he once again said a short prayer, climbed the steps to the gallows, brave and composed. In the almost 50 years of my service as a doctor, I have never seen anyone approach death so submissive to God.”
Dietrich Bonhoeffer is certainly one of the 20th century’s heroes of the Christian faith. Having grown up in an aristocratic and highly educated German family, he shocked his parents when he told them he was interested in studying theology. The family, after all, was not at all religious. His father was a famous psychiatrist and professor; his brothers studied law and science, but his parents believed strongly that their children should follow their interests, and so, even though they had strong misgivings about the church, they encouraged their son. He was an outstanding student, wrote two doctoral dissertations, and undoubtedly would have had a brilliant academic career---had the war not come.
Germany had a state church, and so when Hitler came to power, all Lutheran clergy, whose paychecks were signed by the state, were required to take an oath of loyalty to Hitler. Many, of course, did so willingly, while others signed with great misgivings, and still others would not sign at all. Bonhoeffer not only refused to sign, but he also helped to establish a resistance seminary at which he taught until it was closed by the Gestapo in 1937. Considering the taking of this oath to be an act of heresy, he said there is only one head of the church and that is Jesus Christ. There can be no pledge of absolute loyalty to anyone or anything except Christ. As a committed pacifist, he argued that the duty of the church is to stand with the victims, to work and pray for peace, and to love the neighbor as well as the enemy.
By 1941 Bonhoeffer had joined the anti-Nazi movement through the German military intelligence, which was seeking to overthrow Hitler. At first, he did no more than bring messages back and forth between Germany and England. But finally, all participants in the plot---even those like Bonhoeffer, whose role was not directly violent---were asked to agree that if the opportunity should come, they would be willing to end Hitler’s life. Now this constituted a terrible religious crisis for Bonhoeffer, who did not believe God ever commanded murder or assassination, not even the murder of a murderer. He despised what Hitler represented, but he also believed that Hitler was loved by God just as much as he was. He did not know what he should do, and all his prayers brought him no final answer.
On one cold afternoon in 1943 the conspirators met in a tiny room. All stood in a circle, while a gun was passed around, and if you could accept the gun, you were in the plot. If not, you were out. “There is no shame here,” one of the men said. “There are religious men among us whose conscience may not permit their participation in assassination.” Bonhoeffer stood in the circle and watched as the gun made its way toward him. One man took it; then the next and the next; someone stepped out, and the gun traveled to the next man. Soon it will come to me, Bonhoeffer thought, and still, I do not know what I will do, what I must do, what it is God would have me do. When the gun came to him, he put out his hand and took it. “God,” he prayed, “if this is your will, I need your mercy. If this is not your will, I need your mercy. Every moment of my life, I need your mercy.”
Consider that prayer and what it means for us in the context of our lives today as well as in the context of our Gospel reading. We live in an age, where many people claim that certitude is strength, while ambiguity and uncertainty are dismissed as weakness and confusion. The common assumption is that uncertainty and ambiguity lead to inaction and confusion, and so many people, across our globe, are drawn to religions and politics, which offer certainty, the knowing assurance of God’s will. Consider again Bonhoeffer’s words: “If this is your will, I need your mercy; if this is not your will, I need your mercy. Every moment of my life, I need your mercy.”
It was not the certainty of knowing God’s will, which led Bonhoeffer to act, for he realized that neither he nor any other human being could claim that certainty for his or her own. Rather, it was the conviction of the universal need for mercy, which finally gave him the courage to act, to take upon himself the responsibility for his decision. He picked up the gun, not seeking God’s approval, but acknowledging his need for mercy.
He had been part of the active resistance for four years, having been drawn in by his brother in law, who was a lawyer and took a stand against the Nazis based on his strong commitment to justice. His brother in law, in an attempt to get him to join the resistance, actually showed him pictures of Nazi atrocities. Bonhoeffer was horrified, but he still struggled, because his resistance to the Nazis and the German state was not so much about justice as it was about faithfulness. Faithfulness to Jesus Christ meant that no Christian could claim final loyalty to Hitler. But what form the resistance should take was never completely settled in his mind. He acted and decided without complete assurance that his actions and decisions conformed to God’s will. He lived with doubt, and he never expected faith to remove all doubt.
And this is why Thomas is so important. His story is in the gospel for a reason, reminding us how varied human personalities are and how those varieties bring different perspectives to life’s sundry situations. Thomas was no pushover; he had questions. He wanted to see for himself. That was the kind of person he was. That was how his heart and mind worked. While he did receive the gift of certainty---he saw and was invited to touch--- it is obvious that those who will follow will be unable to receive the same assurance he did. We cannot see and touch. Doubt for many of us will have its place, sometimes humbling us as we are reminded that we do not know as much as we think we know.
Martin Luther, the Protestant Reformer, defied Rome, declaring, “My conscience is captive to the Word of God. I cannot and will not recant.” He also said, “It is neither right nor prudent to go against conscience.” Luther did not believe that conscience was infallible any more than Bonhoeffer thought it was, but they both believed it was a strong guide, as imperfect as it is. God can and does speak through conscience, but we cannot hear and understand infallibly. Bonhoeffer’s conscience was committed to pacifism, and yet he acted against it. But consider the possibility that living with a clean conscience may not be the ultimate religious goal. Bonhoeffer’s life and death remind us that God calls us to act not with certainty but with faith—not faith in the rightness of our actions and the purity of our conscience, but faith in the love and mercy of God. If that is where our faith is placed, we can live with doubt; we can live without absolute certainty. And that is faith.
April 26, 2022
Dear Friends,
About five years ago or so, my husband and I spent a week in Padua, Italy. Padua is famous for the Arena Chapel, which boasts of Giotto’s famous frescoes on the church walls. It is also home to a university, founded in 1222 by students and faculty from Bologna, who wanted a place where thought and ideas could be freely debated. It the 16th and 17th centuries it became a workshop of ideas, where such giants as Copernicus and Galileo taught. Galileo said the earth was NOT the center of the universe, a teaching he was forced to recant by the Church on pain of death, but he realized that eventually truth would win out, which it did. Padua also became a center for medical study, though once again the Church tried to prevent autopsies, though this method was the preferred way people could understand the workings of the human body. Autopsies were performed on tables whose tops could be overturned and the body deposited below as soon as a signal was given that a Church official was about to make an entrance!
I found myself thinking about Padua lately, when I came across an article about the discovery of “other worlds.” We know that our universe is full of other worlds, orbiting their own suns. While men like Galileo and Copernicus assumed this to be the case, now we know, because of what telescopes have allowed us to see. About 30 years ago astronomers began to detect signs of worlds beyond our own solar system, and as the decades have marched on and telescopes have become more sophisticated, the number of other worlds we know about has expanded. Now, according to NASA the current number is 5,005, but still counting! Exoplanets, as they are called, can be much smaller than Mercury or double the size of Jupiter. They can be cold or hot, rocky, or gaseous. There are planets close to our sun, around 4 light years away, and others that are thousands of light years away. And now astronomers confidently claim that our Milky Way has more planets than stars!
But all this knowledge and research has not yielded life on another planet. We human beings so far have not found any company! There have been planets discovered around the size of Earth with conditions that should be right for water, but so far no evidence of life. It is possible, astronomers claim, that another 5000 worlds could be discovered, but that does not mean that life would be there. We may remain all alone.
Astronomers are both delighted and confused by these exoplanets. There is an abundance of Jupiter like planets---giant and incredibly hot, circling their stars in a matter of days. This fact has confused astronomers, who, for the longest time had a theory of planet formation, which could not account for such huge gaseous planets, sidling up to their suns. Theories must eventually give way to truth, which is exactly what Galileo counted on. There are seven planets around a star named TRAPPIST-1 about 40 light years away from our Earth. But their sun is only the size of Jupiter, and a year on the planet that is the farthest out, only lasts 20 days. Three of these planets could possibly have life, and it is hoped that the James Webb Space Telescope will be able to detect certain molecules that could suggest life.
But so far scientists are concluding that an Earth-like planet is very rare. No comparable world with a chemically rich atmosphere and temperatures allowing water to stick around rather than boiling way has yet been discovered. Even if 20,000 planets are discovered, there is no guarantee that life will be there. The question is: Is life in the universe common or not? So far the answer seems to be NOT
Our Psalms are filled with praises to a God, who is celebrated as the author of creation. And the Book of Job, which is an argument with God about human suffering, also celebrates the work of a creative God whom human beings can neither control nor understand. And the more we learn about this incredible creation, the more awestruck we can become. As the Psalms sing, “Oh, how majestic are the works of God.”
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
About five years ago or so, my husband and I spent a week in Padua, Italy. Padua is famous for the Arena Chapel, which boasts of Giotto’s famous frescoes on the church walls. It is also home to a university, founded in 1222 by students and faculty from Bologna, who wanted a place where thought and ideas could be freely debated. It the 16th and 17th centuries it became a workshop of ideas, where such giants as Copernicus and Galileo taught. Galileo said the earth was NOT the center of the universe, a teaching he was forced to recant by the Church on pain of death, but he realized that eventually truth would win out, which it did. Padua also became a center for medical study, though once again the Church tried to prevent autopsies, though this method was the preferred way people could understand the workings of the human body. Autopsies were performed on tables whose tops could be overturned and the body deposited below as soon as a signal was given that a Church official was about to make an entrance!
I found myself thinking about Padua lately, when I came across an article about the discovery of “other worlds.” We know that our universe is full of other worlds, orbiting their own suns. While men like Galileo and Copernicus assumed this to be the case, now we know, because of what telescopes have allowed us to see. About 30 years ago astronomers began to detect signs of worlds beyond our own solar system, and as the decades have marched on and telescopes have become more sophisticated, the number of other worlds we know about has expanded. Now, according to NASA the current number is 5,005, but still counting! Exoplanets, as they are called, can be much smaller than Mercury or double the size of Jupiter. They can be cold or hot, rocky, or gaseous. There are planets close to our sun, around 4 light years away, and others that are thousands of light years away. And now astronomers confidently claim that our Milky Way has more planets than stars!
But all this knowledge and research has not yielded life on another planet. We human beings so far have not found any company! There have been planets discovered around the size of Earth with conditions that should be right for water, but so far no evidence of life. It is possible, astronomers claim, that another 5000 worlds could be discovered, but that does not mean that life would be there. We may remain all alone.
Astronomers are both delighted and confused by these exoplanets. There is an abundance of Jupiter like planets---giant and incredibly hot, circling their stars in a matter of days. This fact has confused astronomers, who, for the longest time had a theory of planet formation, which could not account for such huge gaseous planets, sidling up to their suns. Theories must eventually give way to truth, which is exactly what Galileo counted on. There are seven planets around a star named TRAPPIST-1 about 40 light years away from our Earth. But their sun is only the size of Jupiter, and a year on the planet that is the farthest out, only lasts 20 days. Three of these planets could possibly have life, and it is hoped that the James Webb Space Telescope will be able to detect certain molecules that could suggest life.
But so far scientists are concluding that an Earth-like planet is very rare. No comparable world with a chemically rich atmosphere and temperatures allowing water to stick around rather than boiling way has yet been discovered. Even if 20,000 planets are discovered, there is no guarantee that life will be there. The question is: Is life in the universe common or not? So far the answer seems to be NOT
Our Psalms are filled with praises to a God, who is celebrated as the author of creation. And the Book of Job, which is an argument with God about human suffering, also celebrates the work of a creative God whom human beings can neither control nor understand. And the more we learn about this incredible creation, the more awestruck we can become. As the Psalms sing, “Oh, how majestic are the works of God.”
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
April 19, 2022
Dear Friends,
My reflection letter this week is not my own words. Instead, I am enclosing an opinion piece from the Washington Post by Michael Gerson. I found it very, very moving, and I hope it moves you as well, while challenging you to think and move more deeply into the mystery of faith, which always must confront the issue of evil.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
OPINION PIECE FROM THE WASHINGTON POST, APRIL 18, 2022
BY: MICHAEL GERSON
This is a horrible and sacred story I hesitate to use. But it is being reenacted in our time.
In “Night,” Elie Wiesel describes the execution by hanging of two Jewish men and a boy, conducted before the entire camp at Auschwitz. “The men died quickly,” Wiesel wrote, “but the death struggle of the boy lasted half an hour. ‘Where is God? Where is he?’ a man behind me asked. As the boy, after a long time, was still in agony on the rope, I heard the man cry again, ‘Where is God now?’ and I heard a voice within me answer, ‘Here he is — he is hanging here on this gallows.”
Think of the last few weeks in Ukraine — the children killed at a train station in Kramatorsk, the streets of Bucha scattered with tortured corpses, the gathered cries of Mariupol. The world seems bound on some hideous wheel, destined to repeat its worst crimes. It wasn’t enough to stain European history with the Holocaust and the gulags. Now, there are new leaders pursuing their cause through human sacrifice.
For many, I suspect, this mass of suffering overshadowed their Passover, Ramadan or Easter celebrations. We consume the media reports of terrible events. We long for unlikely justice. But none of this touches the human need for explanation amid tragedy. Where is God?
The boy on the gallows is not a Christian story. But it has Christian resonance. It is not only that God is on the side of the victim, though he surely is. It is that the founder of this faith was also the victim of a slow execution. And if God was somehow uniquely present in this person, it was God who subjected himself to a full dose of human malice.
The cross measured the depth of the divine descent. The faithless friends. The bloody sweat. The thorny crown. The nails. The beam. The cry of thirst. The call upon a vanished God: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” It is the strangest portion of an unlikely story: The godforsaken Christ. The godforsaken God.
The Christian faith does not set out a philosophy explaining the problem of evil. It responds, instead, with a person. It answers an experience of pain with an experience of pain. It offers the fellowship of suffering. In the process, it gives permission for grief, outrage, even despair. Yet it also raises the prospect of a dramatic reversal. A hope on the far side of anguish. A homecoming on the far side of death. An assurance that the violent will not inherit the earth.
We see the same struggles not only in world historic events but also in the course of nearly every life. In the death of a child from a lingering disease, in a cruel cancer diagnosis, in the self-crucifixion of depression. Every minute is someone’s last minute. Even the bravest and loveliest decay to dust.
There are immoral responses to this tragic state of affairs: to live in smug indifference, or to feed endlessly on our own bitterness. Yet there are also moral reactions. We can live in revolt against a cruel and meaningless world, adopting the existentialists’ hopeless heroism and embracing goodness and justice in a doomed enterprise. Or we can live in the hope that there is a deeper meaning, even if we do not fully comprehend it.
This kind of faith — shared by many faiths — is not an opiate or a self-help manual. It is not a call to look on the bright side. It is certainly not the sanctification of our political predispositions. Rather, it calls the bluff of our deepest beliefs. If we want mercy, we should be merciful. If we demand justice, we must be just. If we hate murder, we should examine our own consuming rage. If we seek deliverance, we should be the source of someone else’s deliverance.
This holds true on the largest matters of state action. Our friends in Ukraine give their lives willingly. Russian forces take lives randomly, show no mercy or remorse, and plan to expand the scope and scale of their murder. There has seldom been a clearer moral case for collective action to deliver a nation-state from evil. Failure would be a source of danger and of shame. A similar moral framework applies on a smaller scale. Humans live in a democracy of vulnerability. We are alike in our susceptibility to pain and loss. We are equal in our capacity for hope and heroism.
This is the message of the cross and the empty tomb. God is on the side of the boy on the gallows and the man on the cross. Even amid horror, some vital purpose is making itself known. Against all my doubts, I choose to believe in a God with scars.
Dear Friends,
My reflection letter this week is not my own words. Instead, I am enclosing an opinion piece from the Washington Post by Michael Gerson. I found it very, very moving, and I hope it moves you as well, while challenging you to think and move more deeply into the mystery of faith, which always must confront the issue of evil.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
OPINION PIECE FROM THE WASHINGTON POST, APRIL 18, 2022
BY: MICHAEL GERSON
This is a horrible and sacred story I hesitate to use. But it is being reenacted in our time.
In “Night,” Elie Wiesel describes the execution by hanging of two Jewish men and a boy, conducted before the entire camp at Auschwitz. “The men died quickly,” Wiesel wrote, “but the death struggle of the boy lasted half an hour. ‘Where is God? Where is he?’ a man behind me asked. As the boy, after a long time, was still in agony on the rope, I heard the man cry again, ‘Where is God now?’ and I heard a voice within me answer, ‘Here he is — he is hanging here on this gallows.”
Think of the last few weeks in Ukraine — the children killed at a train station in Kramatorsk, the streets of Bucha scattered with tortured corpses, the gathered cries of Mariupol. The world seems bound on some hideous wheel, destined to repeat its worst crimes. It wasn’t enough to stain European history with the Holocaust and the gulags. Now, there are new leaders pursuing their cause through human sacrifice.
For many, I suspect, this mass of suffering overshadowed their Passover, Ramadan or Easter celebrations. We consume the media reports of terrible events. We long for unlikely justice. But none of this touches the human need for explanation amid tragedy. Where is God?
The boy on the gallows is not a Christian story. But it has Christian resonance. It is not only that God is on the side of the victim, though he surely is. It is that the founder of this faith was also the victim of a slow execution. And if God was somehow uniquely present in this person, it was God who subjected himself to a full dose of human malice.
The cross measured the depth of the divine descent. The faithless friends. The bloody sweat. The thorny crown. The nails. The beam. The cry of thirst. The call upon a vanished God: “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” It is the strangest portion of an unlikely story: The godforsaken Christ. The godforsaken God.
The Christian faith does not set out a philosophy explaining the problem of evil. It responds, instead, with a person. It answers an experience of pain with an experience of pain. It offers the fellowship of suffering. In the process, it gives permission for grief, outrage, even despair. Yet it also raises the prospect of a dramatic reversal. A hope on the far side of anguish. A homecoming on the far side of death. An assurance that the violent will not inherit the earth.
We see the same struggles not only in world historic events but also in the course of nearly every life. In the death of a child from a lingering disease, in a cruel cancer diagnosis, in the self-crucifixion of depression. Every minute is someone’s last minute. Even the bravest and loveliest decay to dust.
There are immoral responses to this tragic state of affairs: to live in smug indifference, or to feed endlessly on our own bitterness. Yet there are also moral reactions. We can live in revolt against a cruel and meaningless world, adopting the existentialists’ hopeless heroism and embracing goodness and justice in a doomed enterprise. Or we can live in the hope that there is a deeper meaning, even if we do not fully comprehend it.
This kind of faith — shared by many faiths — is not an opiate or a self-help manual. It is not a call to look on the bright side. It is certainly not the sanctification of our political predispositions. Rather, it calls the bluff of our deepest beliefs. If we want mercy, we should be merciful. If we demand justice, we must be just. If we hate murder, we should examine our own consuming rage. If we seek deliverance, we should be the source of someone else’s deliverance.
This holds true on the largest matters of state action. Our friends in Ukraine give their lives willingly. Russian forces take lives randomly, show no mercy or remorse, and plan to expand the scope and scale of their murder. There has seldom been a clearer moral case for collective action to deliver a nation-state from evil. Failure would be a source of danger and of shame. A similar moral framework applies on a smaller scale. Humans live in a democracy of vulnerability. We are alike in our susceptibility to pain and loss. We are equal in our capacity for hope and heroism.
This is the message of the cross and the empty tomb. God is on the side of the boy on the gallows and the man on the cross. Even amid horror, some vital purpose is making itself known. Against all my doubts, I choose to believe in a God with scars.
THE PART ABOUT THE ANGEL?
Preached by Sandra Olsen,
Maundy Thursday, April 14, 2022
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
I always hated it when my beeper went off because it usually signified a crisis. And so, when I heard my beeper on Maundy Thursday of 1990, my heart leapt to my throat. I called a number I did not recognize, which I hoped was a good sign. The message was from a doctor from the high risk pregnancy unit, who wanted to see me IMMEDIATELY. “Look,” he said, I understand that you have been talking to Linda so and so, an Aids patient. She’s dying and she knows it, and I want to do an immediate C section, but she says no go. If I don’t get that baby out now, not only will we lose the mother, but also the baby. Can’t you talk some sense into her?
Sense: a rather strange one to use for someone who had lived the last 10 years of her life as a street walker, and now at 26 years of age, was going to die. What did sense have to do with it? Linda had grown up in an abusive home; at fourteen she ran away from a father who had impregnated her, and then beat her to a bloody pulp for getting pregnant. Her life was a series of wrecks no human being should ever have to endure, let alone recover from. Linda did not recover, and eventually she came down with Aids.
She was not an easy person to be with. I did not like her any more than she liked me. As far as she was concerned, I was next to useless, BUT according to her, not as useless as God. At least, she said to me one day, you show up now and then, which is more than God does.
The ironic thing about Linda was that as much as she denied God, she couldn’t get God out of her life. Sometimes she cursed God; and other days she just lamented that God never helped her. According to Linda not only did God abandon her, but He also abandoned her three kids, all of whom were in foster care. The social worker told me that two of the children suffered from serious neurological damage due to her crack addiction and the oldest child was blind, probably due to fetal alcohol syndrome. I may be guilty, Linda confessed, but my kids didn’t do a thing but be born. Got no use for a God who visits the sins of the parents on the children. Where’s the justice in that? I told her I didn’t think it had anything to do with justice. It is just the way things are. God does not stop the blood from flowing if you slice your hand open with a knife, I said. “So why do you believe in God, if God can’t help?” she wanted to know. Because I’ve got no place else to go, I answered.
One of the nurses told me that Linda liked that answer, though of course she would never have told me that. I guess she preferred God being a place rather than a person. Since practically everyone in her life had used or abused her, and since she spent a good part of her life homeless, place came to mean more to her than person. Well as you can see, Linda was not stupid. She was smart, smart enough to figure out that as a pregnant Aids patient, she was entitled to a lot better care than if she were simply an Aids afflicted street walker. For the first time in a few years, she actually had a place to live, a place she called home. At least I’m not going to die homeless, she told the social worker.
Linda was a lightning rod of controversy. One of her doctors, the one who beeped me, wanted to do immediate surgery on a baby of 32 weeks gestation---40 weeks is full term. Linda was going down hill fast, and the baby was showing serious signs of distress. Another doctor thought that the primary responsibility was to the mother not to the baby. We have to keep her alive as long as we can, he insisted. Her baby is not the primary patient. And so, the two argued, and argued, and as things became even more critical, the two doctors argued even more.
Sometime in mid afternoon on Maundy Thursday, Linda asked to see me. She pulled a Bible out from under the bed sheets. Do you know the part about Jesus, when he prays that he won’t have to die? You mean the Garden of Gethsemane? I said. It’s right before he goes to the cross, I said. She looked up at me and asked, “What about the part with the angel?” The angel? “Yeh, the part when the angel comes and helps Jesus.” In that moment I had no recollection of any angel. Linda handed me a Bible and said, “Could you find the angel part for me?” I heard someone read it on the radio this morning, but I don’t know where it is. You must know. I need the part where the angel helps Jesus.” Desperation was choking her voice. Quickly flipping to the Gethsemane scenes in Matthew and Mark, I confirmed to myself that there was no angel there. And then I turned to Luke. Ah yes, here it is. Read it, she commanded, the part where the angel comes. “Then he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, Father if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will, but yours be done. Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground.”
I stopped reading, and the whole world seemed to stop with me. Linda broke the silence: Do you believe that, the part about the angel helping him? Fixing her gaze on me, she did not give me much time to form either my thoughts or my words. I had been educated to be suspicious of angels, those winged creatures, who speak God’s truth and bring God’s help. My education had been a journey into critical biblical scholarship, which tells us that it is probable that the angel was not part of Luke’s original Gospel, since important early manuscripts lack those sentences. Besides, I had been taught to reason, and angels were outside the realm of reason. Nonetheless, I looked Linda straight in the eye, and with no audible or visible hesitation, answered, “Yes, I believe.” “Oh,” she said. “I thought that maybe you were the kind of person who doesn’t believe in angels.”
That was the last time I ever spoke with Linda. That night she consented to undergo an emergency C-section from which she never regained consciousness. She died three days later after delivering a baby girl, who later proved to be free of the Aids virus. I can recall exactly the words the doctor used to communicate that good news. “We always think of the placenta as a bloody sieve,” he said, ”but it turns out in some cases it’s more impervious than we give it credit for.” Impervious, of course, means unable to pass or get through. The placenta does prevent some things, including viruses, from getting through to the baby. But something did get through to Linda and her baby. An angel, an angel that I did not even remember was there, an angel that most of us have a very hard time believing in, an angel that even the early Lucan manuscripts left out, and Matthew and Mark make no mention of. Impervious is a fitting description of the human condition. We are often impervious, impervious to God, impervious to grace, impervious to an angel. How ironic that in the last few hours of this poor battered woman’s life, she opened herself up to something that most of us could miss and dismiss. Who believes in angels, anyway? Perhaps those who are so broken that they have no place to wander except to the cross and from there to the tomb, where they hear the question posed by the angels, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” Why indeed?
Preached by Sandra Olsen,
Maundy Thursday, April 14, 2022
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
I always hated it when my beeper went off because it usually signified a crisis. And so, when I heard my beeper on Maundy Thursday of 1990, my heart leapt to my throat. I called a number I did not recognize, which I hoped was a good sign. The message was from a doctor from the high risk pregnancy unit, who wanted to see me IMMEDIATELY. “Look,” he said, I understand that you have been talking to Linda so and so, an Aids patient. She’s dying and she knows it, and I want to do an immediate C section, but she says no go. If I don’t get that baby out now, not only will we lose the mother, but also the baby. Can’t you talk some sense into her?
Sense: a rather strange one to use for someone who had lived the last 10 years of her life as a street walker, and now at 26 years of age, was going to die. What did sense have to do with it? Linda had grown up in an abusive home; at fourteen she ran away from a father who had impregnated her, and then beat her to a bloody pulp for getting pregnant. Her life was a series of wrecks no human being should ever have to endure, let alone recover from. Linda did not recover, and eventually she came down with Aids.
She was not an easy person to be with. I did not like her any more than she liked me. As far as she was concerned, I was next to useless, BUT according to her, not as useless as God. At least, she said to me one day, you show up now and then, which is more than God does.
The ironic thing about Linda was that as much as she denied God, she couldn’t get God out of her life. Sometimes she cursed God; and other days she just lamented that God never helped her. According to Linda not only did God abandon her, but He also abandoned her three kids, all of whom were in foster care. The social worker told me that two of the children suffered from serious neurological damage due to her crack addiction and the oldest child was blind, probably due to fetal alcohol syndrome. I may be guilty, Linda confessed, but my kids didn’t do a thing but be born. Got no use for a God who visits the sins of the parents on the children. Where’s the justice in that? I told her I didn’t think it had anything to do with justice. It is just the way things are. God does not stop the blood from flowing if you slice your hand open with a knife, I said. “So why do you believe in God, if God can’t help?” she wanted to know. Because I’ve got no place else to go, I answered.
One of the nurses told me that Linda liked that answer, though of course she would never have told me that. I guess she preferred God being a place rather than a person. Since practically everyone in her life had used or abused her, and since she spent a good part of her life homeless, place came to mean more to her than person. Well as you can see, Linda was not stupid. She was smart, smart enough to figure out that as a pregnant Aids patient, she was entitled to a lot better care than if she were simply an Aids afflicted street walker. For the first time in a few years, she actually had a place to live, a place she called home. At least I’m not going to die homeless, she told the social worker.
Linda was a lightning rod of controversy. One of her doctors, the one who beeped me, wanted to do immediate surgery on a baby of 32 weeks gestation---40 weeks is full term. Linda was going down hill fast, and the baby was showing serious signs of distress. Another doctor thought that the primary responsibility was to the mother not to the baby. We have to keep her alive as long as we can, he insisted. Her baby is not the primary patient. And so, the two argued, and argued, and as things became even more critical, the two doctors argued even more.
Sometime in mid afternoon on Maundy Thursday, Linda asked to see me. She pulled a Bible out from under the bed sheets. Do you know the part about Jesus, when he prays that he won’t have to die? You mean the Garden of Gethsemane? I said. It’s right before he goes to the cross, I said. She looked up at me and asked, “What about the part with the angel?” The angel? “Yeh, the part when the angel comes and helps Jesus.” In that moment I had no recollection of any angel. Linda handed me a Bible and said, “Could you find the angel part for me?” I heard someone read it on the radio this morning, but I don’t know where it is. You must know. I need the part where the angel helps Jesus.” Desperation was choking her voice. Quickly flipping to the Gethsemane scenes in Matthew and Mark, I confirmed to myself that there was no angel there. And then I turned to Luke. Ah yes, here it is. Read it, she commanded, the part where the angel comes. “Then he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, Father if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will, but yours be done. Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength. In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground.”
I stopped reading, and the whole world seemed to stop with me. Linda broke the silence: Do you believe that, the part about the angel helping him? Fixing her gaze on me, she did not give me much time to form either my thoughts or my words. I had been educated to be suspicious of angels, those winged creatures, who speak God’s truth and bring God’s help. My education had been a journey into critical biblical scholarship, which tells us that it is probable that the angel was not part of Luke’s original Gospel, since important early manuscripts lack those sentences. Besides, I had been taught to reason, and angels were outside the realm of reason. Nonetheless, I looked Linda straight in the eye, and with no audible or visible hesitation, answered, “Yes, I believe.” “Oh,” she said. “I thought that maybe you were the kind of person who doesn’t believe in angels.”
That was the last time I ever spoke with Linda. That night she consented to undergo an emergency C-section from which she never regained consciousness. She died three days later after delivering a baby girl, who later proved to be free of the Aids virus. I can recall exactly the words the doctor used to communicate that good news. “We always think of the placenta as a bloody sieve,” he said, ”but it turns out in some cases it’s more impervious than we give it credit for.” Impervious, of course, means unable to pass or get through. The placenta does prevent some things, including viruses, from getting through to the baby. But something did get through to Linda and her baby. An angel, an angel that I did not even remember was there, an angel that most of us have a very hard time believing in, an angel that even the early Lucan manuscripts left out, and Matthew and Mark make no mention of. Impervious is a fitting description of the human condition. We are often impervious, impervious to God, impervious to grace, impervious to an angel. How ironic that in the last few hours of this poor battered woman’s life, she opened herself up to something that most of us could miss and dismiss. Who believes in angels, anyway? Perhaps those who are so broken that they have no place to wander except to the cross and from there to the tomb, where they hear the question posed by the angels, “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” Why indeed?
TURNING POINTS
Easter Sunday, April 17, 2022
First Church of Christ, Unionville, CT
Preached By: The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen
John 20:1-18
Exactly 50 years ago today, on April 17, 1972, a turning point for women happened. That was the first year women were allowed to compete in the Boston Marathon. Eight women ran that year, and Nina Kuscsik was the first woman to finish, but all eight women completed the 26.2 mile course. In 1966 Roberta Gibb had wanted to run, but she could not get an official number, so she hid in the bushes and jumped out when the race began. The following year, Kathrine Switzer registered as K.V. Switzer, and was in the lineup to begin the race, when an official noticed she was a woman. He tried to pull off her bib number and remove her from the race, but Kathrine’s boyfriend pushed the man to the ground and Kathrine ran, finishing the race in four hours 20 minutes. It was indeed a turning point.
Well, that first Easter so long ago in a corner of the world near Jerusalem, was also a turning point---a turning point in history. And like the Boston Marathon it also involved running, at least according to John’s gospel. Mary Magdalene does not figure very much in John’s gospel, and despite what you have heard about her, Mary Magdalene was NOT a prostitute or the woman caught in adultery in John 8. That was something the Church, run by males, I might add, decided in the year 591, but the injustice done to Mary Magdalene is a subject is for another sermon. So here we have Mary on this first Easter morning on her way to the tomb. It was still dark, John’s gospel claims, though Matthew, Mark and Luke all make a point of saying the sun was rising and there was morning light. But for the Gospel of John, dark isn’t about the time of day. It means opposition to God’s promise of new life. It’s being without hope, filled with fear and anxiety. The darkness of John’s gospel can happen when you are sitting in the blaring light of an emergency room, waiting for the doctor to come out and tell you something you cannot bear to hear. And when you finally hear it, the dark becomes even darker.
And that is the kind of darkness Mary Magdalene was in. She was devastated because her beloved friend and teacher was dead. She was alone, which
might lead us to wonder how she thought she was going to gain entrance to the tomb with a stone in front of it. Women were the ones, who washed the dead body and anointed it with oils and spices. Perhaps she planned to meet other women there; we don’t know. But when she saw that the stone had been rolled away, she immediately ran to Peter and the other disciple whom Jesus loved, often called John, and told them Jesus’ body was gone. The text does not tell us that she entered the tomb and carefully assessed the situation. No, she ran, perhaps in fear and panic, and then Peter and John also ran to the tomb. We have a copy of a famous painting on the cover of the bulletin---Peter and John racing to the tomb.
John outran Peter, but though he looked in, he did not enter. Rather he let Peter be the first to enter. They saw the linen wrappings and the covering for the head, neatly wrapped, lying by itself---most likely an indication that graverobbers had not taken the body, since why would robbers take the time to wrap the linens into a neat pile? And then John and Peter went home. But this time, however, they did not run. They apparently believed something, though we are not sure what it was they believed. Maybe they simply believed what Mary said---the body was gone. No one said anything about Jesus being alive or resurrected.
But Mary did not leave with the disciples. She remained, weeping at the tomb, because she did not know where her beloved Jesus was. She even mistook Jesus for the gardener, and it was only when he called her name, when she felt the intimate connection that she recognized him. She would have held on to him, or clung to him as some translations read, but he would not let her. There would be no holding on, no returning to what once was. After this she went to the disciples and told them that she had seen Jesus. Notice that although there has been a lot of running in the text, when she goes to the disciples the word used is went, not ran.
The Bible is really a lens we use to look at the human condition and God. John Calvin, the Protestant reformer, used to say the bible contains two kinds of knowledge: knowledge of self and knowledge of God. And what we initially see in this story is human beings in a kind of tizzy. We have no acclamation of joy---Jesus is risen--- but rather we see struggle and weeping. The two disciples ran toward the tomb as Mary had run to the disciples’ home, telling them that Jesus’ body had been taken away. There is initially chaos, or maybe it was panic and then deep sadness as Mary gave into her grief. The text mentions Mary’s weeping four times. And isn’t this how life sometimes is? We can panic when we do not understand what is happening or why, as Mary initially did. Fear, in fact, can morph into panic. Sometimes we run away from the panic and at other times we run toward it, because we are trying, like the disciples, to understand what has happened. And we run with our hearts pounding and our stomachs, twisted into knots. And then, like Mary, we may find ourselves weeping because we feel bereft, alone, and helpless.
A week ago or so I came across an article, entitled, Resurrection, and I thought it might offer some new perspectives on the resurrection stories in the Bible. It told the story of black people in the state of Mississippi in the 60’s, as they tried to register to vote. Freedom Riders tried to help with the registration, and three of them, James Chaney, Michael Schwerner and Andrew Goodman were cold bloodily murdered in 1964, one of the murderers, a Baptist preacher by the name of Edward Ray Killen, who was finally convicted on three counts of manslaughter and sentenced to 60 years in jail, where he died in 2018.
Well, this one night people were at a church meeting, when suddenly the KKK showed up with cans of gasoline to burn the church to the ground and terrorize the people. And they succeeded. People were in a complete panic, and this one young man, in his early 20’s, remembers running through the darkness. “Panic took hold of me because I knew what could happen if I were caught,” he said. “And I was terrified for my parents. I remember my father yelling, “Run, Allen, run.” And so, I ran. I ran for my life. At first, I ran to help my father, who had been shoved hard to the ground. But he pushed me away, ordering me to run. When I arrived home, I just sat in the dark, too terrified to move. A few hours later my parents arrived. We all were safe, and we cried together, out of fear, out of relief, out of anger. Our church was gone, and we knew there would be no successful voter registration---at least not that year. Two other Black churches were also burned, and I can still remember the pastor’s Easter sermon that year. It began as Easter sermons always did in many black churches: But early Sunday morning he got up with all power in his hands. He repeated that line over and over again, and the congregation joined in: But early Sunday morning he got up with all power in his hands. And we all understood that the power God had given to Jesus would also be given to us. We believed, and when President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act of 1965, we felt the power. When my parents and I successfully registered to vote, we did not walk to that place of registration. We ran. And after we had successfully registered, we wept. And the first time we voted, we ran again, and we wept again. We knew that the power Jesus had been given was also given to us.
And there you have it: the resurrection of Jesus Christ should not be reduced to what happened to a tortured and crucified body over 2000 years ago. It isn’t simply about an empty tomb; it is about full life. On this earth. Consider this: the resurrected Jesus never once described his three days in the tomb. He did not talk about his descent into hell, as the Apostle’s Creed confesses. He never once mentioned heaven, or what it felt like to be resurrected. No, his concern was about the work on this earth that required action and commitment. The sick cried out for healing, the orphaned and the widowed needed help as did others, who could not so easily care for themselves. Nations needed to learn the art of peace rather than the folly of war. The resurrection of Jesus points to the promise of new life, the possibility that the old order, where power is asserted to gain more power, is finally overturned and a new order is initiated. Jesus told Mary to tell the other disciples that he would be ascending to his Father; he would be going to God. His work on earth was finished, but there was still work for the followers of Jesus to do, then and now. So, let us try to do it.
Easter Sunday, April 17, 2022
First Church of Christ, Unionville, CT
Preached By: The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen
John 20:1-18
Exactly 50 years ago today, on April 17, 1972, a turning point for women happened. That was the first year women were allowed to compete in the Boston Marathon. Eight women ran that year, and Nina Kuscsik was the first woman to finish, but all eight women completed the 26.2 mile course. In 1966 Roberta Gibb had wanted to run, but she could not get an official number, so she hid in the bushes and jumped out when the race began. The following year, Kathrine Switzer registered as K.V. Switzer, and was in the lineup to begin the race, when an official noticed she was a woman. He tried to pull off her bib number and remove her from the race, but Kathrine’s boyfriend pushed the man to the ground and Kathrine ran, finishing the race in four hours 20 minutes. It was indeed a turning point.
Well, that first Easter so long ago in a corner of the world near Jerusalem, was also a turning point---a turning point in history. And like the Boston Marathon it also involved running, at least according to John’s gospel. Mary Magdalene does not figure very much in John’s gospel, and despite what you have heard about her, Mary Magdalene was NOT a prostitute or the woman caught in adultery in John 8. That was something the Church, run by males, I might add, decided in the year 591, but the injustice done to Mary Magdalene is a subject is for another sermon. So here we have Mary on this first Easter morning on her way to the tomb. It was still dark, John’s gospel claims, though Matthew, Mark and Luke all make a point of saying the sun was rising and there was morning light. But for the Gospel of John, dark isn’t about the time of day. It means opposition to God’s promise of new life. It’s being without hope, filled with fear and anxiety. The darkness of John’s gospel can happen when you are sitting in the blaring light of an emergency room, waiting for the doctor to come out and tell you something you cannot bear to hear. And when you finally hear it, the dark becomes even darker.
And that is the kind of darkness Mary Magdalene was in. She was devastated because her beloved friend and teacher was dead. She was alone, which
might lead us to wonder how she thought she was going to gain entrance to the tomb with a stone in front of it. Women were the ones, who washed the dead body and anointed it with oils and spices. Perhaps she planned to meet other women there; we don’t know. But when she saw that the stone had been rolled away, she immediately ran to Peter and the other disciple whom Jesus loved, often called John, and told them Jesus’ body was gone. The text does not tell us that she entered the tomb and carefully assessed the situation. No, she ran, perhaps in fear and panic, and then Peter and John also ran to the tomb. We have a copy of a famous painting on the cover of the bulletin---Peter and John racing to the tomb.
John outran Peter, but though he looked in, he did not enter. Rather he let Peter be the first to enter. They saw the linen wrappings and the covering for the head, neatly wrapped, lying by itself---most likely an indication that graverobbers had not taken the body, since why would robbers take the time to wrap the linens into a neat pile? And then John and Peter went home. But this time, however, they did not run. They apparently believed something, though we are not sure what it was they believed. Maybe they simply believed what Mary said---the body was gone. No one said anything about Jesus being alive or resurrected.
But Mary did not leave with the disciples. She remained, weeping at the tomb, because she did not know where her beloved Jesus was. She even mistook Jesus for the gardener, and it was only when he called her name, when she felt the intimate connection that she recognized him. She would have held on to him, or clung to him as some translations read, but he would not let her. There would be no holding on, no returning to what once was. After this she went to the disciples and told them that she had seen Jesus. Notice that although there has been a lot of running in the text, when she goes to the disciples the word used is went, not ran.
The Bible is really a lens we use to look at the human condition and God. John Calvin, the Protestant reformer, used to say the bible contains two kinds of knowledge: knowledge of self and knowledge of God. And what we initially see in this story is human beings in a kind of tizzy. We have no acclamation of joy---Jesus is risen--- but rather we see struggle and weeping. The two disciples ran toward the tomb as Mary had run to the disciples’ home, telling them that Jesus’ body had been taken away. There is initially chaos, or maybe it was panic and then deep sadness as Mary gave into her grief. The text mentions Mary’s weeping four times. And isn’t this how life sometimes is? We can panic when we do not understand what is happening or why, as Mary initially did. Fear, in fact, can morph into panic. Sometimes we run away from the panic and at other times we run toward it, because we are trying, like the disciples, to understand what has happened. And we run with our hearts pounding and our stomachs, twisted into knots. And then, like Mary, we may find ourselves weeping because we feel bereft, alone, and helpless.
A week ago or so I came across an article, entitled, Resurrection, and I thought it might offer some new perspectives on the resurrection stories in the Bible. It told the story of black people in the state of Mississippi in the 60’s, as they tried to register to vote. Freedom Riders tried to help with the registration, and three of them, James Chaney, Michael Schwerner and Andrew Goodman were cold bloodily murdered in 1964, one of the murderers, a Baptist preacher by the name of Edward Ray Killen, who was finally convicted on three counts of manslaughter and sentenced to 60 years in jail, where he died in 2018.
Well, this one night people were at a church meeting, when suddenly the KKK showed up with cans of gasoline to burn the church to the ground and terrorize the people. And they succeeded. People were in a complete panic, and this one young man, in his early 20’s, remembers running through the darkness. “Panic took hold of me because I knew what could happen if I were caught,” he said. “And I was terrified for my parents. I remember my father yelling, “Run, Allen, run.” And so, I ran. I ran for my life. At first, I ran to help my father, who had been shoved hard to the ground. But he pushed me away, ordering me to run. When I arrived home, I just sat in the dark, too terrified to move. A few hours later my parents arrived. We all were safe, and we cried together, out of fear, out of relief, out of anger. Our church was gone, and we knew there would be no successful voter registration---at least not that year. Two other Black churches were also burned, and I can still remember the pastor’s Easter sermon that year. It began as Easter sermons always did in many black churches: But early Sunday morning he got up with all power in his hands. He repeated that line over and over again, and the congregation joined in: But early Sunday morning he got up with all power in his hands. And we all understood that the power God had given to Jesus would also be given to us. We believed, and when President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act of 1965, we felt the power. When my parents and I successfully registered to vote, we did not walk to that place of registration. We ran. And after we had successfully registered, we wept. And the first time we voted, we ran again, and we wept again. We knew that the power Jesus had been given was also given to us.
And there you have it: the resurrection of Jesus Christ should not be reduced to what happened to a tortured and crucified body over 2000 years ago. It isn’t simply about an empty tomb; it is about full life. On this earth. Consider this: the resurrected Jesus never once described his three days in the tomb. He did not talk about his descent into hell, as the Apostle’s Creed confesses. He never once mentioned heaven, or what it felt like to be resurrected. No, his concern was about the work on this earth that required action and commitment. The sick cried out for healing, the orphaned and the widowed needed help as did others, who could not so easily care for themselves. Nations needed to learn the art of peace rather than the folly of war. The resurrection of Jesus points to the promise of new life, the possibility that the old order, where power is asserted to gain more power, is finally overturned and a new order is initiated. Jesus told Mary to tell the other disciples that he would be ascending to his Father; he would be going to God. His work on earth was finished, but there was still work for the followers of Jesus to do, then and now. So, let us try to do it.
THE IRONY OF IT ALL!
Palm/Passion Sunday
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
April 10, 2022
Luke 19: 28-40
Mark 15: 1-39
Today is both Palm and Passion Sunday. Our story begins with a parade---the waving of leafy branches, and cries of “Hosanna, Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” And it will end with a Roman centurion, an enemy of the Jews, standing at the foot of the cross, confessing, “Truly, this man was God’s Son.” The irony of it all: from a parade to a crucifixion, from a crucifixion to the confession of Jesus as God’s Son by a centurion, who helped put him to death.
There’s irony in Jesus riding from the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem on a colt, the foal of a donkey, which had never before been ridden. Why a young colt? Well, the Old Testament prophet Zechariah said this was how the Messiah would enter Jerusalem---on a foal of a donkey. And if there was one thing Israel understood about donkeys, it is that they are nothing like mighty war horses. You see Roman soldiers were constantly parading through the streets of Jerusalem, seated on magnificent horses, bred for strength and calm in battle. These rides through the city streets were a constant humiliation and reminder to the Jews that it was Rome, not Israel, who held the power. But no, Israel’s Messiah would not imitate Roman strength. Though the Messiah was expected to lead a mighty battle and be victorious, he would not initiate the charge with a war house, but rather with a donkey! What irony!
So, this Jesus, whom many were hoping was the Messiah, rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, and was greeted with cheers and shouts. Hosanna, the crowd yelled, and that term is not another word for Hooray. It is a petition meaning, “Save us, we pray.” So, this parade was not like our Memorial Day Parades, but rather more like the march from Selma to Montgomery during the Civil Rights Movement, when political change was being demanded and the marchers were facing an enemy, who could violently turn on them in an instant.
But though the people wanted political change, Jesus did not initiate it in the expected way. There would be no battle, as some of his followers wanted or even expected. Some people think that Judas might have been a Zealot in favor of armed rebellion against Rome and was hoping that he could push Jesus into action by betraying him. But, if this is what Judas wanted, this is certainly not what he got.
How ironic that Jesus, whom some desperately wanted to see as a great warrior king, like David, instead showed softness and compassion by weeping over the city of Jerusalem, because it was blind to what really makes for peace. Then, rather than attacking Roman soldiers, he attacked the Temple, throwing out the moneychangers and those selling animals for sacrifice. This really got him into trouble with the Jewish authorities, who wanted him dead. But they could not figure out how to do it, since he had such a strong following among the crowd. And then after expelling the moneychangers, he went about doing what he had always done: teaching. Consider the irony of moving toward his horrible torture and death in Jerusalem, but nonetheless insisting on teaching about the nature of authority, the paying of taxes, and the resurrection of the dead. And when he finally stood before Pilate and was asked, “Are you the King of the Jews,” Jesus simply answered, “You have said so.” That is all he would say to Pilate, and so Pilate, not wishing to get involved in this mess, sent him to Herod.
Remember, Herod was both a king and a Jew, and since Jesus was from Galilee, he was under Herod’s jurisdiction. Now this sending of Jesus to Herod is found ONLY in Luke. And Luke tells us that Herod was curious about Jesus and was glad to have a chance to question him, hoping to learn something. But Jesus would say nothing. How ironic that Jesus, a master of words, whose stories and parables held the rapt attention of crowds, should now become strangely quiet. And so, Herod, along with the chief priests and scribes, mocked and accused Jesus. Herod felt he had no choice but to send Jesus back to Pilate. And then we find another interesting comment, unique to Luke. “That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other. Before this they had been enemies.” How ironic that these two men, whose moral compass was pretty much out of whack, should become friends after their dealings with Jesus. Is it because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, or is something else going on here? Does being in the presence of Jesus completely overturn the old order?
Pilate could find nothing in Jesus, worthy of death, but we know the story---how a man of violence, Barabbas, who had murdered Roman soldiers and would probably murder again, was released, while Jesus, who had never done or counseled violence against anyone, including the Roman state, was the one condemned to die. The irony of it all!
A passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, was compelled by the Roman soldiers to carry Jesus’ cross. Consider the name Simon, ironically the same first name as Simon Peter, the disciple, who denied and deserted Jesus, and along with the other disciples was nowhere in sight. Ironically it was a stranger, who was forced to carry the cross for Jesus. Luke says he came from the country, but Cyrene was a small town in Egypt, populated by Jews, who had gone there to escape persecution in Palestine by the Romans. The irony of it all: that Simon should arrive in Palestine from a haven for Jews in Egypt just in time to carry the cross of one who would be executed as the King of the Jews.
No Jew would ever have expected a crucified Messiah. And that is the greatest irony of all. The righteous one, the blessed one, the chosen one of God is also the one who died a cursed death. The Jews believed that death by crucifixion was not only horribly painful, but also shameful, a humiliation, a curse by God. Though we began by reading Luke’s account of Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, we will end with the reading of Jesus death from Mark’s gospel. Mark is stark. There are no words of forgiveness, no offering of his spirit to God. Jesus died with a loud cry, following a question, which is also an accusation: “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”
And after all this---after the pain, the humiliation, the question, and the accusation, the temple curtain is torn from top to bottom, and ironically what has been hidden is revealed. The Temple curtain separated the inner sanctuary, where God was said to reside, from the rest of the temple, and when it was torn, the God hidden in death ironically became God revealed in new life. And the person who recognized this first in both Mark and Luke, the one who saw who Jesus truly was and is was the enemy, a Roman centurion, who had participated in this whole cruel dance of death. The irony of it all!
When I was a chaplain on a neurosurgery unit, I knew this neurosurgeon, who was always arguing about God with his father, a theologian and a seminary President. He told me when he was 15, he and his buddies were going to swim at night across this lake near his home. His parents expressly forbade him to go. But he disobeyed. The swim across the lake was long and hard, but he was a masterful swimmer, so he was the first to complete the feat. But one of his friends could not make it and was drowning, so, though he was exhausted, he swam out and saved him. “I was the only one there, capable of doing it,” he said. “How ironic that my disobedience became the occasion for the saving of my friend. And when my father found out what had happened, he said to me, “You know what my favorite adjective for God is---neither loving, nor merciful, nor powerful. God is ironic, and so is life. Both God and life are full of ironies. We both tonight learned that lesson once again.” And then he said to me, “I hope you never forget it.” And despite all the arguments I continue to have with my father about God, I haven’t forgotten.”
Palm/Passion Sunday
Preached by The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT
April 10, 2022
Luke 19: 28-40
Mark 15: 1-39
Today is both Palm and Passion Sunday. Our story begins with a parade---the waving of leafy branches, and cries of “Hosanna, Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.” And it will end with a Roman centurion, an enemy of the Jews, standing at the foot of the cross, confessing, “Truly, this man was God’s Son.” The irony of it all: from a parade to a crucifixion, from a crucifixion to the confession of Jesus as God’s Son by a centurion, who helped put him to death.
There’s irony in Jesus riding from the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem on a colt, the foal of a donkey, which had never before been ridden. Why a young colt? Well, the Old Testament prophet Zechariah said this was how the Messiah would enter Jerusalem---on a foal of a donkey. And if there was one thing Israel understood about donkeys, it is that they are nothing like mighty war horses. You see Roman soldiers were constantly parading through the streets of Jerusalem, seated on magnificent horses, bred for strength and calm in battle. These rides through the city streets were a constant humiliation and reminder to the Jews that it was Rome, not Israel, who held the power. But no, Israel’s Messiah would not imitate Roman strength. Though the Messiah was expected to lead a mighty battle and be victorious, he would not initiate the charge with a war house, but rather with a donkey! What irony!
So, this Jesus, whom many were hoping was the Messiah, rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, and was greeted with cheers and shouts. Hosanna, the crowd yelled, and that term is not another word for Hooray. It is a petition meaning, “Save us, we pray.” So, this parade was not like our Memorial Day Parades, but rather more like the march from Selma to Montgomery during the Civil Rights Movement, when political change was being demanded and the marchers were facing an enemy, who could violently turn on them in an instant.
But though the people wanted political change, Jesus did not initiate it in the expected way. There would be no battle, as some of his followers wanted or even expected. Some people think that Judas might have been a Zealot in favor of armed rebellion against Rome and was hoping that he could push Jesus into action by betraying him. But, if this is what Judas wanted, this is certainly not what he got.
How ironic that Jesus, whom some desperately wanted to see as a great warrior king, like David, instead showed softness and compassion by weeping over the city of Jerusalem, because it was blind to what really makes for peace. Then, rather than attacking Roman soldiers, he attacked the Temple, throwing out the moneychangers and those selling animals for sacrifice. This really got him into trouble with the Jewish authorities, who wanted him dead. But they could not figure out how to do it, since he had such a strong following among the crowd. And then after expelling the moneychangers, he went about doing what he had always done: teaching. Consider the irony of moving toward his horrible torture and death in Jerusalem, but nonetheless insisting on teaching about the nature of authority, the paying of taxes, and the resurrection of the dead. And when he finally stood before Pilate and was asked, “Are you the King of the Jews,” Jesus simply answered, “You have said so.” That is all he would say to Pilate, and so Pilate, not wishing to get involved in this mess, sent him to Herod.
Remember, Herod was both a king and a Jew, and since Jesus was from Galilee, he was under Herod’s jurisdiction. Now this sending of Jesus to Herod is found ONLY in Luke. And Luke tells us that Herod was curious about Jesus and was glad to have a chance to question him, hoping to learn something. But Jesus would say nothing. How ironic that Jesus, a master of words, whose stories and parables held the rapt attention of crowds, should now become strangely quiet. And so, Herod, along with the chief priests and scribes, mocked and accused Jesus. Herod felt he had no choice but to send Jesus back to Pilate. And then we find another interesting comment, unique to Luke. “That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other. Before this they had been enemies.” How ironic that these two men, whose moral compass was pretty much out of whack, should become friends after their dealings with Jesus. Is it because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, or is something else going on here? Does being in the presence of Jesus completely overturn the old order?
Pilate could find nothing in Jesus, worthy of death, but we know the story---how a man of violence, Barabbas, who had murdered Roman soldiers and would probably murder again, was released, while Jesus, who had never done or counseled violence against anyone, including the Roman state, was the one condemned to die. The irony of it all!
A passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, was compelled by the Roman soldiers to carry Jesus’ cross. Consider the name Simon, ironically the same first name as Simon Peter, the disciple, who denied and deserted Jesus, and along with the other disciples was nowhere in sight. Ironically it was a stranger, who was forced to carry the cross for Jesus. Luke says he came from the country, but Cyrene was a small town in Egypt, populated by Jews, who had gone there to escape persecution in Palestine by the Romans. The irony of it all: that Simon should arrive in Palestine from a haven for Jews in Egypt just in time to carry the cross of one who would be executed as the King of the Jews.
No Jew would ever have expected a crucified Messiah. And that is the greatest irony of all. The righteous one, the blessed one, the chosen one of God is also the one who died a cursed death. The Jews believed that death by crucifixion was not only horribly painful, but also shameful, a humiliation, a curse by God. Though we began by reading Luke’s account of Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, we will end with the reading of Jesus death from Mark’s gospel. Mark is stark. There are no words of forgiveness, no offering of his spirit to God. Jesus died with a loud cry, following a question, which is also an accusation: “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?”
And after all this---after the pain, the humiliation, the question, and the accusation, the temple curtain is torn from top to bottom, and ironically what has been hidden is revealed. The Temple curtain separated the inner sanctuary, where God was said to reside, from the rest of the temple, and when it was torn, the God hidden in death ironically became God revealed in new life. And the person who recognized this first in both Mark and Luke, the one who saw who Jesus truly was and is was the enemy, a Roman centurion, who had participated in this whole cruel dance of death. The irony of it all!
When I was a chaplain on a neurosurgery unit, I knew this neurosurgeon, who was always arguing about God with his father, a theologian and a seminary President. He told me when he was 15, he and his buddies were going to swim at night across this lake near his home. His parents expressly forbade him to go. But he disobeyed. The swim across the lake was long and hard, but he was a masterful swimmer, so he was the first to complete the feat. But one of his friends could not make it and was drowning, so, though he was exhausted, he swam out and saved him. “I was the only one there, capable of doing it,” he said. “How ironic that my disobedience became the occasion for the saving of my friend. And when my father found out what had happened, he said to me, “You know what my favorite adjective for God is---neither loving, nor merciful, nor powerful. God is ironic, and so is life. Both God and life are full of ironies. We both tonight learned that lesson once again.” And then he said to me, “I hope you never forget it.” And despite all the arguments I continue to have with my father about God, I haven’t forgotten.”
April 6, 2022
Dear Friends,
Most of you have probably read that there is a movement in some communities to ban certain books, mainly in school libraries, but some of the efforts have extended to town libraries. This is not entirely new. I recall when I was in high school, there were parents (though not in my high school) who were outraged about George Orwell’s novel, 1984. Though it was not required reading in my high schools, there were some, where it was. As soon as the book became controversial, many of us went out, purchased the book, and read it. Most of us could not understand what the outrage was all about, and neither could my teachers. The conclusion was that some people simply don’t want to deal with subjects that make them feel uncomfortable, though sometimes discomfort can goad us to change.When my two youngest children were in high school, I complained to the Superintendent that the reading list for the 9th grade honors English class was not challenging enough. She agreed and spoke to the English Department. What I then learned from one of the teachers was that the school had banned the reading of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, because of its negative portrayal of the Jew. I was shocked. This particular play has one of the most beautiful soliloquies in all of literature, when Portia intones, “The quality of mercy is not strained…”. My husband recalled that when he read the play in high school, one of the main points of discussion was the anti-Semitism expressed toward the Jew, Shylock. So, why could that be discussed in 1968 but not now?Top of FormIn 2021, according to the American Library Association, the attempts to ban books were at their highest level since the Association began keeping track about 20 years ago. We have heard about contentious school board meetings, when parents have insisted that certain books be removed from the school library. Deborah Caldwell-Stone, the director of the American Library Association’s Office for Intellectual Freedom, said, “We are seeing organized groups go to school boards and library boards, demanding actual censorship of certain books to conform to their moral or political views.” And most of these books deal with the lives and experiences of people from marginalized communities. The Library Association counted 729 challenges in 2021 to library, school, and university materials as well as research databases and e-book platforms. Each challenge, by the way, can include multiple titles, and the Association claimed that 1,597 books had been challenged, and in some cases removed. These numbers, by the way, are not solid, but are based on voluntary reporting by educators and librarians, so the actual numbers are probably much higher. When Glenn Youngkin of Virginia was running for governor recently, his campaign featured a mother who did not want her son reading, Toni Morrison’s Beloved in his high school English class. Three out of my four children read that book in high school, and for the life of me, I cannot understand what anyone would find objectionable about the book. Furthermore, I am not a big advocate of giving parents so much control over their children’s education. Education is far more than parroting parental values and beliefs. We should want our children to be exposed to ideas that are not like ours. It is a big world out there, and unless we expect and want our children to be carbon copies of us, it is essential that education expand their horizons. Education, at its best, is about helping students to learn how to think critically, and they will not learn to do that, if they are never exposed to ideas outside their parents’ ken. Bottom of FormI have no idea what Jesus would say about book banning. To be sure, Jesus was controversial, and he certainly expressed ideas that challenged the mainline Jewish view. What his parents thought of his ideas and his behavior, I don’t know, but would any of us be surprised if we learned that he was very challenging to raise, and as he grew older, his behavior might have even embarrassed them? Jesus was aware that the world was a vast place, far beyond his own Jewish experience. Anyone conversant with the Psalms would realize that the created order is far more expansive than the place in which one resides. Since God is the author of this vast creation, there is far more to learn and appreciate than what our parents know and think we should know.Just in case you are curious, here is a list of the ten most frequently challenged books.
1.Gender Queer by Maia Kobabe
2.Lawn Boy by Jonathan Evison
3.All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson
4.Out of Darkness by Ashley Hope Perez
5.The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas6.The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
7.Me and Earl and a Dying Girl
8.The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
9.This Book is Gay by Juno Dawson
10. Beyond Magenta by Susan Kuklin
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Most of you have probably read that there is a movement in some communities to ban certain books, mainly in school libraries, but some of the efforts have extended to town libraries. This is not entirely new. I recall when I was in high school, there were parents (though not in my high school) who were outraged about George Orwell’s novel, 1984. Though it was not required reading in my high schools, there were some, where it was. As soon as the book became controversial, many of us went out, purchased the book, and read it. Most of us could not understand what the outrage was all about, and neither could my teachers. The conclusion was that some people simply don’t want to deal with subjects that make them feel uncomfortable, though sometimes discomfort can goad us to change.When my two youngest children were in high school, I complained to the Superintendent that the reading list for the 9th grade honors English class was not challenging enough. She agreed and spoke to the English Department. What I then learned from one of the teachers was that the school had banned the reading of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, because of its negative portrayal of the Jew. I was shocked. This particular play has one of the most beautiful soliloquies in all of literature, when Portia intones, “The quality of mercy is not strained…”. My husband recalled that when he read the play in high school, one of the main points of discussion was the anti-Semitism expressed toward the Jew, Shylock. So, why could that be discussed in 1968 but not now?Top of FormIn 2021, according to the American Library Association, the attempts to ban books were at their highest level since the Association began keeping track about 20 years ago. We have heard about contentious school board meetings, when parents have insisted that certain books be removed from the school library. Deborah Caldwell-Stone, the director of the American Library Association’s Office for Intellectual Freedom, said, “We are seeing organized groups go to school boards and library boards, demanding actual censorship of certain books to conform to their moral or political views.” And most of these books deal with the lives and experiences of people from marginalized communities. The Library Association counted 729 challenges in 2021 to library, school, and university materials as well as research databases and e-book platforms. Each challenge, by the way, can include multiple titles, and the Association claimed that 1,597 books had been challenged, and in some cases removed. These numbers, by the way, are not solid, but are based on voluntary reporting by educators and librarians, so the actual numbers are probably much higher. When Glenn Youngkin of Virginia was running for governor recently, his campaign featured a mother who did not want her son reading, Toni Morrison’s Beloved in his high school English class. Three out of my four children read that book in high school, and for the life of me, I cannot understand what anyone would find objectionable about the book. Furthermore, I am not a big advocate of giving parents so much control over their children’s education. Education is far more than parroting parental values and beliefs. We should want our children to be exposed to ideas that are not like ours. It is a big world out there, and unless we expect and want our children to be carbon copies of us, it is essential that education expand their horizons. Education, at its best, is about helping students to learn how to think critically, and they will not learn to do that, if they are never exposed to ideas outside their parents’ ken. Bottom of FormI have no idea what Jesus would say about book banning. To be sure, Jesus was controversial, and he certainly expressed ideas that challenged the mainline Jewish view. What his parents thought of his ideas and his behavior, I don’t know, but would any of us be surprised if we learned that he was very challenging to raise, and as he grew older, his behavior might have even embarrassed them? Jesus was aware that the world was a vast place, far beyond his own Jewish experience. Anyone conversant with the Psalms would realize that the created order is far more expansive than the place in which one resides. Since God is the author of this vast creation, there is far more to learn and appreciate than what our parents know and think we should know.Just in case you are curious, here is a list of the ten most frequently challenged books.
1.Gender Queer by Maia Kobabe
2.Lawn Boy by Jonathan Evison
3.All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson
4.Out of Darkness by Ashley Hope Perez
5.The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas6.The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
7.Me and Earl and a Dying Girl
8.The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
9.This Book is Gay by Juno Dawson
10. Beyond Magenta by Susan Kuklin
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
A Wasteful Act
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
April 3, 2022
John 12: 1-8
Given that Jesus’ life was at grave risk, you might think it wasn’t very smart of him to go to Jerusalem. In the previous chapter, Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead, and the chief priests and Pharisees were very worried that people would be so impressed by his many signs and wonders they would follow Jesus, and the Romans, feeling threatened, would come down hard on the Jewish people, destroying their Temple and their nation---such as the nation was during Roman times. Caiaphas, the high priest told the Jewish leaders it was preferable for Jesus to die than to have the Jewish people destroyed. And so, the text says in chapter 11, “From that day on they planned to put him to death.” Despite the threat, Jesus would go to Jerusalem for the Passover festival, but not before making a stop in Bethany, the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha, where he would have a meal with his friends. And it was here that Mary took a pound of very costly perfume and anointed Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. Though Judas complained this was a terrible waste, because the perfume could have been sold and the money distributed to the poor, Jesus tells him that Mary has done a beautiful thing. “She has anointed my body for burial,” he said. Indeed, the anointing with oil was commonly done in ancient Israel. Kings were anointed with oil upon their ascension to the throne. Sick people were anointed as a means of healing, and the dead were washed and then anointed with oil as a sign of respect and tender care. So, here we are told that the anointing is because Jesus is moving toward his death in Jerusalem.
The story of Jesus’ anointing is told in all four gospels, but the details are very different. We just heard what Mary did---pouring expensive nard ointment all over Jesus’ feet and then wiping his feet with her hair---quite a sensual scene. In Matthew and Mark it is an unnamed woman who poured some very expensive ointment over Jesus’ head in Bethany at the house of Simon the Leper. In Luke, while Jesus is having supper at the home of a Pharisee named Simon, a woman, who was called a sinner, stood weeping behind Jesus, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with ointment.
Luke’s gospel shows no concern at all about the waste, while John, Mark, and Matthew all register complaint that the sale of the oil could have helped the poor. In John’s gospel, it is Judas, who complains that the oil could have been sold for 300 denarii, which in those days would have been equivalent to a laborer’s yearly salary. Today, we would be talking about $45,000---hardly an insignificant sum. It would make sense to object to the waste, but we are told that it was Judas, who objected, and his objection, the text assures us, was not out of concern for the poor, but because he was keeper of the purse, and he would sometimes steal money for his own purposes. Then we have some words from Jesus, which my father always claimed are the saddest words in the entire bible: the poor you will always have with you. And Jesus added, “but you will not always have me.
Consider the extravagance of that gift. Ask yourself---does it seem wasteful to you? And though Judas’ concern might not truly have been for the poor, nonetheless there is truth to what he says. A thief may not intend the truth, but truth can still come out. Yes, the money could have helped the poor. But the point here is really NOT the poor. Just like Jesus’ life, this expensive perfume is not meant to be saved. It is to be poured out, given, even wasted, or what looks like waste on behalf of something bigger and more important. Yes, the poor could have been helped by the sale of the perfume, but it is also true that a horrific execution was going to take place, followed by a heart wrenching burial, where a body would be prepared in an act of devotion and love.
Be that as it may, I suspect that most of us are far too practical and careful with money to waste a whole year’s salary on expensive perfume to be poured out upon a dead body. I know I am, but sometimes there are these wasteful acts that well, transcend the practical, and perhaps we cannot use the ethics of practicality to judge them.
A few years ago, I was on call for one of my colleagues, who was on vacation. As luck would have it, there was a death, and the family did not want to wait for the minister to return from her month long vacation. Now I did not know the family or any of the details, but I did speak with my colleague, who told me what I needed to know. The woman who died, let’s call her Edith, was the sister of a stalwart church member, Anna. And Edith’s life had been a mess. She had all kinds of psychological struggles, and used illegal drugs as a means of self-medication. The drug habit had taken over her life, and she stole from family members to support it, ending up on the streets for a few years. Anna, however, did take Edith into her home, trying to help her. About a year before Edith died, Anna gave her a beautiful and very expensive emerald and diamond necklace, which had belonged to their mother. Both the mother and Edith shared a May birthday. Well, Edith’s two daughters, who were in their early 30’s were furious at their mother. “This is Grandma’s necklace; one of us should get it,” they objected. “Mom, you know what Edith will do? She will sell it for drugs! How could you be so stupid and callous?! Well, Edith lasted about six months in Anna’s house and before long was out on the streets again. About four months later, she died of an overdose. Edith left no instructions about her death except one: Anna found a note with the necklace, Edith had given a friend for safe keeping. Please bury me with mom’s necklace around my neck. Edith had not sold the necklace for drugs.
When I spoke to Anna about her sister’s service, she was almost hysterical, because her two daughters were furious. “You can’t waste Grandma’s precious necklace that way. She would never have wanted that. She would want one of us to get it. It does not matter who, but you cannot waste this beautiful necklace on Edith, burying it in the ground with her. It's obscene.” And so, since I was doing the funeral, I was caught right in the middle. But in the end, I stood with Anna, who wanted her sister buried with the necklace. “Look,” I said, to the daughters, your mother gave this gift to her sister, and her sister did not sell it for drugs---despite what you thought she would do. She treasured it as the precious gift it is, and she asked for one thing---that this necklace be placed around her neck and buried with her. And this is what we are going to do---wasteful as you two might think it is.” And indeed, that is what we did. Maybe it was wasteful. Maybe people would say expensive and beautiful necklaces are for the living and not for the dead. Yet things are not always just things---they can assume great symbolic meaning as it did in this case. What looked like waste was really a kind of grace. But you needed the eyes to see the grace and the daughters were blind.
We are moving toward Jerusalem, where Jesus will suffer and die. Why? In so many ways, when we look at his death, it looks like a colossal waste. But seen through the eyes of faith, the waste does not tell the whole story, though at the time of Jesus’ death, no one really knew how the whole story would be understood and told. And even today, people are still trying to understand and tell the story.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church in Unionville, CT
April 3, 2022
John 12: 1-8
Given that Jesus’ life was at grave risk, you might think it wasn’t very smart of him to go to Jerusalem. In the previous chapter, Jesus had raised Lazarus from the dead, and the chief priests and Pharisees were very worried that people would be so impressed by his many signs and wonders they would follow Jesus, and the Romans, feeling threatened, would come down hard on the Jewish people, destroying their Temple and their nation---such as the nation was during Roman times. Caiaphas, the high priest told the Jewish leaders it was preferable for Jesus to die than to have the Jewish people destroyed. And so, the text says in chapter 11, “From that day on they planned to put him to death.” Despite the threat, Jesus would go to Jerusalem for the Passover festival, but not before making a stop in Bethany, the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha, where he would have a meal with his friends. And it was here that Mary took a pound of very costly perfume and anointed Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair. Though Judas complained this was a terrible waste, because the perfume could have been sold and the money distributed to the poor, Jesus tells him that Mary has done a beautiful thing. “She has anointed my body for burial,” he said. Indeed, the anointing with oil was commonly done in ancient Israel. Kings were anointed with oil upon their ascension to the throne. Sick people were anointed as a means of healing, and the dead were washed and then anointed with oil as a sign of respect and tender care. So, here we are told that the anointing is because Jesus is moving toward his death in Jerusalem.
The story of Jesus’ anointing is told in all four gospels, but the details are very different. We just heard what Mary did---pouring expensive nard ointment all over Jesus’ feet and then wiping his feet with her hair---quite a sensual scene. In Matthew and Mark it is an unnamed woman who poured some very expensive ointment over Jesus’ head in Bethany at the house of Simon the Leper. In Luke, while Jesus is having supper at the home of a Pharisee named Simon, a woman, who was called a sinner, stood weeping behind Jesus, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with ointment.
Luke’s gospel shows no concern at all about the waste, while John, Mark, and Matthew all register complaint that the sale of the oil could have helped the poor. In John’s gospel, it is Judas, who complains that the oil could have been sold for 300 denarii, which in those days would have been equivalent to a laborer’s yearly salary. Today, we would be talking about $45,000---hardly an insignificant sum. It would make sense to object to the waste, but we are told that it was Judas, who objected, and his objection, the text assures us, was not out of concern for the poor, but because he was keeper of the purse, and he would sometimes steal money for his own purposes. Then we have some words from Jesus, which my father always claimed are the saddest words in the entire bible: the poor you will always have with you. And Jesus added, “but you will not always have me.
Consider the extravagance of that gift. Ask yourself---does it seem wasteful to you? And though Judas’ concern might not truly have been for the poor, nonetheless there is truth to what he says. A thief may not intend the truth, but truth can still come out. Yes, the money could have helped the poor. But the point here is really NOT the poor. Just like Jesus’ life, this expensive perfume is not meant to be saved. It is to be poured out, given, even wasted, or what looks like waste on behalf of something bigger and more important. Yes, the poor could have been helped by the sale of the perfume, but it is also true that a horrific execution was going to take place, followed by a heart wrenching burial, where a body would be prepared in an act of devotion and love.
Be that as it may, I suspect that most of us are far too practical and careful with money to waste a whole year’s salary on expensive perfume to be poured out upon a dead body. I know I am, but sometimes there are these wasteful acts that well, transcend the practical, and perhaps we cannot use the ethics of practicality to judge them.
A few years ago, I was on call for one of my colleagues, who was on vacation. As luck would have it, there was a death, and the family did not want to wait for the minister to return from her month long vacation. Now I did not know the family or any of the details, but I did speak with my colleague, who told me what I needed to know. The woman who died, let’s call her Edith, was the sister of a stalwart church member, Anna. And Edith’s life had been a mess. She had all kinds of psychological struggles, and used illegal drugs as a means of self-medication. The drug habit had taken over her life, and she stole from family members to support it, ending up on the streets for a few years. Anna, however, did take Edith into her home, trying to help her. About a year before Edith died, Anna gave her a beautiful and very expensive emerald and diamond necklace, which had belonged to their mother. Both the mother and Edith shared a May birthday. Well, Edith’s two daughters, who were in their early 30’s were furious at their mother. “This is Grandma’s necklace; one of us should get it,” they objected. “Mom, you know what Edith will do? She will sell it for drugs! How could you be so stupid and callous?! Well, Edith lasted about six months in Anna’s house and before long was out on the streets again. About four months later, she died of an overdose. Edith left no instructions about her death except one: Anna found a note with the necklace, Edith had given a friend for safe keeping. Please bury me with mom’s necklace around my neck. Edith had not sold the necklace for drugs.
When I spoke to Anna about her sister’s service, she was almost hysterical, because her two daughters were furious. “You can’t waste Grandma’s precious necklace that way. She would never have wanted that. She would want one of us to get it. It does not matter who, but you cannot waste this beautiful necklace on Edith, burying it in the ground with her. It's obscene.” And so, since I was doing the funeral, I was caught right in the middle. But in the end, I stood with Anna, who wanted her sister buried with the necklace. “Look,” I said, to the daughters, your mother gave this gift to her sister, and her sister did not sell it for drugs---despite what you thought she would do. She treasured it as the precious gift it is, and she asked for one thing---that this necklace be placed around her neck and buried with her. And this is what we are going to do---wasteful as you two might think it is.” And indeed, that is what we did. Maybe it was wasteful. Maybe people would say expensive and beautiful necklaces are for the living and not for the dead. Yet things are not always just things---they can assume great symbolic meaning as it did in this case. What looked like waste was really a kind of grace. But you needed the eyes to see the grace and the daughters were blind.
We are moving toward Jerusalem, where Jesus will suffer and die. Why? In so many ways, when we look at his death, it looks like a colossal waste. But seen through the eyes of faith, the waste does not tell the whole story, though at the time of Jesus’ death, no one really knew how the whole story would be understood and told. And even today, people are still trying to understand and tell the story.
RETURNING HOME
Preached by: The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen
First Church, Congregational in Unionville, CT
March 27, 2022, The Fourth Sunday of Lent
Luke 15: 1-3, 11-32
There are a few parables, which most people know, even if they NEVER have anything to do with church, The Good Samaritan and today’s lesson, The Prodigal Son, both, by the way, unique to Luke’s gospel. You know the story, how the younger son demands his inheritance from his father, so he can go off and have fun. To ask for one’s inheritance in this way is like saying, “I wish you were dead.” But the father gives it to him anyway; the son leaves, living it up for a while, until he runs out of money and friends, and then, when he finds himself eating with the pigs, he decides to go home. And the father lovingly accepts him, throwing a gala, which leaves the older son, who has always remained home, doing the bidding of his father, angry and resentful. But the father reassures his older son that he had to celebrate, because the one who was lost is now found. So, you know the story; I have preached on this before, but today I am going to see the story through the eyes of one of the greatest painters of all time, the Dutch artist, Rembrandt. Now I have previously shown you this painting before, three years ago, which was the last time this reading came up in the lectionary. But today I want to concentrate on the younger son’s homecoming as seen through the gospel imagined and understood by Rembrandt.
There are people, who consider this painting to be the greatest work ever painted. I do not see how it is possible to decide on the greatest painting any more than the greatest piece of music, but certainly it is among the greatest. The Impressionist painter, Vincent Van Gogh said about it, “You can only paint a painting like this if you have died many deaths.” And indeed, Rembrandt had. His career had been a brilliant success; he became rich and famous, but he lived extravagantly, and when there was an economic downturn in the Dutch Republic and commissions were fewer, his fortune collapsed. He also suffered horrific losses in his life. He lost three children in quick succession. His beloved and young wife, Saskia, died at the age of 29. In grief he took up with his fourth child’s nurse and promised to marry her until he fell in love with a servant in his household. The nurse sued him for breach of promise; he was excommunicated from the Dutch Reformed Church for living with a woman out of wedlock, and then the servant whom he dearly loved, died. Five years later, his beloved son, Titus, also died. Rembrandt could have been a broken man, and in many ways, he was, but it was then, the last few years of his life that he painted this masterpiece, The Return of the Prodigal Son.
When we look at the painting, we see mercy. The father’s hands, one masculine, the other feminine, are gently placed on his son’s shoulders in a loving touch of merciful acceptance. Like his older son, the father is dressed in red finery. The older son looks on, his hands folded, some say in a gesture of judgment, and though there are two other characters present in the painting, we do not much care about them. We are fixated on the young son, whose clothes are tattered and torn and of course, our eyes travel to the father, ready to forgive all.
Now I want you to consider what it means to return home. The gospel is not primarily about what happened in the past to other people. We are invited to enter into the story and consider our journeys home. It is hard to go home, ---especially after you have been through something hard, perhaps because you messed up, as the younger son did, or maybe you simply chose to walk a different path. It’s hard to return home, when the people at home sit in judgment, because their expectations do not align with yours. I remember a young man I met some years ago, who studied violin at The Eastman School of Music, much to the rage of his parents, both of whom were doctors, along with grandparents on both sides and an older brother and sister. He had broken the family code, and he told me that going home that first Christmas was the hardest journey he ever had to make. “I did not swallow my pride,” he said, because I did not owe that humiliation to anyone. “I went home in love, and though love is not what greeted me, I did what I had to do. I went home, and home is the hardest place to be, when people accuse you of hurting them, rejecting them, and even destroying your own life. It felt like a journey of one million miles. And it is a journey I will have to make over and over again, until my family can see that my life is mine to live.”
Going home is hard enough when you have a pretty good idea what to expect, but what if you have no idea what will greet you. One of my friends at the Y, told me just last week about a neighbor of hers, a Viet Nam vet, who came home to a nation that gave him no victory parade, no honors or thank yous. He was greeted with anger, bitterness, the shrill catcalls demanding to know how many Vietnamese babies he had burned to death with napalm. He spoke about it to my friend, because he found himself thinking about the Russian soldiers in Ukraine, many of whom had no idea where they were going or why. They will know the truth in a way Russian citizens do not and will not know. What will it be like for them, he mused, to return home, and see the official story so different from the one they lived? How will they be met---with unspoken judgment or praise? How will they feel about what they have done? And what will they think they deserve? Going home under such conditions will be incredibly painful.
We know what the prodigal son thought he deserved. He was ready to live in the household as a servant. He recognized that he had sinned against his father and against the moral law as laid down in Judaism. Obedience to the father was the cardinal virtue, and the Old Testament even says that a disobedient son may be killed by his father. In Rembrandt’s imagination, the son knelt at his father’s feet with a shaven head in profound gesture of humility. He would accept the punishment, but as we know, there would be no punishment. Even without knowing the details of the story, the way Rembrandt has painted it, we can see the father’s compassion in his touch, if not exactly on his face. We do not have to know that the father will throw a celebration the likes of which the house had not seen---at least not for a long time. Rembrandt has shown us what mercy looks like, not only from the father of the two sons, but also from the Father-Mother God of us all.
Rembrandt had lost everything. He was destitute, grief stricken, his reputation, though a great one, was not so sought after now. And yet he knew that the final chapter of his life, which was drawing very near, would not be one of blame or condemnation. Though the world seemed to reject him, though his art was not as well sought after as it had once been, though the church deemed him a sinner, outside the boundaries of the sacraments, condemning him for pride and lust, yet Rembrandt knew something that the younger son in the parable would also come to learn and know. He knew that the final words spoken by God are love and mercy. While the younger son was penitent, Rembrandt himself was hardly very penitent for the life he lived. It was, however, his life, and he lived it as he saw fit, hoping and even believing that God could and would read the story of his life with great compassion and understanding. Rembrandt too would go home---home to the God he knew would love and accept him for all he had achieved and for all he had failed. It was the failure, the pain of loss---his many deaths as Van Gogh said--- that finally allowed him to paint his greatest masterpiece.
Preached by: The Rev. Dr. Sandra Olsen
First Church, Congregational in Unionville, CT
March 27, 2022, The Fourth Sunday of Lent
Luke 15: 1-3, 11-32
There are a few parables, which most people know, even if they NEVER have anything to do with church, The Good Samaritan and today’s lesson, The Prodigal Son, both, by the way, unique to Luke’s gospel. You know the story, how the younger son demands his inheritance from his father, so he can go off and have fun. To ask for one’s inheritance in this way is like saying, “I wish you were dead.” But the father gives it to him anyway; the son leaves, living it up for a while, until he runs out of money and friends, and then, when he finds himself eating with the pigs, he decides to go home. And the father lovingly accepts him, throwing a gala, which leaves the older son, who has always remained home, doing the bidding of his father, angry and resentful. But the father reassures his older son that he had to celebrate, because the one who was lost is now found. So, you know the story; I have preached on this before, but today I am going to see the story through the eyes of one of the greatest painters of all time, the Dutch artist, Rembrandt. Now I have previously shown you this painting before, three years ago, which was the last time this reading came up in the lectionary. But today I want to concentrate on the younger son’s homecoming as seen through the gospel imagined and understood by Rembrandt.
There are people, who consider this painting to be the greatest work ever painted. I do not see how it is possible to decide on the greatest painting any more than the greatest piece of music, but certainly it is among the greatest. The Impressionist painter, Vincent Van Gogh said about it, “You can only paint a painting like this if you have died many deaths.” And indeed, Rembrandt had. His career had been a brilliant success; he became rich and famous, but he lived extravagantly, and when there was an economic downturn in the Dutch Republic and commissions were fewer, his fortune collapsed. He also suffered horrific losses in his life. He lost three children in quick succession. His beloved and young wife, Saskia, died at the age of 29. In grief he took up with his fourth child’s nurse and promised to marry her until he fell in love with a servant in his household. The nurse sued him for breach of promise; he was excommunicated from the Dutch Reformed Church for living with a woman out of wedlock, and then the servant whom he dearly loved, died. Five years later, his beloved son, Titus, also died. Rembrandt could have been a broken man, and in many ways, he was, but it was then, the last few years of his life that he painted this masterpiece, The Return of the Prodigal Son.
When we look at the painting, we see mercy. The father’s hands, one masculine, the other feminine, are gently placed on his son’s shoulders in a loving touch of merciful acceptance. Like his older son, the father is dressed in red finery. The older son looks on, his hands folded, some say in a gesture of judgment, and though there are two other characters present in the painting, we do not much care about them. We are fixated on the young son, whose clothes are tattered and torn and of course, our eyes travel to the father, ready to forgive all.
Now I want you to consider what it means to return home. The gospel is not primarily about what happened in the past to other people. We are invited to enter into the story and consider our journeys home. It is hard to go home, ---especially after you have been through something hard, perhaps because you messed up, as the younger son did, or maybe you simply chose to walk a different path. It’s hard to return home, when the people at home sit in judgment, because their expectations do not align with yours. I remember a young man I met some years ago, who studied violin at The Eastman School of Music, much to the rage of his parents, both of whom were doctors, along with grandparents on both sides and an older brother and sister. He had broken the family code, and he told me that going home that first Christmas was the hardest journey he ever had to make. “I did not swallow my pride,” he said, because I did not owe that humiliation to anyone. “I went home in love, and though love is not what greeted me, I did what I had to do. I went home, and home is the hardest place to be, when people accuse you of hurting them, rejecting them, and even destroying your own life. It felt like a journey of one million miles. And it is a journey I will have to make over and over again, until my family can see that my life is mine to live.”
Going home is hard enough when you have a pretty good idea what to expect, but what if you have no idea what will greet you. One of my friends at the Y, told me just last week about a neighbor of hers, a Viet Nam vet, who came home to a nation that gave him no victory parade, no honors or thank yous. He was greeted with anger, bitterness, the shrill catcalls demanding to know how many Vietnamese babies he had burned to death with napalm. He spoke about it to my friend, because he found himself thinking about the Russian soldiers in Ukraine, many of whom had no idea where they were going or why. They will know the truth in a way Russian citizens do not and will not know. What will it be like for them, he mused, to return home, and see the official story so different from the one they lived? How will they be met---with unspoken judgment or praise? How will they feel about what they have done? And what will they think they deserve? Going home under such conditions will be incredibly painful.
We know what the prodigal son thought he deserved. He was ready to live in the household as a servant. He recognized that he had sinned against his father and against the moral law as laid down in Judaism. Obedience to the father was the cardinal virtue, and the Old Testament even says that a disobedient son may be killed by his father. In Rembrandt’s imagination, the son knelt at his father’s feet with a shaven head in profound gesture of humility. He would accept the punishment, but as we know, there would be no punishment. Even without knowing the details of the story, the way Rembrandt has painted it, we can see the father’s compassion in his touch, if not exactly on his face. We do not have to know that the father will throw a celebration the likes of which the house had not seen---at least not for a long time. Rembrandt has shown us what mercy looks like, not only from the father of the two sons, but also from the Father-Mother God of us all.
Rembrandt had lost everything. He was destitute, grief stricken, his reputation, though a great one, was not so sought after now. And yet he knew that the final chapter of his life, which was drawing very near, would not be one of blame or condemnation. Though the world seemed to reject him, though his art was not as well sought after as it had once been, though the church deemed him a sinner, outside the boundaries of the sacraments, condemning him for pride and lust, yet Rembrandt knew something that the younger son in the parable would also come to learn and know. He knew that the final words spoken by God are love and mercy. While the younger son was penitent, Rembrandt himself was hardly very penitent for the life he lived. It was, however, his life, and he lived it as he saw fit, hoping and even believing that God could and would read the story of his life with great compassion and understanding. Rembrandt too would go home---home to the God he knew would love and accept him for all he had achieved and for all he had failed. It was the failure, the pain of loss---his many deaths as Van Gogh said--- that finally allowed him to paint his greatest masterpiece.
March 30, 2022
Dear Friends,
Last week I wrote about Arthur Brooks’ prescription for happiness in later life. This week I want to tell you about something else he recommended people consider: the difference between pleasure and enjoyment. Superficially, we might consider the words to be synonyms, but Professor Brooks asks us to dig more deeply. In Greek mythology Eros and Psyche had a daughter named Hedone, known as pleasure---(think hedonistic) She was only a minor goddess, and there are no great myths or tales attached to her, but still she was considered a goddess., something the Roman philosopher, Cicero, saw as dangerous. The deification of pleasure, he warned, “is vicious and unnatural, “because pleasure can overcome and overpower natural instinct.” Pleasure, in other words, can easily become addictive, and addiction catches us in a whirlwind we may not be able to control.
Consider, on the other hand, enjoyment. While pleasure “happens,” enjoyment is created and cultivated. Pleasure can be addictive, but enjoyment is elective. If we are very hungry, we eat and our appetite is satiated, and indeed, there is a pleasure in that. But the pleasure of eating is not exactly the same as the enjoyment of eating, when, for example, we are gathered with family and friends to partake of a meal. Along with the eating goes conversation and the delight in other people’s company. Eating to satisfy hunger is hardly the same as enjoying a well prepared meal. Even after the meal is finished, we can savor the experience. Savoring is a kind of cultivation. We learn to cultivate good taste, for example. Cicero says that enjoyment gives us a sense of forward movement, because we are often learning from and through our enjoyment.
I am a complete teetotaler; I intensely dislike the taste of alcohol, and so I have never learned to savor a glass of good wine. Five years or so ago, I took a marvelous trip to Italy, parts of Tuscany and Umbria, and as you would imagine we went to some vineyards for wine tasting. There was this one vineyard, run by a very elegant woman, and she was describing the whole process of grape growing and the making of wine. Samples of various wines were passed around and, of course, I did not partake. I simply hate the taste of wine! After a few times of turning the samples down, she asked me what was wrong. “Oh,” I said, “I don’t drink. I don’t like the taste of wine. “ She looked at me, shocked, and said, “My Dear, I feel sorry for you.” What she meant was that I had never learned to cultivate a taste for wine. I could not tell the difference between cheap wine and some fine and expensive wine. For her wine was not primarily about the pleasure of drinking; it was all about the enjoyment of drinking. She had undoubtedly cultivated a taste for fine wine, which I not only completely lacked, but I also had no interest at all in cultivating such a taste.
We can say the same thing about many activities we normally do. Take reading for example. I read newspapers and magazines for the pleasure of leaning what I think I need to know about the world. Sometimes there is a particularly well written article that does more than give me information; it also changes the way I think about a particular issue, and then the pleasure morphs into enjoyment. The reading becomes more than simply acquiring information. It becomes the deep enjoyment of learning. Rarely do I read a book for pleasure. I am very picky about what books I will bother to pick up and read. My time is precious to me, and so I am very careful about my book choice. Reading my books is a deep enjoyment; I feel I am changed by my encounter with the material. I understand the world a little more deeply and I am challenged to see things from a new perspective. All this for me is profoundly enjoyable
Remember the fitness guru, Jack LaLane? Well, I recently read that he disliked working out, but he enjoyed being fit. I would have thought that working out would have at least given him some pleasure, but he claimed NO! He only worked out because of the enjoyment he received from being fit. Not everyone is so disciplined. Many people have a hard time doing things that give them no pleasure at all, even when they can see the enjoyment that lies around the corner.
Arthur Brooks tries to encourage people to consider what it is that brings true happiness and lasting meaning into their lives. And it seems that he believes we can be helped to cultivate a deeper and more meaningful happiness by realizing what is mere pleasure and what is truly enjoyable.
I am not sure what Jesus would say about this. Jesus did not spend much time talking about pleasure, and he did not directly use the language of enjoyment. But the Christian tradition certainly did. It talked about enjoying God not only in this life but in the life beyond, where God can be enjoyed forever.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Last week I wrote about Arthur Brooks’ prescription for happiness in later life. This week I want to tell you about something else he recommended people consider: the difference between pleasure and enjoyment. Superficially, we might consider the words to be synonyms, but Professor Brooks asks us to dig more deeply. In Greek mythology Eros and Psyche had a daughter named Hedone, known as pleasure---(think hedonistic) She was only a minor goddess, and there are no great myths or tales attached to her, but still she was considered a goddess., something the Roman philosopher, Cicero, saw as dangerous. The deification of pleasure, he warned, “is vicious and unnatural, “because pleasure can overcome and overpower natural instinct.” Pleasure, in other words, can easily become addictive, and addiction catches us in a whirlwind we may not be able to control.
Consider, on the other hand, enjoyment. While pleasure “happens,” enjoyment is created and cultivated. Pleasure can be addictive, but enjoyment is elective. If we are very hungry, we eat and our appetite is satiated, and indeed, there is a pleasure in that. But the pleasure of eating is not exactly the same as the enjoyment of eating, when, for example, we are gathered with family and friends to partake of a meal. Along with the eating goes conversation and the delight in other people’s company. Eating to satisfy hunger is hardly the same as enjoying a well prepared meal. Even after the meal is finished, we can savor the experience. Savoring is a kind of cultivation. We learn to cultivate good taste, for example. Cicero says that enjoyment gives us a sense of forward movement, because we are often learning from and through our enjoyment.
I am a complete teetotaler; I intensely dislike the taste of alcohol, and so I have never learned to savor a glass of good wine. Five years or so ago, I took a marvelous trip to Italy, parts of Tuscany and Umbria, and as you would imagine we went to some vineyards for wine tasting. There was this one vineyard, run by a very elegant woman, and she was describing the whole process of grape growing and the making of wine. Samples of various wines were passed around and, of course, I did not partake. I simply hate the taste of wine! After a few times of turning the samples down, she asked me what was wrong. “Oh,” I said, “I don’t drink. I don’t like the taste of wine. “ She looked at me, shocked, and said, “My Dear, I feel sorry for you.” What she meant was that I had never learned to cultivate a taste for wine. I could not tell the difference between cheap wine and some fine and expensive wine. For her wine was not primarily about the pleasure of drinking; it was all about the enjoyment of drinking. She had undoubtedly cultivated a taste for fine wine, which I not only completely lacked, but I also had no interest at all in cultivating such a taste.
We can say the same thing about many activities we normally do. Take reading for example. I read newspapers and magazines for the pleasure of leaning what I think I need to know about the world. Sometimes there is a particularly well written article that does more than give me information; it also changes the way I think about a particular issue, and then the pleasure morphs into enjoyment. The reading becomes more than simply acquiring information. It becomes the deep enjoyment of learning. Rarely do I read a book for pleasure. I am very picky about what books I will bother to pick up and read. My time is precious to me, and so I am very careful about my book choice. Reading my books is a deep enjoyment; I feel I am changed by my encounter with the material. I understand the world a little more deeply and I am challenged to see things from a new perspective. All this for me is profoundly enjoyable
Remember the fitness guru, Jack LaLane? Well, I recently read that he disliked working out, but he enjoyed being fit. I would have thought that working out would have at least given him some pleasure, but he claimed NO! He only worked out because of the enjoyment he received from being fit. Not everyone is so disciplined. Many people have a hard time doing things that give them no pleasure at all, even when they can see the enjoyment that lies around the corner.
Arthur Brooks tries to encourage people to consider what it is that brings true happiness and lasting meaning into their lives. And it seems that he believes we can be helped to cultivate a deeper and more meaningful happiness by realizing what is mere pleasure and what is truly enjoyable.
I am not sure what Jesus would say about this. Jesus did not spend much time talking about pleasure, and he did not directly use the language of enjoyment. But the Christian tradition certainly did. It talked about enjoying God not only in this life but in the life beyond, where God can be enjoyed forever.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
March 23, 2022
Dear Friends,
Arthur Brooks is a social scientist and musician, who also teaches at The Kennedy School of Government at Harvard as well as the Harvard Business School. He also writes frequently for The Atlantic on the subject of happiness. In fact, he has also taught a very popular course at Harvard on the subject. People, young, old, and in between all want to be happy. In his latest book, From Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life, he has come up with five behaviors that are essential for happiness particularly as we age. His work is based on actual research, examining people’s lives, and then trying to figure out what has led to happy or unhappy lives.
The first two behaviors are relatively simple: Do not smoke and do not drink. Concerning drinking he does not mean that it is necessary to avoid all alcohol, (though he does say avoid all smoking). There is nothing wrong with drinking socially now and then, but it can be very dangerous to need a drink. If you need that cocktail every day, even if it is only one, that could be a danger sign. Let the alcohol go as a regular habit, because in the long run, it will not serve your health or your spirit, and it will not really add to your happiness.
Number three: move your body. Exercise regularly. This does not mean that you MUST join a gym or purchase expensive equipment. He actually suggests that walking is the best thing to do and the easiest activity for older people to pursue. Get out every day and walk! You will feel better, and if your body feels better, so will the rest of you.
Number 4: Get your spiritual and/or religious life in order. This does not necessitate joining a church and suddenly finding religion. People can be atheists and agnostics and be content and happy. But all human beings need to be concerned about meaning and what constitutes a well lived life. As we age, we should realize that we will suffer loss. Loved ones will die; we will lose certain capacities as our physical and mental strength lessens. We too will one day die. That is simply the way things are, and it is important to mentally and spiritually prepare for this. How are you going to cope? What kind of beliefs do you have about life/death and the meaning of it all that might help you face and move through the difficult challenges ahead? Freud might have said that denial is one of the great coping mechanisms, but denial about loss and death only lasts so long. Someday the hard truths need to be faced. And it is preferable to think about them when you are not in the midst of crisis.
And finally #5: Nurture relationships. For many people spouses and children are the most important relationships in their lives, but it is very important to have relationships beyond the family. Friendships are often vital to well lived lives because they can introduce new and different perspectives, beyond what families will often allow. Sometimes it is easier to talk about certain subjects with friends rather than family. I know people, who love to talk politics, but cannot do it with family members, and so their friends are the ones with whom they discuss political subjects or test ideas they would not dare bring up in their family. People will often avoid discussing end of life issues with a spouse or children but can do it quite easily with a friend. Friends have even been named as medical proxies rather than a spouse or an adult child, because there can be greater confidence with a friend that the final wishes will be carried out.
Bur friends are not simply for the challenging and difficult decisions and subjects. Friendship adds diversity and delight to our lives, and as one person said to me recently, “I laugh with my friends in a way I do not with my family. There is a freedom in friendship that is different from the freedom we have in families.”
I know exactly what she means. I have two college roommates, who mean the world to me. We have been friends for 50 plus years. They remember me when I was 18, and they share memories with me that NO ONE else on this earth shares. We have laughed together and cried together, and I know that I would not be who I am today without these two very special people. In the last three years we have all lost our mothers, and we all have memories of each other’s mothers. I reminded Ann, for example, how her mother was furious, when a few years after college, she decided to move in with her boyfriend, who became her husband to whom she is still married these many decades later. Her mother completely rejected the idea of co-habitation, and she made Ann’s father talk with the boyfriend. What was THEN so embarrassing and even horrifying, now seems hysterically funny. Jon has told us how the conversation went, and I remember a visit when the three of us (plus Jon) just laughed ourselves practically to death about what was said. Ann and I agreed that we would NEVER in a million years have done anything remotely like that with our children. But times have changed, and mores also change with the times. What was so unacceptable to one generation is no big deal to the next one. We even noted how all our mothers accepted their grandchildren living with their significant others, because times had indeed changed, and even old people can change with the times.
Arthur Brooks believes that the nurturing of relationships is probably the single most important thing we can do as we age. We need those relationships perhaps even more as we grow older. Youth has the time, the energy, and the resilience to meet life’s challenges without a lot of pondering, but as we age, we do ponder what it is all about, and our relationships help us to do just that. The word friend or friendship does not appear very often in the Bible, but when it does, it is something to pay heed to. Jesus had his disciples, whom he finally in John’s gospel referred to as his friends, and though they betrayed and disappointed him, still they remained his friends. And indeed, this is how relationships can work: people---our family and friends---may indeed sometimes let us down, but as we age, we can realize and accept that our love for family and friends does not depend on them being perfect. After all, God’s love for us hardly depends upon our perfection. And if we can love the imperfect, how much more can God!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Arthur Brooks is a social scientist and musician, who also teaches at The Kennedy School of Government at Harvard as well as the Harvard Business School. He also writes frequently for The Atlantic on the subject of happiness. In fact, he has also taught a very popular course at Harvard on the subject. People, young, old, and in between all want to be happy. In his latest book, From Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life, he has come up with five behaviors that are essential for happiness particularly as we age. His work is based on actual research, examining people’s lives, and then trying to figure out what has led to happy or unhappy lives.
The first two behaviors are relatively simple: Do not smoke and do not drink. Concerning drinking he does not mean that it is necessary to avoid all alcohol, (though he does say avoid all smoking). There is nothing wrong with drinking socially now and then, but it can be very dangerous to need a drink. If you need that cocktail every day, even if it is only one, that could be a danger sign. Let the alcohol go as a regular habit, because in the long run, it will not serve your health or your spirit, and it will not really add to your happiness.
Number three: move your body. Exercise regularly. This does not mean that you MUST join a gym or purchase expensive equipment. He actually suggests that walking is the best thing to do and the easiest activity for older people to pursue. Get out every day and walk! You will feel better, and if your body feels better, so will the rest of you.
Number 4: Get your spiritual and/or religious life in order. This does not necessitate joining a church and suddenly finding religion. People can be atheists and agnostics and be content and happy. But all human beings need to be concerned about meaning and what constitutes a well lived life. As we age, we should realize that we will suffer loss. Loved ones will die; we will lose certain capacities as our physical and mental strength lessens. We too will one day die. That is simply the way things are, and it is important to mentally and spiritually prepare for this. How are you going to cope? What kind of beliefs do you have about life/death and the meaning of it all that might help you face and move through the difficult challenges ahead? Freud might have said that denial is one of the great coping mechanisms, but denial about loss and death only lasts so long. Someday the hard truths need to be faced. And it is preferable to think about them when you are not in the midst of crisis.
And finally #5: Nurture relationships. For many people spouses and children are the most important relationships in their lives, but it is very important to have relationships beyond the family. Friendships are often vital to well lived lives because they can introduce new and different perspectives, beyond what families will often allow. Sometimes it is easier to talk about certain subjects with friends rather than family. I know people, who love to talk politics, but cannot do it with family members, and so their friends are the ones with whom they discuss political subjects or test ideas they would not dare bring up in their family. People will often avoid discussing end of life issues with a spouse or children but can do it quite easily with a friend. Friends have even been named as medical proxies rather than a spouse or an adult child, because there can be greater confidence with a friend that the final wishes will be carried out.
Bur friends are not simply for the challenging and difficult decisions and subjects. Friendship adds diversity and delight to our lives, and as one person said to me recently, “I laugh with my friends in a way I do not with my family. There is a freedom in friendship that is different from the freedom we have in families.”
I know exactly what she means. I have two college roommates, who mean the world to me. We have been friends for 50 plus years. They remember me when I was 18, and they share memories with me that NO ONE else on this earth shares. We have laughed together and cried together, and I know that I would not be who I am today without these two very special people. In the last three years we have all lost our mothers, and we all have memories of each other’s mothers. I reminded Ann, for example, how her mother was furious, when a few years after college, she decided to move in with her boyfriend, who became her husband to whom she is still married these many decades later. Her mother completely rejected the idea of co-habitation, and she made Ann’s father talk with the boyfriend. What was THEN so embarrassing and even horrifying, now seems hysterically funny. Jon has told us how the conversation went, and I remember a visit when the three of us (plus Jon) just laughed ourselves practically to death about what was said. Ann and I agreed that we would NEVER in a million years have done anything remotely like that with our children. But times have changed, and mores also change with the times. What was so unacceptable to one generation is no big deal to the next one. We even noted how all our mothers accepted their grandchildren living with their significant others, because times had indeed changed, and even old people can change with the times.
Arthur Brooks believes that the nurturing of relationships is probably the single most important thing we can do as we age. We need those relationships perhaps even more as we grow older. Youth has the time, the energy, and the resilience to meet life’s challenges without a lot of pondering, but as we age, we do ponder what it is all about, and our relationships help us to do just that. The word friend or friendship does not appear very often in the Bible, but when it does, it is something to pay heed to. Jesus had his disciples, whom he finally in John’s gospel referred to as his friends, and though they betrayed and disappointed him, still they remained his friends. And indeed, this is how relationships can work: people---our family and friends---may indeed sometimes let us down, but as we age, we can realize and accept that our love for family and friends does not depend on them being perfect. After all, God’s love for us hardly depends upon our perfection. And if we can love the imperfect, how much more can God!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
March 23, 2022
Dear Friends,
Arthur Brooks is a social scientist and musician, who also teaches at The Kennedy School of Government at Harvard as well as the Harvard Business School. He also writes frequently for The Atlantic on the subject of happiness. In fact, he has also taught a very popular course at Harvard on the subject. People, young, old, and in between all want to be happy. In his latest book, From Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life, he has come up with five behaviors that are essential for happiness particularly as we age. His work is based on actual research, examining people’s lives, and then trying to figure out what has led to happy or unhappy lives.
The first two behaviors are relatively simple: Do not smoke and do not drink. Concerning drinking he does not mean that it is necessary to avoid all alcohol, (though he does say avoid all smoking). There is nothing wrong with drinking socially now and then, but it can be very dangerous to need a drink. If you need that cocktail every day, even if it is only one, that could be a danger sign. Let the alcohol go as a regular habit, because in the long run, it will not serve your health or your spirit, and it will not really add to your happiness.
Number three: move your body. Exercise regularly. This does not mean that you MUST join a gym or purchase expensive equipment. He actually suggests that walking is the best thing to do and the easiest activity for older people to pursue. Get out every day and walk! You will feel better, and if your body feels better, so will the rest of you.
Number 4: Get your spiritual and/or religious life in order. This does not necessitate joining a church and suddenly finding religion. People can be atheists and agnostics and be content and happy. But all human beings need to be concerned about meaning and what constitutes a well lived life. As we age, we should realize that we will suffer loss. Loved ones will die; we will lose certain capacities as our physical and mental strength lessens. We too will one day die. That is simply the way things are, and it is important to mentally and spiritually prepare for this. How are you going to cope? What kind of beliefs do you have about life/death and the meaning of it all that might help you face and move through the difficult challenges ahead? Freud might have said that denial is one of the great coping mechanisms, but denial about loss and death only lasts so long. Someday the hard truths need to be faced. And it is preferable to think about them when you are not in the midst of crisis.
And finally #5: Nurture relationships. For many people spouses and children are the most important relationships in their lives, but it is very important to have relationships beyond the family. Friendships are often vital to well lived lives because they can introduce new and different perspectives, beyond what families will often allow. Sometimes it is easier to talk about certain subjects with friends rather than family. I know people, who love to talk politics, but cannot do it with family members, and so their friends are the ones with whom they discuss political subjects or test ideas they would not dare bring up in their family. People will often avoid discussing end of life issues with a spouse or children but can do it quite easily with a friend. Friends have even been named as medical proxies rather than a spouse or an adult child, because there can be greater confidence with a friend that the final wishes will be carried out.
Bur friends are not simply for the challenging and difficult decisions and subjects. Friendship adds diversity and delight to our lives, and as one person said to me recently, “I laugh with my friends in a way I do not with my family. There is a freedom in friendship that is different from the freedom we have in families.”
I know exactly what she means. I have two college roommates, who mean the world to me. We have been friends for 50 plus years. They remember me when I was 18, and they share memories with me that NO ONE else on this earth shares. We have laughed together and cried together, and I know that I would not be who I am today without these two very special people. In the last three years we have all lost our mothers, and we all have memories of each other’s mothers. I reminded Ann, for example, how her mother was furious, when a few years after college, she decided to move in with her boyfriend, who became her husband to whom she is still married these many decades later. Her mother completely rejected the idea of co-habitation, and she made Ann’s father talk with the boyfriend. What was THEN so embarrassing and even horrifying, now seems hysterically funny. Jon has told us how the conversation went, and I remember a visit when the three of us (plus Jon) just laughed ourselves practically to death about what was said. Ann and I agreed that we would NEVER in a million years have done anything remotely like that with our children. But times have changed, and mores also change with the times. What was so unacceptable to one generation is no big deal to the next one. We even noted how all our mothers accepted their grandchildren living with their significant others, because times had indeed changed, and even old people can change with the times.
Arthur Brooks believes that the nurturing of relationships is probably the single most important thing we can do as we age. We need those relationships perhaps even more as we grow older. Youth has the time, the energy, and the resilience to meet life’s challenges without a lot of pondering, but as we age, we do ponder what it is all about, and our relationships help us to do just that. The word friend or friendship does not appear very often in the Bible, but when it does, it is something to pay heed to. Jesus had his disciples, whom he finally in John’s gospel referred to as his friends, and though they betrayed and disappointed him, still they remained his friends. And indeed, this is how relationships can work: people---our family and friends---may indeed sometimes let us down, but as we age, we can realize and accept that our love for family and friends does not depend on them being perfect. After all, God’s love for us hardly depends upon our perfection. And if we can love the imperfect, how much more can God!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Arthur Brooks is a social scientist and musician, who also teaches at The Kennedy School of Government at Harvard as well as the Harvard Business School. He also writes frequently for The Atlantic on the subject of happiness. In fact, he has also taught a very popular course at Harvard on the subject. People, young, old, and in between all want to be happy. In his latest book, From Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life, he has come up with five behaviors that are essential for happiness particularly as we age. His work is based on actual research, examining people’s lives, and then trying to figure out what has led to happy or unhappy lives.
The first two behaviors are relatively simple: Do not smoke and do not drink. Concerning drinking he does not mean that it is necessary to avoid all alcohol, (though he does say avoid all smoking). There is nothing wrong with drinking socially now and then, but it can be very dangerous to need a drink. If you need that cocktail every day, even if it is only one, that could be a danger sign. Let the alcohol go as a regular habit, because in the long run, it will not serve your health or your spirit, and it will not really add to your happiness.
Number three: move your body. Exercise regularly. This does not mean that you MUST join a gym or purchase expensive equipment. He actually suggests that walking is the best thing to do and the easiest activity for older people to pursue. Get out every day and walk! You will feel better, and if your body feels better, so will the rest of you.
Number 4: Get your spiritual and/or religious life in order. This does not necessitate joining a church and suddenly finding religion. People can be atheists and agnostics and be content and happy. But all human beings need to be concerned about meaning and what constitutes a well lived life. As we age, we should realize that we will suffer loss. Loved ones will die; we will lose certain capacities as our physical and mental strength lessens. We too will one day die. That is simply the way things are, and it is important to mentally and spiritually prepare for this. How are you going to cope? What kind of beliefs do you have about life/death and the meaning of it all that might help you face and move through the difficult challenges ahead? Freud might have said that denial is one of the great coping mechanisms, but denial about loss and death only lasts so long. Someday the hard truths need to be faced. And it is preferable to think about them when you are not in the midst of crisis.
And finally #5: Nurture relationships. For many people spouses and children are the most important relationships in their lives, but it is very important to have relationships beyond the family. Friendships are often vital to well lived lives because they can introduce new and different perspectives, beyond what families will often allow. Sometimes it is easier to talk about certain subjects with friends rather than family. I know people, who love to talk politics, but cannot do it with family members, and so their friends are the ones with whom they discuss political subjects or test ideas they would not dare bring up in their family. People will often avoid discussing end of life issues with a spouse or children but can do it quite easily with a friend. Friends have even been named as medical proxies rather than a spouse or an adult child, because there can be greater confidence with a friend that the final wishes will be carried out.
Bur friends are not simply for the challenging and difficult decisions and subjects. Friendship adds diversity and delight to our lives, and as one person said to me recently, “I laugh with my friends in a way I do not with my family. There is a freedom in friendship that is different from the freedom we have in families.”
I know exactly what she means. I have two college roommates, who mean the world to me. We have been friends for 50 plus years. They remember me when I was 18, and they share memories with me that NO ONE else on this earth shares. We have laughed together and cried together, and I know that I would not be who I am today without these two very special people. In the last three years we have all lost our mothers, and we all have memories of each other’s mothers. I reminded Ann, for example, how her mother was furious, when a few years after college, she decided to move in with her boyfriend, who became her husband to whom she is still married these many decades later. Her mother completely rejected the idea of co-habitation, and she made Ann’s father talk with the boyfriend. What was THEN so embarrassing and even horrifying, now seems hysterically funny. Jon has told us how the conversation went, and I remember a visit when the three of us (plus Jon) just laughed ourselves practically to death about what was said. Ann and I agreed that we would NEVER in a million years have done anything remotely like that with our children. But times have changed, and mores also change with the times. What was so unacceptable to one generation is no big deal to the next one. We even noted how all our mothers accepted their grandchildren living with their significant others, because times had indeed changed, and even old people can change with the times.
Arthur Brooks believes that the nurturing of relationships is probably the single most important thing we can do as we age. We need those relationships perhaps even more as we grow older. Youth has the time, the energy, and the resilience to meet life’s challenges without a lot of pondering, but as we age, we do ponder what it is all about, and our relationships help us to do just that. The word friend or friendship does not appear very often in the Bible, but when it does, it is something to pay heed to. Jesus had his disciples, whom he finally in John’s gospel referred to as his friends, and though they betrayed and disappointed him, still they remained his friends. And indeed, this is how relationships can work: people---our family and friends---may indeed sometimes let us down, but as we age, we can realize and accept that our love for family and friends does not depend on them being perfect. After all, God’s love for us hardly depends upon our perfection. And if we can love the imperfect, how much more can God!
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Job 17
1 Corinthians 1:18-21
Hope in losing the little that I have keeps me quiet and docile,
But when I have no hope,
when I realize I have nothing to lose,
That's when I am the most dangerous.
Dr. Miguel A. De La Torre.
The Hope Question
A while back, I had the opportunity to stroll through a museum whose sole purpose was on the freedom of the press.It was playfully called the “Newseum.” They had exhibits on just about every press-related story you could imagine, on every leap forward, and every boundary crossed … But among the displays, there is one that I will never forget.
After a long day walking, I rounded a corner to find myself amid an installment of Pulitzer- Prize photographs.
It was this dimly lit, round gallery, inviting its guests to walk through a timeline prize– winning photographs, starting in 1942 and ending in the present. A large, embossed quote from Eddie Adams decorated the entrance wall. “if it makes you laugh,”he wrote,”if it makes you cry, if it rips out your heart, that’s a good picture.”
Now anyone who has ever been to a museum, especially a large one, knows that there are some sections you just have to walk through at a brisk pace, skimming the surface and pausing every now and then… But this exhibit was different. This exhibit demanded that I stop and be still in reverence – to pay a kind of homage to the vast spectrum of human joy and suffering.
In some photographs, I saw scenes that radiated with hope and heroism.
One featured a large 18 – wheeler flying off a bridge while ordinary men and women gathered around to pull the desperate driver to safety. It was incredible.
There were Lovers jumping into one another’s arms after what must have been ages apart.
There were Olympians ablaze with glory after performing feats previously considered superhuman…
but each of these photographs had an opposite. The reverse side of those same coins.
● I was not prepared to see Vietnamese children, naked and stumbling from their village, screaming from the Napalm burns on their skin.
● I wasn’t prepared to see Albanian parents desperately passing a frightened child, the
same age as my son, through a barbed wire fence, trying to flee from a war in Kosovo.
● I wasn’t prepared to see the fear on the faces of men and women with guns to their
heads and photographs snapped in the moments before their lies ended.
● As I walked on, my senses of hope and optimism proved far more fragile than I had ever thought they would be.
● They shattered into pieces around me, cutting my feet as I walked.(hope and optimism)
But for all of the photographs I saw that day, there is one that slips, unbidden, into my thoughts most often.
It was a piece called “The Struggling Girl,” even though the child in the photograph was a boy, a young Sudanese boy, no older than three or four. Hunger had eaten him to nothing.
He had collapsed onto the ground.
He was helpless and alone except for a vulture 2 yards behind him, just waiting.
After the photograph was published in the New York Times in 1993, the photographer, a man named Kevin Carter, was criticized for not reaching out and helping this child, for not picking him up and taking him to find food, for not letting him know for a moment that he wasn’t alone…
But Carter would admit that there were strict instructions not to touch the children for fear of disease.
Carter became so overwhelmed by the trauma of the experience, the hopelessness of the
famine and war he had witnessed, that four months after receiving the Pulitzer for that
photograph, he took his own life. I felt hopeless as I looked at that child and read that story.
It was my job, my vocation to imagine hope, to preach hope, to trust hope…
But at that moment, I realized that until we have looked at that kind of hopelessness
square in its eyes, there’s nothing we have said about hope is worth a damn.
Of course, I thought of the story this week.
We are witnessing a televised account of the brutal invasion against Ukraine.
We are learning to wait expectantly and actively for Christ to show up.
My favorite image for help comes from a Brite Divinity School, Emeritus professor of
pastoral care, Dr. Andrew Lester.
He wrote that hope could be best understood in the language of story.
He asserts that each of us is living a story, responding in the present to some kind of perceived narrative trajectory of our past, but it’s not just that.
We don’t often think about the fact that we are also living in response to the perceived narrative trajectory of our future.
In other words, we each have a future story, the next chapter that we anticipate living into.
We have an imagination of what might be coming tomorrow, next week, or next year, and when
this imagined story is good, then we feel hope.
When it is bad… We feel despair.
Of course, as with any story we tell, there is always the question of whether it is true.
Are we really living in the story we thought we were living?
Are we actually as helpless in the face of it as we think we are? Typically, especially doing this
warmongering, this pandemic, is the pastor's job to ask these questions, to help us reimagine
our future in the light of God's story, God‘s redemptive imagination. We draw pictures of the kind
of future God imagines and say in the words of a friend, “ I know it’s dark right now, but just
believe, somehow, that soon there will be light.”
But today… I want to ask a different kind of question, in some ways a question we are more
primed to answer this year than ever before in our lifetime, a question that Sudanese boy will
not let me ignore: Could our idea of hope be empty?
I can think of two kinds of hope. On one hand, there is the conservative kind of hope. It is the hope that if we ask the right way with enough faith in our hearts, God will fix problems, heal diseases, and right wrongs. God will crash in, everything will be alright. The problem is, I have seen too many desperate prayers go unanswered to believe this could be true. On the other hand there is a naïve hope, road – weary activists tend to call “liberal idealism.” This is the kind of hope that claims if we just love one another, if we just are kind, go vote…
Then things will get better, and everything will be alright. The problem here is, I have seen too many liberals (myself included) too paralyzed by the comforts of the system, too segregated from those they claim to serve to make any kind of discernible difference. Sure both of these kinds of hope have merit. There is wisdom to recognizing what is beyond your control and there is wisdom in recognizing the power of love and kindness to bring out the best in people.
Both are important, but when it comes to the full depth of human suffering, in the end both are insufficient.
For me, both shattered in the face of the pain I saw that day in the museum.
Both were exposed to different kinds of escapism, a vain hope everything will be OK,
maintained by a buffer of privilege.
The truth is, many, far too many, we live and die in poverty and pain with no hope to speak of.
For many of us, this year has shown us just how fragile that kind of hope can be.
So, this year, we must ask: could our idea of help be empty?
Maybe. Probably. But here’s the thing…
These cheap hopes do not discount the existence of true hope anymore than cheap
Romance novels discount the existence of true love.
The truth is, real hope, just like real love, has a higher cost.
For that kind of hope, we need to turn to Christ's story.
If they were awarding Pulitzers for photography in the first century and a photographer
had managed to snap a picture of Christ as a child, what do you think they would have
captured?
The iconografters would have us believe; they would have seen a serene and regal child
sitting in the lap of his straight-faced and haloed mother…But honestly, I think we should be suspicious.
● Is this the image of a child born so poor, his birth took place in a stable, alongside
the livestock?
● Is this the image of a child born into a nation shadowed by an imperial
superpower, crucifying any who dared to speak a word of resistance?
● With respect to the iconografters, I think Christ would have looked far more like
those children from Vietnam or Sudan, children born into poverty, pain, and
hopelessness. And yet… The Christ story is, somehow, a story of unparalleled hope.
The Christ story is not one of resignation or depression, but one of a man’s holding
lepers in his arms, preaching relentless Liberation, and marching boldly toward a Roman
cross holding his executioners in his heart.
How? …. Andrew Lester says that when we look into our imagined future stories and see only pain
that we are paralyzed by despair… But in the Christ story, I think we see that this isn’t the
whole picture.
In the Christ story, we see that when we are hopeless and we have the courage to look
despair in the eye, the courage not to look away, then we discover we have, not a
limitation, but a superpower: Desperation.
The story of Christ is a story of one who looked deeply into his hopelessness in
stopping his impending crucifixion and hopelessness of the nation around him, who
looked into a future that ended, unavoidably, in pain and death…Yet, it set him free.
It set him free to do things most never find the courage to do, to love people most think
are too dangerous to love, to work for a future that went beyond his own life. He became,
in the words often attributed to Oscar Romero, the prophet of a future not his own.
Seeing no hope, in his desperation he died to himself and let the God in him run loose in
the world.
This is real hope-Earned hope.
Hope can only be found along the road of honest hopelessness.
If we want real hope, lasting and un-fragile, it can only be found by looking hopelessness in the
eye. By walking through the gallery of human suffering, sitting, and waiting.
It can only come through a recognition that thousands of children will die of hunger and
preventable causes today. It can only come through meaningful contact with the countless children in the United States who will be denied quality education, who will be denied quality employment, sentenced to a life of suspicion and violence for having had the audacity to be born poor.
It can only come from opening your heart to the millions of people in the United States and in
our global community who have died of COVID-19, having faced a decision to either go to a job
that offers no protection or come home to an eviction notice attached to the door.
It can only come from the honest acceptance of the now unstoppable effects of climate change,
calling into question the very survival of our species.
It can only come when we recognize the demeaning and deteriorating and devastating effects
and meaninglessness of war.
It comes when we are “woke” to the unimaginable reality Ukraine is facing today.
How…
Real, lasting hope can never come from easy answers, escape-ism or naive idealism.
Hope comes from a journey into the very heart of hopelessness itself.
It comes from the hopelessness of Christ, who gives birth to despair, who gives birth to
desperation then to the total freedom to do what must be done.
To allow God to live through you, to become the prophet of a future that is not your own-the
future of a new heaven and new earth.
There’s hope through hopelessness, life through a cross; it is foolishness to those who are
perishing, but to all being saved, it is the very power and wisdom of God.
So, people of God on this Sunday of celebration and installation of a pastor as we journey
through the uncertainty of current events, waiting for the light, may we be consistently
dissatisfied with empty hope, with any hope that it’s fragile or threatened by suffering.
I want to leave you with another photograph. a more recent photograph—-
Baby strollers lined up one after another at the train station in Poland. Mothers of Poland left
strollers for Mothers from Ukraine to use as they continued their freedom journey.
May we have the courage to embrace the hopelessness of Christ, looking deeply at that which
we would rather look away from or explain away… So we may find the desperation, the
liberation, the freedom of Christ.
May we live resurrected lives in the service of a kingdom greater than ourselves.
Amen. May It Be So
1 Corinthians 1:18-21
Hope in losing the little that I have keeps me quiet and docile,
But when I have no hope,
when I realize I have nothing to lose,
That's when I am the most dangerous.
Dr. Miguel A. De La Torre.
The Hope Question
A while back, I had the opportunity to stroll through a museum whose sole purpose was on the freedom of the press.It was playfully called the “Newseum.” They had exhibits on just about every press-related story you could imagine, on every leap forward, and every boundary crossed … But among the displays, there is one that I will never forget.
After a long day walking, I rounded a corner to find myself amid an installment of Pulitzer- Prize photographs.
It was this dimly lit, round gallery, inviting its guests to walk through a timeline prize– winning photographs, starting in 1942 and ending in the present. A large, embossed quote from Eddie Adams decorated the entrance wall. “if it makes you laugh,”he wrote,”if it makes you cry, if it rips out your heart, that’s a good picture.”
Now anyone who has ever been to a museum, especially a large one, knows that there are some sections you just have to walk through at a brisk pace, skimming the surface and pausing every now and then… But this exhibit was different. This exhibit demanded that I stop and be still in reverence – to pay a kind of homage to the vast spectrum of human joy and suffering.
In some photographs, I saw scenes that radiated with hope and heroism.
One featured a large 18 – wheeler flying off a bridge while ordinary men and women gathered around to pull the desperate driver to safety. It was incredible.
There were Lovers jumping into one another’s arms after what must have been ages apart.
There were Olympians ablaze with glory after performing feats previously considered superhuman…
but each of these photographs had an opposite. The reverse side of those same coins.
● I was not prepared to see Vietnamese children, naked and stumbling from their village, screaming from the Napalm burns on their skin.
● I wasn’t prepared to see Albanian parents desperately passing a frightened child, the
same age as my son, through a barbed wire fence, trying to flee from a war in Kosovo.
● I wasn’t prepared to see the fear on the faces of men and women with guns to their
heads and photographs snapped in the moments before their lies ended.
● As I walked on, my senses of hope and optimism proved far more fragile than I had ever thought they would be.
● They shattered into pieces around me, cutting my feet as I walked.(hope and optimism)
But for all of the photographs I saw that day, there is one that slips, unbidden, into my thoughts most often.
It was a piece called “The Struggling Girl,” even though the child in the photograph was a boy, a young Sudanese boy, no older than three or four. Hunger had eaten him to nothing.
He had collapsed onto the ground.
He was helpless and alone except for a vulture 2 yards behind him, just waiting.
After the photograph was published in the New York Times in 1993, the photographer, a man named Kevin Carter, was criticized for not reaching out and helping this child, for not picking him up and taking him to find food, for not letting him know for a moment that he wasn’t alone…
But Carter would admit that there were strict instructions not to touch the children for fear of disease.
Carter became so overwhelmed by the trauma of the experience, the hopelessness of the
famine and war he had witnessed, that four months after receiving the Pulitzer for that
photograph, he took his own life. I felt hopeless as I looked at that child and read that story.
It was my job, my vocation to imagine hope, to preach hope, to trust hope…
But at that moment, I realized that until we have looked at that kind of hopelessness
square in its eyes, there’s nothing we have said about hope is worth a damn.
Of course, I thought of the story this week.
We are witnessing a televised account of the brutal invasion against Ukraine.
We are learning to wait expectantly and actively for Christ to show up.
My favorite image for help comes from a Brite Divinity School, Emeritus professor of
pastoral care, Dr. Andrew Lester.
He wrote that hope could be best understood in the language of story.
He asserts that each of us is living a story, responding in the present to some kind of perceived narrative trajectory of our past, but it’s not just that.
We don’t often think about the fact that we are also living in response to the perceived narrative trajectory of our future.
In other words, we each have a future story, the next chapter that we anticipate living into.
We have an imagination of what might be coming tomorrow, next week, or next year, and when
this imagined story is good, then we feel hope.
When it is bad… We feel despair.
Of course, as with any story we tell, there is always the question of whether it is true.
Are we really living in the story we thought we were living?
Are we actually as helpless in the face of it as we think we are? Typically, especially doing this
warmongering, this pandemic, is the pastor's job to ask these questions, to help us reimagine
our future in the light of God's story, God‘s redemptive imagination. We draw pictures of the kind
of future God imagines and say in the words of a friend, “ I know it’s dark right now, but just
believe, somehow, that soon there will be light.”
But today… I want to ask a different kind of question, in some ways a question we are more
primed to answer this year than ever before in our lifetime, a question that Sudanese boy will
not let me ignore: Could our idea of hope be empty?
I can think of two kinds of hope. On one hand, there is the conservative kind of hope. It is the hope that if we ask the right way with enough faith in our hearts, God will fix problems, heal diseases, and right wrongs. God will crash in, everything will be alright. The problem is, I have seen too many desperate prayers go unanswered to believe this could be true. On the other hand there is a naïve hope, road – weary activists tend to call “liberal idealism.” This is the kind of hope that claims if we just love one another, if we just are kind, go vote…
Then things will get better, and everything will be alright. The problem here is, I have seen too many liberals (myself included) too paralyzed by the comforts of the system, too segregated from those they claim to serve to make any kind of discernible difference. Sure both of these kinds of hope have merit. There is wisdom to recognizing what is beyond your control and there is wisdom in recognizing the power of love and kindness to bring out the best in people.
Both are important, but when it comes to the full depth of human suffering, in the end both are insufficient.
For me, both shattered in the face of the pain I saw that day in the museum.
Both were exposed to different kinds of escapism, a vain hope everything will be OK,
maintained by a buffer of privilege.
The truth is, many, far too many, we live and die in poverty and pain with no hope to speak of.
For many of us, this year has shown us just how fragile that kind of hope can be.
So, this year, we must ask: could our idea of help be empty?
Maybe. Probably. But here’s the thing…
These cheap hopes do not discount the existence of true hope anymore than cheap
Romance novels discount the existence of true love.
The truth is, real hope, just like real love, has a higher cost.
For that kind of hope, we need to turn to Christ's story.
If they were awarding Pulitzers for photography in the first century and a photographer
had managed to snap a picture of Christ as a child, what do you think they would have
captured?
The iconografters would have us believe; they would have seen a serene and regal child
sitting in the lap of his straight-faced and haloed mother…But honestly, I think we should be suspicious.
● Is this the image of a child born so poor, his birth took place in a stable, alongside
the livestock?
● Is this the image of a child born into a nation shadowed by an imperial
superpower, crucifying any who dared to speak a word of resistance?
● With respect to the iconografters, I think Christ would have looked far more like
those children from Vietnam or Sudan, children born into poverty, pain, and
hopelessness. And yet… The Christ story is, somehow, a story of unparalleled hope.
The Christ story is not one of resignation or depression, but one of a man’s holding
lepers in his arms, preaching relentless Liberation, and marching boldly toward a Roman
cross holding his executioners in his heart.
How? …. Andrew Lester says that when we look into our imagined future stories and see only pain
that we are paralyzed by despair… But in the Christ story, I think we see that this isn’t the
whole picture.
In the Christ story, we see that when we are hopeless and we have the courage to look
despair in the eye, the courage not to look away, then we discover we have, not a
limitation, but a superpower: Desperation.
The story of Christ is a story of one who looked deeply into his hopelessness in
stopping his impending crucifixion and hopelessness of the nation around him, who
looked into a future that ended, unavoidably, in pain and death…Yet, it set him free.
It set him free to do things most never find the courage to do, to love people most think
are too dangerous to love, to work for a future that went beyond his own life. He became,
in the words often attributed to Oscar Romero, the prophet of a future not his own.
Seeing no hope, in his desperation he died to himself and let the God in him run loose in
the world.
This is real hope-Earned hope.
Hope can only be found along the road of honest hopelessness.
If we want real hope, lasting and un-fragile, it can only be found by looking hopelessness in the
eye. By walking through the gallery of human suffering, sitting, and waiting.
It can only come through a recognition that thousands of children will die of hunger and
preventable causes today. It can only come through meaningful contact with the countless children in the United States who will be denied quality education, who will be denied quality employment, sentenced to a life of suspicion and violence for having had the audacity to be born poor.
It can only come from opening your heart to the millions of people in the United States and in
our global community who have died of COVID-19, having faced a decision to either go to a job
that offers no protection or come home to an eviction notice attached to the door.
It can only come from the honest acceptance of the now unstoppable effects of climate change,
calling into question the very survival of our species.
It can only come when we recognize the demeaning and deteriorating and devastating effects
and meaninglessness of war.
It comes when we are “woke” to the unimaginable reality Ukraine is facing today.
How…
Real, lasting hope can never come from easy answers, escape-ism or naive idealism.
Hope comes from a journey into the very heart of hopelessness itself.
It comes from the hopelessness of Christ, who gives birth to despair, who gives birth to
desperation then to the total freedom to do what must be done.
To allow God to live through you, to become the prophet of a future that is not your own-the
future of a new heaven and new earth.
There’s hope through hopelessness, life through a cross; it is foolishness to those who are
perishing, but to all being saved, it is the very power and wisdom of God.
So, people of God on this Sunday of celebration and installation of a pastor as we journey
through the uncertainty of current events, waiting for the light, may we be consistently
dissatisfied with empty hope, with any hope that it’s fragile or threatened by suffering.
I want to leave you with another photograph. a more recent photograph—-
Baby strollers lined up one after another at the train station in Poland. Mothers of Poland left
strollers for Mothers from Ukraine to use as they continued their freedom journey.
May we have the courage to embrace the hopelessness of Christ, looking deeply at that which
we would rather look away from or explain away… So we may find the desperation, the
liberation, the freedom of Christ.
May we live resurrected lives in the service of a kingdom greater than ourselves.
Amen. May It Be So
March 16, 2022
Dear Friends,
It is certainly true that music has a capacity to touch us in ways we cannot explain. Words can fail, but music rushes in when words have nothing to say. Someone said, Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.” Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Lutheran minister and theologian, executed for his participation in the plot against Hitler, wrote, “Music will help dissolve your perplexities and purify your character and sensibilities, and in times of care and sorrow will keep a fountain of joy alive in you.” I recall when the Deacons were discussing our return to in person worship after a three month absence in 2020, and the suggestion from the Conference was, “No singing out loud,” Cindy Nye remarked, “I cannot imagine church without singing.” And since none of us could either, we have been singing in worship, even during the worst of Covid, while many churches until recently have not permitted voices to sing out loud.
So, should we be surprised that during this horrific war in Ukraine, music has had its important role to play? On a recent day in Kharkiv, when Russian troops were nearing Ukraine’s second largest city and missiles were being fired into the city center, and as some civilians tried to escape the destruction, a young boy sat down at a white piano in a hotel lobby and began to play. Whitney Leaming is a journalist for The Washington Post and in her room a few floors up from the lobby, she heard the music, a work by Philip Glass and Paul Leonard-Morgan, A Walk to School, composed in 2020. She came down the stairs and filmed the scene. Then she left the hotel to cover the war. The video of the scene has been seen by over 9 million people, but so far no one knows who the boy is and where he is now. His playing brought tears to the eyes of the composers, who never dreamed their music would be for such a time as this. And the people from all over the world, who have watched the scene, have been moved to tears as well as to action---giving money and time to help in whatever way they can the suffering people of Ukraine.
Consider now another musician, Vera Lytovchenko, a classical violinist, who found herself in the basement of her apartment building along with others trying to keep themselves safe from the onslaught of Russia’s war against Ukraine. Vera used to teach in a college as well as teach private students; she also played in an orchestra for concerts, ballets, and operas. Life now is very different from what it had been, and because sadness and depression are a constant temptation, Vera plays in the hope that something of the beautiful music will lift tired and sagging spirits toward a wellspring of hope. She plays all kinds of music, classical as well as folk songs, and sometimes she will sing and encourage others to do the same. When you are stuck with nothing to do, boredom easily sets in and since boredom does not enjoy itself, it can easily give way to other emotions like fear and anger. While such feelings are appropriate in times of war, relief is needed, and what better thing to relieve sadness, boredom, and fear than music?
Maria Von Trapp once said, “Music acts like a magic key to which the most tightly closed heart opens.” I wonder about Putin’s tightly closed heart and all the other tightly closed hearts that could cry over a beautifully played Mozart sonata and yet go about the business of murdering innocent people in concentration camps during the Second World War. Let us hope and pray that tightly closed hearts will indeed open.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
It is certainly true that music has a capacity to touch us in ways we cannot explain. Words can fail, but music rushes in when words have nothing to say. Someone said, Music, once admitted to the soul, becomes a sort of spirit, and never dies.” Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Lutheran minister and theologian, executed for his participation in the plot against Hitler, wrote, “Music will help dissolve your perplexities and purify your character and sensibilities, and in times of care and sorrow will keep a fountain of joy alive in you.” I recall when the Deacons were discussing our return to in person worship after a three month absence in 2020, and the suggestion from the Conference was, “No singing out loud,” Cindy Nye remarked, “I cannot imagine church without singing.” And since none of us could either, we have been singing in worship, even during the worst of Covid, while many churches until recently have not permitted voices to sing out loud.
So, should we be surprised that during this horrific war in Ukraine, music has had its important role to play? On a recent day in Kharkiv, when Russian troops were nearing Ukraine’s second largest city and missiles were being fired into the city center, and as some civilians tried to escape the destruction, a young boy sat down at a white piano in a hotel lobby and began to play. Whitney Leaming is a journalist for The Washington Post and in her room a few floors up from the lobby, she heard the music, a work by Philip Glass and Paul Leonard-Morgan, A Walk to School, composed in 2020. She came down the stairs and filmed the scene. Then she left the hotel to cover the war. The video of the scene has been seen by over 9 million people, but so far no one knows who the boy is and where he is now. His playing brought tears to the eyes of the composers, who never dreamed their music would be for such a time as this. And the people from all over the world, who have watched the scene, have been moved to tears as well as to action---giving money and time to help in whatever way they can the suffering people of Ukraine.
Consider now another musician, Vera Lytovchenko, a classical violinist, who found herself in the basement of her apartment building along with others trying to keep themselves safe from the onslaught of Russia’s war against Ukraine. Vera used to teach in a college as well as teach private students; she also played in an orchestra for concerts, ballets, and operas. Life now is very different from what it had been, and because sadness and depression are a constant temptation, Vera plays in the hope that something of the beautiful music will lift tired and sagging spirits toward a wellspring of hope. She plays all kinds of music, classical as well as folk songs, and sometimes she will sing and encourage others to do the same. When you are stuck with nothing to do, boredom easily sets in and since boredom does not enjoy itself, it can easily give way to other emotions like fear and anger. While such feelings are appropriate in times of war, relief is needed, and what better thing to relieve sadness, boredom, and fear than music?
Maria Von Trapp once said, “Music acts like a magic key to which the most tightly closed heart opens.” I wonder about Putin’s tightly closed heart and all the other tightly closed hearts that could cry over a beautifully played Mozart sonata and yet go about the business of murdering innocent people in concentration camps during the Second World War. Let us hope and pray that tightly closed hearts will indeed open.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
March 8, 2022
Dear Friends,
It is March 8, which is International Women’s Day and this year’s theme is: Break the Bias. The magazine, The Economist, printed a list of 29 countries in order of their “friendliness” to working women, based on gender pay gap, parental leave policies, the cost of childcare, educational attainment, and representation in senior management positions and politics. The top ten countries, most supportive of working women are: Sweden, Iceland, Finland, Norway, Portugal, Belgium, France, New Zealand, Poland, and Canada. Just in case you are wondering, The United States is number 20, followed by Greece, Britain, Ireland, Netherlands, Czech Republic, Switzerland, Turkey, and South Korea. Obviously, the wider world as well as our nation have a great deal of work to do to break the bias. We Americans have this tendency to brag about our status as a nation, but when you examine a number of metrics, including health care, where we are number 37, and support and fairness for working women, we can honestly wonder why all the bragging.
International Women’s Day had a long period of birth. It slowly began in the 19th century as agitation for women’s suffrage gained momentum. New Zealand was the first nation to embrace a woman’s right to vote in 1893, followed by Australia in 1902, Finland in 1906, Norway in 1913 and The United States in 1920. Switzerland was very slow to catch on: 1971 and Syria finally stepped onboard in 1973. But the march for a day to recognize the contributions of women involved far more than suffrage. On March 8, 1857, hundreds of women in New York City, who worked in the garment industry, gathered to protest what they considered to be inhuman working conditions. On March 8, 1908, 15,000 women marched through New York, carrying bread and roses, bread to signify the need for economic security and roses to symbolize the quest for a greater quality of life. They marched for improved working conditions and shorter work hours, the right to vote, and an end to child labor. The following year, February 28, 1909, was designated to honor striking women, who were once again protesting the harshness of working conditions, especially in the garment industry.
Theresa Serber Malkiel, is a name unknown to most Americans. Born in 1874 in what was then the Russian empire, now part of western Ukraine, her family was middle class and Jewish, and Theresa received a very good education. Her family immigrated to the United States when she was 17, because Jews were mistreated in Russia, but she found that her education did her little good in New York City. As hard as she tried to find decent employment, she ended up working in the garment industry, as so many other immigrant and poor American women did. She was appalled at the 18 hour work days and the fact that women working in the garment industry earned half of what men did.
Theresa became a vibrant advocate for women’s rights and equality. When she married at age 26, an attorney, Leon Malkiel, she was able to leave her job and work on behalf of women’s rights. She wrote a novel about work in the garment industry and published numerous articles, calling for women’s equality, economic freedom, and an end to child labor. Though her husband and she were both socialists, she became discouraged with the Socialist Party, because of the sexism of many of the male leaders. On February 27, 1910, which was designated as The Second National Woman’s Day, there were events all over the nation and talks and poetry readings in Carnegie Hall. Theresa would continue to be a strong voice in the movement that was moving far beyond our nation’s borders. Voices and protests in Europe were also taking place. In 1917 International Women’s Day events snowballed in Russia into a general strike that forced the abdication of Czar Nicholas ll. The strike had begun on March 8, so in many countries that became the official International Women’s Day. China even gives women half a work day on March 8.
Throughout the 20th century, there were many calls to recognize an International Women’s Day, and finally in 1977 The United Nations adopted it as a global holiday, though here in the United States it barely registers at all with most people. The month of March in the United States is designated as Women’s History Month, so libraries and schools try to put materials into the hands of students and patrons. When you walk into my local library during the month of March, you are greeted by a display of books on Women’s History.
A friend at the local YMCA told me she heard a podcast recently about the 7 original women, who were ordained as Episcopal priests in 1977. I knew one of them, Carter Heyward, from whom I took a course at the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, MA. when I was in seminary. Those were difficult days, as some people actually refused to take holy communion from the women and others would walk out when they rose to preach. But they endured as did the church and the many other churches which would eventually accept more and more women as clergy. God had and has some pretty hard lessons to teach people, and as always, people resist learning what is God is trying to teach.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
It is March 8, which is International Women’s Day and this year’s theme is: Break the Bias. The magazine, The Economist, printed a list of 29 countries in order of their “friendliness” to working women, based on gender pay gap, parental leave policies, the cost of childcare, educational attainment, and representation in senior management positions and politics. The top ten countries, most supportive of working women are: Sweden, Iceland, Finland, Norway, Portugal, Belgium, France, New Zealand, Poland, and Canada. Just in case you are wondering, The United States is number 20, followed by Greece, Britain, Ireland, Netherlands, Czech Republic, Switzerland, Turkey, and South Korea. Obviously, the wider world as well as our nation have a great deal of work to do to break the bias. We Americans have this tendency to brag about our status as a nation, but when you examine a number of metrics, including health care, where we are number 37, and support and fairness for working women, we can honestly wonder why all the bragging.
International Women’s Day had a long period of birth. It slowly began in the 19th century as agitation for women’s suffrage gained momentum. New Zealand was the first nation to embrace a woman’s right to vote in 1893, followed by Australia in 1902, Finland in 1906, Norway in 1913 and The United States in 1920. Switzerland was very slow to catch on: 1971 and Syria finally stepped onboard in 1973. But the march for a day to recognize the contributions of women involved far more than suffrage. On March 8, 1857, hundreds of women in New York City, who worked in the garment industry, gathered to protest what they considered to be inhuman working conditions. On March 8, 1908, 15,000 women marched through New York, carrying bread and roses, bread to signify the need for economic security and roses to symbolize the quest for a greater quality of life. They marched for improved working conditions and shorter work hours, the right to vote, and an end to child labor. The following year, February 28, 1909, was designated to honor striking women, who were once again protesting the harshness of working conditions, especially in the garment industry.
Theresa Serber Malkiel, is a name unknown to most Americans. Born in 1874 in what was then the Russian empire, now part of western Ukraine, her family was middle class and Jewish, and Theresa received a very good education. Her family immigrated to the United States when she was 17, because Jews were mistreated in Russia, but she found that her education did her little good in New York City. As hard as she tried to find decent employment, she ended up working in the garment industry, as so many other immigrant and poor American women did. She was appalled at the 18 hour work days and the fact that women working in the garment industry earned half of what men did.
Theresa became a vibrant advocate for women’s rights and equality. When she married at age 26, an attorney, Leon Malkiel, she was able to leave her job and work on behalf of women’s rights. She wrote a novel about work in the garment industry and published numerous articles, calling for women’s equality, economic freedom, and an end to child labor. Though her husband and she were both socialists, she became discouraged with the Socialist Party, because of the sexism of many of the male leaders. On February 27, 1910, which was designated as The Second National Woman’s Day, there were events all over the nation and talks and poetry readings in Carnegie Hall. Theresa would continue to be a strong voice in the movement that was moving far beyond our nation’s borders. Voices and protests in Europe were also taking place. In 1917 International Women’s Day events snowballed in Russia into a general strike that forced the abdication of Czar Nicholas ll. The strike had begun on March 8, so in many countries that became the official International Women’s Day. China even gives women half a work day on March 8.
Throughout the 20th century, there were many calls to recognize an International Women’s Day, and finally in 1977 The United Nations adopted it as a global holiday, though here in the United States it barely registers at all with most people. The month of March in the United States is designated as Women’s History Month, so libraries and schools try to put materials into the hands of students and patrons. When you walk into my local library during the month of March, you are greeted by a display of books on Women’s History.
A friend at the local YMCA told me she heard a podcast recently about the 7 original women, who were ordained as Episcopal priests in 1977. I knew one of them, Carter Heyward, from whom I took a course at the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, MA. when I was in seminary. Those were difficult days, as some people actually refused to take holy communion from the women and others would walk out when they rose to preach. But they endured as did the church and the many other churches which would eventually accept more and more women as clergy. God had and has some pretty hard lessons to teach people, and as always, people resist learning what is God is trying to teach.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
REMEMBER YOU ARE DUST
Ash Wednesday, March 2, 2022
In 1914 or perhaps 1915---no one knows the date for sure---Kazimir Malevich, a Russian painter of Polish descent, took a 35 inch square canvass and painted it white around the edges and in the middle black. Here it is, a copy, called The Black Square. Art critics, if you want to take them seriously called it “the most famous, most enigmatic, and most frightening painting known to man.” Well, critics are known to exaggerate. Another critic claimed this painting crossed the line “between old art and new art, between a man and his shadow, between a rose and a casket, between life and death, between God and the devil.
Now, if you are anything like me you might have some trouble with what passes for new art. For one thing it has no concern for beauty, and why repetition of images of Marilyn Monroe or Campbells Soup a la Andy Warhol or a black square surrounded by white should be considered art confounds me and probably confounds most of you as well. I will tell you that some years ago, I took a course in modern/postmodern art history at Wesleyan, taught by a professor whose field of expertise was Renaissance Art. In fact, he was one of the experts called in when the Sistine Chapel ceiling was cleaned. So, he certainly knew about beautiful art and its capacity to inspire and even heal. Yet even after taking the course, I remain confounded. But whether or not we like the Black Square as art, it did make a major impact on the art world and by extension the world at large, because its theme was death.
Now in 1914/15 the First World War was going on, and we all know what a horrible decimation of life it was---young men were pulverized in the trenches. And perhaps that is why the Black Square made its appearance---it was an expression of the absurd cruelty that was being played out in Europe, though in 1915 it was not yet fully realized how horrific the war would be. And some would say this Black Square announced the coming horror. The unconscious, in other words, already knew what the conscious mind did not yet recognize.
Here we are on Ash Wednesday, 2022, when another war is going on, threatening to undo democracy in the Ukraine as well as kill many of its citizens. And in the midst of this, we are once again reminded of our mortality: “Remember, you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Ash Wednesday is clearly the announcement of our mortality, something we all know, but tend to ignore or even deny. After all, we live in an age, when death is kept at a relative distance. People usually die in hospitals or nursing homes, and though hospice has made death at home more common than it was just a few decades ago, still death is not the intimate it was for our ancestors. And all the talk about death being “natural” hardly makes it our friend. If death becomes a friend, it is only because the suffering is so great and has made of life a pathetic shadow of what it once was. At such stages, yes, death is a friend, but otherwise it is an enemy---because it removes us from everything and everyone we know and love. Of course, we rationally know that without death there can be no renewal of life. All forms of life must die to make room for the new. I am reminded of a letter an eight year old boy wrote to God: Dear God, my mother told me that you invented death to make room for all the new people being born. Why don’t you keep the people you already have instead of always making new ones? Out of the mouths of babes.
Why then do we have this day, when we are called to remember and ponder our mortality? Let me begin my answer by telling you about a social psychology course I took when I was a sophomore at the U. of Chicago. The reading list included a number of famous psychologists, including Abraham Maslow, who believed that the human project is to actualize our gifts and potentials that we might not only live a happy life, but also a helpful life for the world. And Maslow said something else that made a big impression on me: ”If we did not die, we would be unable to love.” He gave as an example the stories of the Greek and Roman myths. He noted that when the immortal gods and goddess had love affairs among themselves, their affairs were boring, because time did not figure in; there was no consequence to any of their acts or decisions, since they had an infinite amount of time to do and redo. But, Maslow noted, when a god or goddess fell in love with a mortal, ah, then things began to become interesting, because time mattered; time had entered into the story, and there were consequences for the human life. There was not enough time to redo and remake, so the decisions made actually bore fruit, for good or evil. Time mattered and it matters still.
Now at 19, what did I know of death? It was something that happened to the very old, or to the unfortunate young sent to die in a hell hole called Viet Nam, or a terrible tragedy in my own family, taking the life of a two year old brother from leukemia, a year before I was born. That was all I knew of death, and though I did not then understand what Maslow meant---how could I; I was simply too young--- still, what he said made me think and all these many decades later, I still recall his words. And because I am so much older now, I do understand. I understand that time matters, and the choices and decisions we make in time also matter, because we will not have an infinite amount of time to do and redo.
Of course, this does not mean we should crucify ourselves for our foolishness and mistakes, but it does mean we should take stock of our choices, our values, what it is we care about and love. We should ask ourselves how do our actions, how does the way we spend our time instantiate what it is we truly believe and love?
The reading from the Prophet Isaiah was written during a very tough time. The Jews had returned from Babylon, where they had been exiled for a little over 50 years, and now they were back in Jerusalem. So much had been destroyed by the Babylonians and much of it remained destroyed. During the years of exile, little was rebuilt, because the educated and the skilled had been carried off into captivity. So, they returned home to a mess, and they were disconsolate, without hope. And what did the prophet tell them? He reminded them (as Jesus also did in our gospel reading from Matthew) that they should not pursue piety for the sake of looking good to God or themselves, but rather they should consider what it is God would have them do: give food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, clothing to the naked. Then, the prophet said, “your light shall break forth like the dawn and your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt and you shall raise up the foundations of many generations, and you shall be called the repairer of the breach.”
In other words, it matters what we do in this brief span we call life. God knows there are many breaches that cry out for repairing. What we do matters NOT because hell will greet us if we fail to do our part; it matters because our lives are limited, mortal, and we do not have an infinite amount of time to do what we are called to do. No one wants to come to the end of his or her life and conclude, “I have wasted my time; I have not lived my life well. Or worse yet, I have not loved the good; I have embraced evil.” To come to that end is ugly, a tragedy, a fall, a missing of the mark, which is what sin is. No wonder last week the Ukrainian ambassador to the UN said to his Russian counterpart: “For war criminals there is no purgatory; it is straight to hell.” While we do not have to believe in a literal hell, there is yet something called the judgment of God, which means there is finally no hiding from the truth of one’s life and the decisions one has made. God compels an accounting, an acknowledgement of what one had done with this precious gift of life. To face the bankruptcy of a life is indeed a hell, and the only exit from that is God’s mercy.
When I worked as a chaplain at Nassau County Medical Center on Long Island, a 600 bed teaching hospital that also served the poor, Ash Wednesday was always a big day. While ashes were brought to patients, who so desired, the hospital staff would line up outside the chaplain’s office for their ashes. My supervisor knew many of these people, most of whom, he said, were not in the least religious, but here they were, insisting on being reminded of their mortality. One of the surgeons, who was Jewish, always came for ashes. He was raised Roman Catholic, and when he married his Jewish wife, he converted to Judaism. But he always honored Ash Wednesday. “I do want to remember my mortality,” he said. “Remembering helps me to not only be a better surgeon, but it also helps me to WANT to be a better human being.” amen
Ash Wednesday, March 2, 2022
In 1914 or perhaps 1915---no one knows the date for sure---Kazimir Malevich, a Russian painter of Polish descent, took a 35 inch square canvass and painted it white around the edges and in the middle black. Here it is, a copy, called The Black Square. Art critics, if you want to take them seriously called it “the most famous, most enigmatic, and most frightening painting known to man.” Well, critics are known to exaggerate. Another critic claimed this painting crossed the line “between old art and new art, between a man and his shadow, between a rose and a casket, between life and death, between God and the devil.
Now, if you are anything like me you might have some trouble with what passes for new art. For one thing it has no concern for beauty, and why repetition of images of Marilyn Monroe or Campbells Soup a la Andy Warhol or a black square surrounded by white should be considered art confounds me and probably confounds most of you as well. I will tell you that some years ago, I took a course in modern/postmodern art history at Wesleyan, taught by a professor whose field of expertise was Renaissance Art. In fact, he was one of the experts called in when the Sistine Chapel ceiling was cleaned. So, he certainly knew about beautiful art and its capacity to inspire and even heal. Yet even after taking the course, I remain confounded. But whether or not we like the Black Square as art, it did make a major impact on the art world and by extension the world at large, because its theme was death.
Now in 1914/15 the First World War was going on, and we all know what a horrible decimation of life it was---young men were pulverized in the trenches. And perhaps that is why the Black Square made its appearance---it was an expression of the absurd cruelty that was being played out in Europe, though in 1915 it was not yet fully realized how horrific the war would be. And some would say this Black Square announced the coming horror. The unconscious, in other words, already knew what the conscious mind did not yet recognize.
Here we are on Ash Wednesday, 2022, when another war is going on, threatening to undo democracy in the Ukraine as well as kill many of its citizens. And in the midst of this, we are once again reminded of our mortality: “Remember, you are dust and to dust you shall return.” Ash Wednesday is clearly the announcement of our mortality, something we all know, but tend to ignore or even deny. After all, we live in an age, when death is kept at a relative distance. People usually die in hospitals or nursing homes, and though hospice has made death at home more common than it was just a few decades ago, still death is not the intimate it was for our ancestors. And all the talk about death being “natural” hardly makes it our friend. If death becomes a friend, it is only because the suffering is so great and has made of life a pathetic shadow of what it once was. At such stages, yes, death is a friend, but otherwise it is an enemy---because it removes us from everything and everyone we know and love. Of course, we rationally know that without death there can be no renewal of life. All forms of life must die to make room for the new. I am reminded of a letter an eight year old boy wrote to God: Dear God, my mother told me that you invented death to make room for all the new people being born. Why don’t you keep the people you already have instead of always making new ones? Out of the mouths of babes.
Why then do we have this day, when we are called to remember and ponder our mortality? Let me begin my answer by telling you about a social psychology course I took when I was a sophomore at the U. of Chicago. The reading list included a number of famous psychologists, including Abraham Maslow, who believed that the human project is to actualize our gifts and potentials that we might not only live a happy life, but also a helpful life for the world. And Maslow said something else that made a big impression on me: ”If we did not die, we would be unable to love.” He gave as an example the stories of the Greek and Roman myths. He noted that when the immortal gods and goddess had love affairs among themselves, their affairs were boring, because time did not figure in; there was no consequence to any of their acts or decisions, since they had an infinite amount of time to do and redo. But, Maslow noted, when a god or goddess fell in love with a mortal, ah, then things began to become interesting, because time mattered; time had entered into the story, and there were consequences for the human life. There was not enough time to redo and remake, so the decisions made actually bore fruit, for good or evil. Time mattered and it matters still.
Now at 19, what did I know of death? It was something that happened to the very old, or to the unfortunate young sent to die in a hell hole called Viet Nam, or a terrible tragedy in my own family, taking the life of a two year old brother from leukemia, a year before I was born. That was all I knew of death, and though I did not then understand what Maslow meant---how could I; I was simply too young--- still, what he said made me think and all these many decades later, I still recall his words. And because I am so much older now, I do understand. I understand that time matters, and the choices and decisions we make in time also matter, because we will not have an infinite amount of time to do and redo.
Of course, this does not mean we should crucify ourselves for our foolishness and mistakes, but it does mean we should take stock of our choices, our values, what it is we care about and love. We should ask ourselves how do our actions, how does the way we spend our time instantiate what it is we truly believe and love?
The reading from the Prophet Isaiah was written during a very tough time. The Jews had returned from Babylon, where they had been exiled for a little over 50 years, and now they were back in Jerusalem. So much had been destroyed by the Babylonians and much of it remained destroyed. During the years of exile, little was rebuilt, because the educated and the skilled had been carried off into captivity. So, they returned home to a mess, and they were disconsolate, without hope. And what did the prophet tell them? He reminded them (as Jesus also did in our gospel reading from Matthew) that they should not pursue piety for the sake of looking good to God or themselves, but rather they should consider what it is God would have them do: give food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, clothing to the naked. Then, the prophet said, “your light shall break forth like the dawn and your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt and you shall raise up the foundations of many generations, and you shall be called the repairer of the breach.”
In other words, it matters what we do in this brief span we call life. God knows there are many breaches that cry out for repairing. What we do matters NOT because hell will greet us if we fail to do our part; it matters because our lives are limited, mortal, and we do not have an infinite amount of time to do what we are called to do. No one wants to come to the end of his or her life and conclude, “I have wasted my time; I have not lived my life well. Or worse yet, I have not loved the good; I have embraced evil.” To come to that end is ugly, a tragedy, a fall, a missing of the mark, which is what sin is. No wonder last week the Ukrainian ambassador to the UN said to his Russian counterpart: “For war criminals there is no purgatory; it is straight to hell.” While we do not have to believe in a literal hell, there is yet something called the judgment of God, which means there is finally no hiding from the truth of one’s life and the decisions one has made. God compels an accounting, an acknowledgement of what one had done with this precious gift of life. To face the bankruptcy of a life is indeed a hell, and the only exit from that is God’s mercy.
When I worked as a chaplain at Nassau County Medical Center on Long Island, a 600 bed teaching hospital that also served the poor, Ash Wednesday was always a big day. While ashes were brought to patients, who so desired, the hospital staff would line up outside the chaplain’s office for their ashes. My supervisor knew many of these people, most of whom, he said, were not in the least religious, but here they were, insisting on being reminded of their mortality. One of the surgeons, who was Jewish, always came for ashes. He was raised Roman Catholic, and when he married his Jewish wife, he converted to Judaism. But he always honored Ash Wednesday. “I do want to remember my mortality,” he said. “Remembering helps me to not only be a better surgeon, but it also helps me to WANT to be a better human being.” amen
On Being Tempted
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational
In Unionville, CT
March 6, 2022
Luke 4: 1-13
On the first Sunday of Lent the gospel lectionary reading almost always concerns Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness: Matthew, Mark and Luke all tell the story. John doesn’t because his Gospel gives us the resurrected Christ from its very beginning, so Jesus’ full humanity does not shine through in the same way as it does in the synoptic gospels. Though Mark has a temptation scene, it is very short, only two sentences. It is only Matthew and Luke, which give us details.
Luke tells us that Jesus was full of the Holy Spirit, and it was the Spirit who led him into the wilderness for 40 days, where he was tempted by the devil. While Mark used the term driven by the spirit, both Matthew and Luke use the gentler term, led. But whether led or driven, it was not Jesus’ idea to go into the wilderness and face temptation. It was the Spirit’s idea, which suggests that there is something spiritually necessary about facing and conquering temptation. Without it, Jesus could not be or fully become the Christ.
The great Protestant reformer, Martin Luther, said that the worst temptation of all is to have no temptations, which means, I think, that if we are never tempted by anything, we may be living our lives on such a comfortable level, where we allow no challenges to ever disturb us. And perhaps Luther would say, we have then given into the temptation of living a life of spiritual malaise without ever realizing what it is we have done.
Some years ago, I met woman, who was taking courses at the Catholic seminary, where I received my doctorate. She told me she realized her life had been too settled and comfortable. Two years before, the lid blew off, when she learned that her best friend was having an affair with one of the priests in her parish. “Here I was,” she said, “with three kids, a solid marriage, a regular church goer, so comfortable and blessed. But when I learned this truth from my friend, I could not handle it. I shut her out and down, and I threatened to make it all public. I was furious; she was married with three kids, and the priest, well I told him off too and threatened him with exposure and shame. And then I stopped. I realized I did not understand what was driving my anger and this sudden feeling of vulnerability. I knew I was facing a big temptation, but I did not know why. It finally dawned on me that I had allowed myself to become so secure and comfortable that I was unable to handle things outside my small world. Life is very complicated and recognizing the complexity has left me feeling very vulnerable.”
And that is precisely when temptation often comes: when we are vulnerable. Jesus was vulnerable, famished, the text tells us, and that is when the devil came to him. Every week we pray the Lord’s Prayer: Lead us not into temptation, and here the Holy Spirit led him not directly into temptation, but to the place where temptation occurred. Notice that all three of Jesus’ temptations concern power. How will he use his power? Will he use it for his own benefit, or for the benefit of others? Consider his hunger. We are not talking about excess food here. He is famished; he needs to eat, and satisfying hunger is a good thing. But Jesus here recognizes the true nature of the temptation he is facing. A serious spiritual temptation always involves some good. The woman who threatened to expose her friend and the priest had some good on her side. The affair was morally troubling to say the least. But was her motivation in exposing it because of her love and service to the good, or was something else going on? Motivation does matter, and it certainly mattered in this first temptation.
Though food is a necessity for life, Jesus here recognized that his ministry would be about more than satisfying people’s physical needs, as important as those needs are. The number 40 is important here as code language, pointing to Jesus’ connections to his Jewish roots. The Jews wandered for 40 years in the wilderness, and they too were hungry, whining and complaining to Moses until God fed them with mana. They too would have to learn that they would not live by bread alone.
There is something else here and it involves Jesus’ temptation to deny his full humanity. If he had given in, turning stones into bread, he would have been denying the limitations in which all human beings must live. Jesus made the choice to endure the human limitation of hunger, and later he would endure the limitations of suffering and death.
In the second temptation Jesus is taken to a high place, where the kingdoms of the world are displayed, and the promise is made that they could all be his, if only he will worship Satan. But Satan is a lair, because as scripture proclaims, the earth and all within it belong to God, not to Satan. So, Satan has no real authority to grant Jesus dominion over all the earth. Secondly, Satan is a creature, and the worship of any creature or object is idolatry. And Jesus quotes scripture to the devil. “Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.” (DT 6:3)
And then comes the final temptation, which took place in Jerusalem on the pinnacle of the Temple, a place that some Jews believed the Messiah would finally appear. Satan commanded him to throw himself down, for surely God’s angels will bear him up. But Jesus would not test God; he would not question God’s care for him, and after successfully meeting this third temptation, the text tells us that the devil departed. But it adds something that neither Mark nor Matthew included. Satan departed until an opportune time. In other words, Satan would be back, showing up at another moment of deep vulnerability, in the Garden of Gethsemane, when Jesus begged for the cup to pass, yet not his will, but God’s will.
It was only when Jesus had faced and conquered his temptations that he was ready to begin his ministry. He would first return to his hometown of Nazareth, where he would be rejected and almost killed by being pushed off a cliff. But the text tells us that he passed through the midst of them and went on his way. After facing Satan, facing the rejection of the crowd was easy.
Jesus had much to learn and learn he did. He was on a journey that would teach him there is more to wish for than feeding a hungry world, or even ruling it, or staging a miracle by jumping off the top of the Jerusalem Temple without going splat on the ground. He came into the world not to do magic, but to reveal God’s grace that hearts and minds would be transformed, that we, his followers, would learn how to struggle rightly and mightily against temptation. So, consider what tempts you, and then ponder Martin Luther’s words: The worst temptation of all is to have no temptation.
Preached by Sandra Olsen
First Church of Christ, Congregational
In Unionville, CT
March 6, 2022
Luke 4: 1-13
On the first Sunday of Lent the gospel lectionary reading almost always concerns Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness: Matthew, Mark and Luke all tell the story. John doesn’t because his Gospel gives us the resurrected Christ from its very beginning, so Jesus’ full humanity does not shine through in the same way as it does in the synoptic gospels. Though Mark has a temptation scene, it is very short, only two sentences. It is only Matthew and Luke, which give us details.
Luke tells us that Jesus was full of the Holy Spirit, and it was the Spirit who led him into the wilderness for 40 days, where he was tempted by the devil. While Mark used the term driven by the spirit, both Matthew and Luke use the gentler term, led. But whether led or driven, it was not Jesus’ idea to go into the wilderness and face temptation. It was the Spirit’s idea, which suggests that there is something spiritually necessary about facing and conquering temptation. Without it, Jesus could not be or fully become the Christ.
The great Protestant reformer, Martin Luther, said that the worst temptation of all is to have no temptations, which means, I think, that if we are never tempted by anything, we may be living our lives on such a comfortable level, where we allow no challenges to ever disturb us. And perhaps Luther would say, we have then given into the temptation of living a life of spiritual malaise without ever realizing what it is we have done.
Some years ago, I met woman, who was taking courses at the Catholic seminary, where I received my doctorate. She told me she realized her life had been too settled and comfortable. Two years before, the lid blew off, when she learned that her best friend was having an affair with one of the priests in her parish. “Here I was,” she said, “with three kids, a solid marriage, a regular church goer, so comfortable and blessed. But when I learned this truth from my friend, I could not handle it. I shut her out and down, and I threatened to make it all public. I was furious; she was married with three kids, and the priest, well I told him off too and threatened him with exposure and shame. And then I stopped. I realized I did not understand what was driving my anger and this sudden feeling of vulnerability. I knew I was facing a big temptation, but I did not know why. It finally dawned on me that I had allowed myself to become so secure and comfortable that I was unable to handle things outside my small world. Life is very complicated and recognizing the complexity has left me feeling very vulnerable.”
And that is precisely when temptation often comes: when we are vulnerable. Jesus was vulnerable, famished, the text tells us, and that is when the devil came to him. Every week we pray the Lord’s Prayer: Lead us not into temptation, and here the Holy Spirit led him not directly into temptation, but to the place where temptation occurred. Notice that all three of Jesus’ temptations concern power. How will he use his power? Will he use it for his own benefit, or for the benefit of others? Consider his hunger. We are not talking about excess food here. He is famished; he needs to eat, and satisfying hunger is a good thing. But Jesus here recognizes the true nature of the temptation he is facing. A serious spiritual temptation always involves some good. The woman who threatened to expose her friend and the priest had some good on her side. The affair was morally troubling to say the least. But was her motivation in exposing it because of her love and service to the good, or was something else going on? Motivation does matter, and it certainly mattered in this first temptation.
Though food is a necessity for life, Jesus here recognized that his ministry would be about more than satisfying people’s physical needs, as important as those needs are. The number 40 is important here as code language, pointing to Jesus’ connections to his Jewish roots. The Jews wandered for 40 years in the wilderness, and they too were hungry, whining and complaining to Moses until God fed them with mana. They too would have to learn that they would not live by bread alone.
There is something else here and it involves Jesus’ temptation to deny his full humanity. If he had given in, turning stones into bread, he would have been denying the limitations in which all human beings must live. Jesus made the choice to endure the human limitation of hunger, and later he would endure the limitations of suffering and death.
In the second temptation Jesus is taken to a high place, where the kingdoms of the world are displayed, and the promise is made that they could all be his, if only he will worship Satan. But Satan is a lair, because as scripture proclaims, the earth and all within it belong to God, not to Satan. So, Satan has no real authority to grant Jesus dominion over all the earth. Secondly, Satan is a creature, and the worship of any creature or object is idolatry. And Jesus quotes scripture to the devil. “Worship the Lord your God and serve only him.” (DT 6:3)
And then comes the final temptation, which took place in Jerusalem on the pinnacle of the Temple, a place that some Jews believed the Messiah would finally appear. Satan commanded him to throw himself down, for surely God’s angels will bear him up. But Jesus would not test God; he would not question God’s care for him, and after successfully meeting this third temptation, the text tells us that the devil departed. But it adds something that neither Mark nor Matthew included. Satan departed until an opportune time. In other words, Satan would be back, showing up at another moment of deep vulnerability, in the Garden of Gethsemane, when Jesus begged for the cup to pass, yet not his will, but God’s will.
It was only when Jesus had faced and conquered his temptations that he was ready to begin his ministry. He would first return to his hometown of Nazareth, where he would be rejected and almost killed by being pushed off a cliff. But the text tells us that he passed through the midst of them and went on his way. After facing Satan, facing the rejection of the crowd was easy.
Jesus had much to learn and learn he did. He was on a journey that would teach him there is more to wish for than feeding a hungry world, or even ruling it, or staging a miracle by jumping off the top of the Jerusalem Temple without going splat on the ground. He came into the world not to do magic, but to reveal God’s grace that hearts and minds would be transformed, that we, his followers, would learn how to struggle rightly and mightily against temptation. So, consider what tempts you, and then ponder Martin Luther’s words: The worst temptation of all is to have no temptation.
Sometimes Silence is the Best Answer
Transfiguration Sunday
Preached by Sandra Olsen
February 27, 2022
Exodus 34: 29-35
Luke 9: 28-36
I have a small sign, sitting on a bookshelf, in my office: “Sometimes Silence is the Best Answer.” And there’s a saying from Abraham Lincoln, which we all should take to heart: “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.” Yet the sad truth is, we are not very good at tolerating silence. It’s unnerving, and people are uncomfortable with it. Remember high school, when a teacher asked a question, and silence ensured, it didn’t take long before the coughing would begin, or the moving around of chairs. And then there is the silence after someone has the nerve to say something usually not said out loud. My sister attended a grief group for a short while after her husband’s unexpected death, but after the third time she ceased going, when a woman, who lost a three year old to a choking accident confessed she hated God. There was this awful silence after the woman spoke, my sister said. Some people were obviously angry that she dared to say such a thing, while others looked sad or embarrassed. No one said a word, and finally some people just got up and left. The leader made us sit in complete silence, and it was awful! When I asked her what was so awful about the silence, she could not say. She just had this feeling that SOMETHING needed to be said. But what, I asked? She had no idea, and so I said, “Perhaps silence was the best answer.”
After all, we do face situations in life which are beyond words, and we would probably be much better off if we could simply sit with the silence. And from my perspective, this was one of Peter’s big problems. He could never let the situation be. He always had to jump in--- with an action or words. He is definitely not my favorite disciple--- all heart and no head. Consider Peter’s impulsive behaviors. He was the guy who with no thought at all jumped out of the boat, when he saw Jesus walking on the water. But as soon as he realized what he had done, he was terrified and began to sink. Peter was the one who replied to Jesus’ question, Who do you say I am? You are the Christ, the chosen one of God, he answered. And then when Jesus began to predict his suffering and death, Peter immediately objected, “Oh no, Lord, this must never happen to you” after which Jesus told him, “Get behind me, Satan. You speak of human things, not godly things.” And at the Last Supper, when Jesus told the gathered disciples that one of them would betray him, Peter was the first to say, “Even if all others betray you, I will not. I will go with you to prison and to death.” And yet what did Peter do? He denied Jesus not once, but three times.
Impulsive Peter, all feeling, but very little thought, and so it should surprise none of us that he rushed in to fill this mystical experience with words as well as action. Let’s do something, build something, dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. And isn’t this so typically human? Even when, especially when, we don’t understand what is going on, or what is being asked of us, we rush in with some plan, though it may make very little sense. We want to do something, anything, to fill the void of our ignorance and misunderstanding. At least if they could build three dwelling places, there would be a modicum of control. They would have it staked out, fenced it in, and when confusion and chaos threaten, this is exactly what we humans tend to do. So, who can really blame Peter? He was simply trying to get a handle on what was going on, giving it structure, form and discipline. But what was going on was not something neither Peter nor anyone else could really grasp. The story of Jesus’ transfiguration is humbling because it reminds us that as much as we live in a world of sense perception and ideas, that is, a world where our bodies and our minds give us all kinds of information, that same world is also one of deep mystery. And mystery is not something, which can be explained. Who can explain Jesus’ clothes, glowing with a brilliant whiteness, while he cavorts with Elijah and Moses, people, by the way, who were said not to have died, but were somehow taken up into God.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, whom you have heard me mention before, was a brilliant theologian and Lutheran pastor, who, though a pacifist, nonetheless entered into the plot against Hitler. He was finally arrested and executed in April, 1945, a few weeks before the camp was liberated. For two years he was imprisoned, and during that time, he wrote, and many of his letters and thoughts have been gathered into a book, Letters and Papers from Prison. Something that bothered Bonhoeffer greatly was this tendency people have to use God to fill in the gaps of human understanding and knowledge. But what happens, Bonhoeffer asked, when people learn and understand more and more about the world. God then gets pushed back and out. But faith and religion are not gap fillers. God is not the explanation. God is the depth of the mystery that defies all explanations. God is about depth, and the deeper we go, the more the mystery grows.
If people think that God is an explanation, when knowledge grows and expands, they will feel God is somehow directly threatened. And indeed, in the history of our world, this has happened many times. The Church was unnerved when Galileo showed that the earth was not the center of the universe. They made him recant on the threat of death. And when Darwin and his theory of evolution made its appearance and then biblical criticism came along, showing that words of scripture don’t emerge directly from the mouth of God, some people and denominations went apoplectic. If God is a gap-filler, then knowledge can easily become a threat, which is exactly what happened. Southern Baptists and southern Presbyterians distinguished themselves from their northern counterparts precisely over the issue of knowledge. They feared that some forms of knowledge would finally displace God---but this only happens if you allow your God to be too small.
Some years ago, when I worked on a neurosurgery unit, there was this brilliant neurosurgeon, Dr. Davidson, whose father was a theologian and retired president of a seminary. Father and son fought over God, because the son was not much of a believer, which pained his father greatly. Davidson’s concentration was legendary. He saved a 17 year old’s brain even when the anesthesiologist told him he was running of time. “This kid’s brain is not turning to mush under my watch,” he insisted. And it didn’t. The more he studied the brain, the more awestruck he became. For him operating was a kind of religious experience, drawing him more deeply into mystery.
And I think this mystery is exactly what the story of Jesus’ transfiguration is all about. It points us toward something beyond our ability to explain. Oh, there is a lot of symbolism in the story we can explain. Jesus goes up the mountain, and mountains in the bible are always code language that something BIG is about to happen. Jesus took with him three disciples, and the number three is also significant: for Christians, God is three in one; Jesus died at 3 PM and rose from the dead on the third day. Jesus together with Moses and Elijah make a company of three. Moses connects Jesus to the old law, and Elijah connects Jesus to the prophets, and Jesus represents the new law.
But there is something else worthy of note. While both Matthew and Mark also tell the story of Jesus’ transfiguration, it is only Luke that says Jesus took the three disciples up the mountain to pray. It was while Jesus was praying that his face and clothes became a dazzling white, and being overcome by this awesome sight, Peter insisted on making three shelters or booths. But notice as soon as Peter said this, a cloud came, and a voice spoke. “This is my Son, my chosen, Listen to him.” And after that voice spoke, no one said a thing. They were silent, even Peter, who realized he did not know what he was saying.
I remember when Dr. Davidson heard about a former patient of his, a young woman who was killed in a car accident. Five years before, the surgery he performed had saved her from another car accident, when a drunk driver hit her head on. When he learned of her death from another drunk driver, he was inconsolable, collapsing on the floor as he sobbed over and over again, “Why, oh, why?” A few days later, I saw him on the hospital floor, and though I tried to avoid him, he found me later. He asked me what I thought. I quoted something Ralph Waldo Emerson said, when he lost his young son, “The wisest among us know nothing.” “Yes,” the Doctor agreed, absolutely nothing, which is why sometimes silence is the best answer.
Transfiguration Sunday
Preached by Sandra Olsen
February 27, 2022
Exodus 34: 29-35
Luke 9: 28-36
I have a small sign, sitting on a bookshelf, in my office: “Sometimes Silence is the Best Answer.” And there’s a saying from Abraham Lincoln, which we all should take to heart: “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.” Yet the sad truth is, we are not very good at tolerating silence. It’s unnerving, and people are uncomfortable with it. Remember high school, when a teacher asked a question, and silence ensured, it didn’t take long before the coughing would begin, or the moving around of chairs. And then there is the silence after someone has the nerve to say something usually not said out loud. My sister attended a grief group for a short while after her husband’s unexpected death, but after the third time she ceased going, when a woman, who lost a three year old to a choking accident confessed she hated God. There was this awful silence after the woman spoke, my sister said. Some people were obviously angry that she dared to say such a thing, while others looked sad or embarrassed. No one said a word, and finally some people just got up and left. The leader made us sit in complete silence, and it was awful! When I asked her what was so awful about the silence, she could not say. She just had this feeling that SOMETHING needed to be said. But what, I asked? She had no idea, and so I said, “Perhaps silence was the best answer.”
After all, we do face situations in life which are beyond words, and we would probably be much better off if we could simply sit with the silence. And from my perspective, this was one of Peter’s big problems. He could never let the situation be. He always had to jump in--- with an action or words. He is definitely not my favorite disciple--- all heart and no head. Consider Peter’s impulsive behaviors. He was the guy who with no thought at all jumped out of the boat, when he saw Jesus walking on the water. But as soon as he realized what he had done, he was terrified and began to sink. Peter was the one who replied to Jesus’ question, Who do you say I am? You are the Christ, the chosen one of God, he answered. And then when Jesus began to predict his suffering and death, Peter immediately objected, “Oh no, Lord, this must never happen to you” after which Jesus told him, “Get behind me, Satan. You speak of human things, not godly things.” And at the Last Supper, when Jesus told the gathered disciples that one of them would betray him, Peter was the first to say, “Even if all others betray you, I will not. I will go with you to prison and to death.” And yet what did Peter do? He denied Jesus not once, but three times.
Impulsive Peter, all feeling, but very little thought, and so it should surprise none of us that he rushed in to fill this mystical experience with words as well as action. Let’s do something, build something, dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. And isn’t this so typically human? Even when, especially when, we don’t understand what is going on, or what is being asked of us, we rush in with some plan, though it may make very little sense. We want to do something, anything, to fill the void of our ignorance and misunderstanding. At least if they could build three dwelling places, there would be a modicum of control. They would have it staked out, fenced it in, and when confusion and chaos threaten, this is exactly what we humans tend to do. So, who can really blame Peter? He was simply trying to get a handle on what was going on, giving it structure, form and discipline. But what was going on was not something neither Peter nor anyone else could really grasp. The story of Jesus’ transfiguration is humbling because it reminds us that as much as we live in a world of sense perception and ideas, that is, a world where our bodies and our minds give us all kinds of information, that same world is also one of deep mystery. And mystery is not something, which can be explained. Who can explain Jesus’ clothes, glowing with a brilliant whiteness, while he cavorts with Elijah and Moses, people, by the way, who were said not to have died, but were somehow taken up into God.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, whom you have heard me mention before, was a brilliant theologian and Lutheran pastor, who, though a pacifist, nonetheless entered into the plot against Hitler. He was finally arrested and executed in April, 1945, a few weeks before the camp was liberated. For two years he was imprisoned, and during that time, he wrote, and many of his letters and thoughts have been gathered into a book, Letters and Papers from Prison. Something that bothered Bonhoeffer greatly was this tendency people have to use God to fill in the gaps of human understanding and knowledge. But what happens, Bonhoeffer asked, when people learn and understand more and more about the world. God then gets pushed back and out. But faith and religion are not gap fillers. God is not the explanation. God is the depth of the mystery that defies all explanations. God is about depth, and the deeper we go, the more the mystery grows.
If people think that God is an explanation, when knowledge grows and expands, they will feel God is somehow directly threatened. And indeed, in the history of our world, this has happened many times. The Church was unnerved when Galileo showed that the earth was not the center of the universe. They made him recant on the threat of death. And when Darwin and his theory of evolution made its appearance and then biblical criticism came along, showing that words of scripture don’t emerge directly from the mouth of God, some people and denominations went apoplectic. If God is a gap-filler, then knowledge can easily become a threat, which is exactly what happened. Southern Baptists and southern Presbyterians distinguished themselves from their northern counterparts precisely over the issue of knowledge. They feared that some forms of knowledge would finally displace God---but this only happens if you allow your God to be too small.
Some years ago, when I worked on a neurosurgery unit, there was this brilliant neurosurgeon, Dr. Davidson, whose father was a theologian and retired president of a seminary. Father and son fought over God, because the son was not much of a believer, which pained his father greatly. Davidson’s concentration was legendary. He saved a 17 year old’s brain even when the anesthesiologist told him he was running of time. “This kid’s brain is not turning to mush under my watch,” he insisted. And it didn’t. The more he studied the brain, the more awestruck he became. For him operating was a kind of religious experience, drawing him more deeply into mystery.
And I think this mystery is exactly what the story of Jesus’ transfiguration is all about. It points us toward something beyond our ability to explain. Oh, there is a lot of symbolism in the story we can explain. Jesus goes up the mountain, and mountains in the bible are always code language that something BIG is about to happen. Jesus took with him three disciples, and the number three is also significant: for Christians, God is three in one; Jesus died at 3 PM and rose from the dead on the third day. Jesus together with Moses and Elijah make a company of three. Moses connects Jesus to the old law, and Elijah connects Jesus to the prophets, and Jesus represents the new law.
But there is something else worthy of note. While both Matthew and Mark also tell the story of Jesus’ transfiguration, it is only Luke that says Jesus took the three disciples up the mountain to pray. It was while Jesus was praying that his face and clothes became a dazzling white, and being overcome by this awesome sight, Peter insisted on making three shelters or booths. But notice as soon as Peter said this, a cloud came, and a voice spoke. “This is my Son, my chosen, Listen to him.” And after that voice spoke, no one said a thing. They were silent, even Peter, who realized he did not know what he was saying.
I remember when Dr. Davidson heard about a former patient of his, a young woman who was killed in a car accident. Five years before, the surgery he performed had saved her from another car accident, when a drunk driver hit her head on. When he learned of her death from another drunk driver, he was inconsolable, collapsing on the floor as he sobbed over and over again, “Why, oh, why?” A few days later, I saw him on the hospital floor, and though I tried to avoid him, he found me later. He asked me what I thought. I quoted something Ralph Waldo Emerson said, when he lost his young son, “The wisest among us know nothing.” “Yes,” the Doctor agreed, absolutely nothing, which is why sometimes silence is the best answer.
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March 1, 2022
Dear Friends, My reflection letter this week consists of Psalm 31, which the chief rabbi in the Ukraine invited Christians to join Jews in praying this week. I am also including a prayer for Ukraine under invasion by Maren Tirabassi. PSALM 31 In you, O Lord, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me. 2 Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me. 3 You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name’s sake lead me and guide me, 4 take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge. 5 Into your hand I commit my spirit; you have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God. 6 You hate[a] those who pay regard to worthless idols, but I trust in the Lord. 7 I will exult and rejoice in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction; you have taken heed of my adversities, 8 and have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy; you have set my feet in a broad place. 9 Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye wastes away from grief, my soul and body also. 10 For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my misery,[b] and my bones waste away. 11 I am the scorn of all my adversaries, a horror[c] to my neighbors, an object of dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me. 12 I have passed out of mind like one who is dead; I have become like a broken vessel. 13 For I hear the whispering of many-- terror all around!-- as they scheme together against me, as they plot to take my life. 14 But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, “You are my God.” 15 My times are in your hand; deliver me from the hand of my enemies and persecutors. 16 Let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love. 17 Do not let me be put to shame, O Lord, for I call on you; let the wicked be put to shame; let them go dumbfounded to Sheol. 18 Let the lying lips be stilled that speak insolently against the righteous with pride and contempt. 19 O how abundant is your goodness that you have laid up for those who fear you, and accomplished for those who take refuge in you, in the sight of everyone! 20 In the shelter of your presence you hide them from human plots; you hold them safe under your shelter from contentious tongues. 21 Blessed be the Lord, for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me when I was beset as a city under siege. 22 I had said in my alarm, “I am driven far[d] from your sight.” But you heard my supplications when I cried out to you for help. 23 Love the Lord, all you his saints. The Lord preserves the faithful, but abundantly repays the one who acts haughtily. 24 Be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord. Prayer for Ukraine under invasion by Maren Tirabassi God of plowshares, pruning hooks and peace-making, Translate such old archaic words into hope today in Ukraine That your promises to shatter swords, spears and shields, may mean now An end to missile strikes and long range artillery, the silencing of Kyiv’s air raid sirens. We pray for those who flee the capital and those who shelter in place and in fer in Kharkiv to the east. We pray for troops already exhausted from their long watching. We Pray for NATO land and air force, knowing that means people, and we pray for Germany and Poland as they open border to fleeing refugees. God, we have studied war for so long, let it be no more, no more. Teach us a new peacemaking, guiding the leaders of nations, and holding gently in your heart the many who live and die because of their decisions, for we pray in the name of Jesus who wept for our great needing of things that make for peace. Amen February 22, 2022
Dear Friends, Because so much of the international news lately has been focused on The Ukraine, I imagine that most of you missed a very important trial that took place in Germany. Last month a German court found a former high ranking Syrian official, Anwar Raslan, guilty of war crimes and sentenced him to life in prison. His crimes against humanity included murder, rape, and torture. Dr. Alaa Mousa, accused of torturing over a dozen dissidents and murdering at least one of them in prison, is soon to go on trial. Such trials are monumental occurrences, because it means that people who suffer atrocities in armed conflict, whether in Syria or beyond, can have hope that justice will one day be served. The process is long and challenging, because crimes are usually prosecuted by a country where the crime is committed, which means that prosecuting war crimes is very difficult, because the country, who is the site of the crime, rarely is looking to do justice. Who expects, for example, the Syrian government of Bashar al Assad to police its own crimes? So, Germany stepped up by using something called “the principle of universal jurisdiction.” Any court in any country can have jurisdiction in a case or cases where the crime is deemed so heinous that to ignore it would be a gross act of injustice. But the prosecution of such crimes requires the willingness of courts and prosecutors to get involved and the courage of witnesses to come forth. And such willingness is exactly what happened in Germany. Unlike many other European countries, Germany has a war crimes unit, which opened investigations in 2013 into torture committed by Syrians during its civil war. Germany had procured the “Caesar Files,” a trove of 28,000 photos, documenting crimes at Syria’s state run detention centers, which were smuggled out of Syria. These files can be used in the prosecution of other war crimes. Germany has issued an arrest warrant against a Syrian official, who is not residing in Germany and has been joined by courts in France and Spain, which have also issued warrants. The message is clear: the warrants shrink the world of the accused and help to ostracize him or her, even if the accused resides in a place that does not extradite. The issuing of warrants destabilizes the accused persons, who for too long have felt they are way beyond the arm of justice. The guilty verdict leveled against Anwar Raslan is the first conviction of a high ranking official whose regime is still in power. It took a tremendous amount of international cooperation and the willingness of victims to come forward to tell their stories. More convictions will probably come, but how likely it is that Assad will ever face war crime charges? Perhaps the chances are slim, but then someone pointed out that the Serbian, Slobodan Milosevic, never thought he would stand trial at the International Criminal Tribunal at the Hague for the crimes he committed in the former country of Yugoslavia. There is no statute of limitations on war crimes, so the arm of justice can have a very long reach. Justice is never perfectly rendered, and we would do well to recall the words and work of Reinhold Niebuhr, a clergyman, who supported labor rights in the auto industry in Detroit, where he served as a pastor before coming to Union Seminary in New York City, where he taught social ethics. While recognizing the imperfect nature of justice, he said that in an unjust word, justice is the incarnation of the love Jesus commanded us to have for others, including the enemy. Yours in Christ, Sandra THE STORY OF HENRY OSSAWA TANNER
Moving Beyond Comfort Preached by: Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT February 20, 2022 Luke 6: 27-38 We all know these words of Jesus, loving the enemy, praying for him or her, doing good to those who hurt and revile you, and showing mercy to the unmerciful. We know these words from Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount as well as here in Luke’s Sermon on the Plain. Most of us can think of particular people in our lives, who have actively done us wrong---perhaps lied about us or betrayed us. Betrayal by a spouse, friend or another intimate is among the most painful of experiences as Jesus well knew. He was betrayed, denied, and abandoned by his disciples, and he even felt abandoned by God. And yet despite the hurts and betrayals, we are called to love the one or ones who have hurt us. February is Black History Month, when we are asked to consciously learn, remember, and celebrate the contributions of black persons to our nation and the world. And yet we know that these are the people whom our nation enslaved and oppressed. Consider the challenge of loving the ones who have denied and would deny your full humanity. And consider also how hard it is, almost impossible, perhaps to love the other when you might have very little self-regard, because you have taken on the identity your enemy has assigned you. That is sometimes part of the tragedy of enslaved and brutalized people---they do not know how to love themselves. Healthy self love can help to make the love of others, including the enemy, possible. Today I want to tell the story of a black artist, Henry Ossawa Tanner whose development of his artistic talent was his way of loving himself as well as others. On October 29, 1996 President Bill Clinton and his wife Hillary Rodham Clinton held a reception in the East Room of the White House to unveil a landscape painting by Tanner, Sand Dunes at Sunset, Atlantic City. It was the first painting by an African American artist to hang in the East Room along with other paintings by such notables as Gilbert Stuart, Winslow Homer, Mary Cassatt, and John Singer Sargent, to name a few. A magnificent painting, depicting “the diminishing light of an afternoon sky casting shadows over a windswept, grass-tufted shoreline” with the white sails of two boats barely visible in the distance, Sand Dunes gives no hint at all of the artist’s race. And this was one Tanner’s struggles: to become the artist he believed God was calling him to become without his art being defined by his race. He was proud of his racial heritage, and yet he suffered terrible insult and injustice as a black man. An artistic career for a person of color, born in 1859, one year before the onset of the Civil War---why it was unheard of! Despair, anger, and resentment were real struggles for him, threatening his art and his spirit, and yet he worked tirelessly to overcome them. As a very young child, he remembered the attic of his family home in Frederick, Maryland, from where he saw the rebel camps of the Confederacy and heard the rumblings of war. His father, Benjamin Tucker Tanner, had been born into a family of free people, and was able to pursue an education, eventually becoming a bishop in the African Episcopal Church, a denomination with a passionate commitment to justice and racial equality. His mother, Sarah Elizabeth Miller, was born into slavery in Virginia, but her mother managed to escape with her children to freedom in Pennsylvania with the help of Quaker abolitionists and the Underground Railway. Sarah would pursue an education at Avery College, where she met and later married Henry’s father. Bishop Tanner hoped his son would pursue the ministry, and though Henry seriously considered this, he felt an undeniable call to paint. Fortunate that his parents supported him in this endeavor, he was also fortunate to be admitted to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, the first black person to be admitted. But Henry Tanner would not remain in America, because he believed he could not fight prejudice and paint at the same time, so most of his adult life was spent in France, in Paris and Normandy. He married a white woman, Jessie Macauley Olssen, in 1899, and found that an inter-racial marriage was accepted more easily and gracefully in France than in the United Sates. Tanner’s life was filled with tension---especially tension between his art and his racial identity. On the one hand, he had a passionate desire—he would say call---to paint, but on the other hand, his race made that a major challenge. He never denied his racial heritage. The blood that ran through his veins, he proudly said, was black, white, and Native American. His racial identity was even embedded in his middle name, Ossawa, which had been given to him by his father as a veiled reference to Osawatomie, Kansas, where the abolitionist, John Brown, had successfully and violently routed proslavery forces. And yet Tanner would chafe when people made his race the issue rather than his art. His art was his passion, and eventually he found his style, moving from illustration to landscape paintings, such as Sand Dunes at sunset. The Pennsylvania Academy would help him with realism, and then Paris would educate him in genre painting, such as we see in the Banjo Lesson and The Thankful Poor. In these two paintings Tanner was addressing the real life experience of black people. Banjo playing was not to be dismissed as a trivial skill, as if someone could simply pick one up and play. No, it requires both instruction and patience, which is what we see in the older man teaching the youth. And in The Thankful Poor Tanner wanted to convey the deep piety, faith and dignity that sustained poor people of color in America. Eventually religious paintings became the lens through which Tanner would share his vision of life and his reverence for life. A deeply religious man, Tanner said, “I paint the things I see and believe.” Nearly all his paintings, but especially his religious ones, use light to communicate. The light may emanate from a lantern or fire or the sun or moon or from God, or from the spirit within all human beings, and this light for Tanner was always a source of goodness, never wrathful or destructive. The light he painted did not always promise clarity or understanding, because Tanner believed we live within deep mystery, which can be pondered, but never fully understood. Yet the light always communicates acceptance and protection. For Tanner light is God’s love. And when we look at the painted light in the copies of paintings I have included in the bulletin, we can grasp some sense of this acceptance and protection---even if neither the biblical character nor we can fully understand. Consider the light in the annunciation---the moment at which Mary realizes she is chosen as the mother of the Messiah. Gabriel is painted as this brilliant shaft of light coming from God. Though Mary ponders its meaning, it is beyond mental grasp, just as it is beyond the mental grasp of the Pharisee, Nicodemus, who, according to John’s Gospel, came to Jesus in the night, because he wanted to understand how it is that a person can be born again. Notice that Tanner did not paint the scene in the dead of darkness, but in the gloaming, as night was coming on. There is still light, but it is not the light of full understanding. How can one explain the light that envelopes Lazarus as Jesus raised him from the dead, or the light cast upon the faces of the disciples and Jesus as they share bread and wine together around the table---and then and only then do the disciples recognize the risen Christ. Look at the light cast upon Daniel---not fully, because Daniel’s face is in the shadows, yet the light is not only for Daniel; it also shines on the lion’s head, who is nearest to Daniel as well as a lion that is walking away. Light, for Tanner, is God’s love and protection, always available, always present, but God’s light never guarantees ease. Faith for Tanner was a life long journey, a project of coming to know self and to know God. God always reveals, Tanner said, but not always fully. The light shines, yet, as Tanner acknowledged, we don’t always see. He knew that he did not always see and understand, just as he knew that the light can hurt our eyes with its brightness. Consider the Annunciation again---how Mary’s eyes are looking at the light, obliquely, not directly. At least she is trying to see, trying to understand, while so often we have to admit our response is to turn away, shut our eyes against that which is hurtful and uncomfortable. Tanner’s life was far from comfortable, but he did not think that God called him to be comfortable. In moving beyond comfort, he discovered his art, which also helped him to grow a larger heart for humanity---his own as well as others. February 17, 2022
Dear Friends, When we hear or read the word Rwanda, what immediately comes to mind for most of us is the horrible 1994 genocide, which left over 1 million people dead. Bill Clinton has said that his non-interference in the genocide was perhaps the biggest regret of his Presidency. In fact, as the war in the former country of Yugoslavia arrived, he finally decided to bomb and send in United States peacekeeping forces precisely because of what happened in Rwanda. He did not want to see another massacre repeated. Fast forward to the year 2004, when a woman named Odile Gakire Katese, founded Rwanda’s first all female percussion group, named Ingoma Nshya. It is a drumming group, where the woman pound on these huge heavy drums, which long have been the sole preserve of men. Women from both the Hutu and the Tutsi tribes come together in a spirit of sisterhood and reconciliation to work out their pain and their differences. Initially the women who joined all had lost loved ones in the genocide, but as decades have passed, the losses suffered are not always direct ones. Memory is powerful, reaching far beyond the immediate time when the event happened, and everyone in Rwanda carries a form of the genocide’s pain. One woman, who lost her husband and children in the genocide, said she thought she never could be happy again. But drumming has not only brought happiness, it has also healed some of the deep loneliness she suffered. She has traveled around Rwanda with the group and recently returned from a trip to Senegal. Since so many men were murdered during the genocide, women had to step up to rebuild the country, and for the first time women assumed positions of leadership. One woman said, “Ingome Nshya shows the power that women actually have.” People who have been part of the group for years say that it shows how differences can be worked out in other ways besides fighting with words or with machetes. The drumming is nothing if not intense, and it embraces a choreography of songs, dances, jumps and shouts. The memories and the pain are not magically healed, but people have found that the drumming and the listening to the drumming have helped them to cope with what is so devastatingly hurtful. It seems that the drumming is a way of integrating the pain, and integration is a form of healing. When trauma occurs, the temptation is, of course, to push it all away, to try to kill the memory, but often that does not work. The memory and the pain of it still intrude, sometimes in flashbacks or in depression and even suicide. One woman, who lost her entire family---husband, children, aunts, uncles, siblings and cousins, said she thought she would die of the pain. She could not imagine living with the loss. But now she drums and drums and drums. She can’t explain why it works or how it works. She only knows that somehow drumming has brought her to a peace she never would have imagined was possible. There is much in life we cannot explain. We know that people are different, and what works for some is not effective with others. I am not sure what psychologists or psychiatrists would say about this, whether or not, they would consider this “real healing.” But life in Rwanda has gone on, and people who once were murdering each other, are now living side by side in peace, just as they did before the massacre began. When I visited the former country of Yugoslavia this past fall, I witnessed a similar dynamic. How was it that neighbors became enemies with ethnic divisions destroying what had seemed to be harmonious relationships? My Polish friend has told me about the friendships his Nana had with Jewish women before The Nazis invaded in 1939. Then everything changed. The deep anti-Semitism that had apparently laid dormant asserted its terrible power. We can wonder if the harmony and friendships in all these varied situations were only surface and shallow, if they could be so quickly and horrendously destroyed. And we can also wonder how a bunch of huge drums and drumsticks could bring healing and hope to not only the women who play the drums but also to the people who see and listen to them. Perhaps we do not need to understand why it works. We cannot explain everything, but we can be relieved that there are instances when healing and forgiveness have their say, even when we cannot so easily explain how or why. Yours in Christ, Sandra BLESSINGS AND WOES
Preached by: The Rev. Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT February 13, 2022 Luke 6: 17-26 Oscar Wilde once said, “In this world there are two tragedies. One is not getting what you want, and the other is getting it.” But, of course, Wilde’s statement depends on what it is you actually want and finally get. What if your desire is simply to have enough money to pay your bills and have a decent place to live---like this single mom with two kids, who lives in Queens and works for a grocery store that doesn’t give her enough hours. The store staffs itself with part time workers, and then constantly changes their schedules, which is very difficult for people who need day care and have another part time job. I just read a few days ago how companies still prefer, even in these days of labor shortages, to hire part time workers, especially in areas like hospitality and retail, because they don’t want to pay benefits, and so they give hiring bonuses instead. And so, would it really be a tragedy, if this mother actually were hired full time, so she would not be constantly worrying about rent, food and day care? On the other hand, what if what you want is life destroying. I remember this poor, homeless, drug addicted woman, who was so broken she could not desire anything good for her life. I was so exasperated with her that I poured out my frustration by practically yelling this question: Is there NOTHING good you want out of life? “Yea,” she said, “I’d like a free cache of crack.” She wasn’t kidding. She finally got enough that it killed her. So much for getting what you want. For most of us, however, life is not lived on such extremes, and we probably feel that our wants are fairly reasonable ones, given what the norms in our society are. But in Jesus’ day life was lived on the extremes. There were the rich and the poor with hardly anyone in between. Now Judaism did not disdain wealth, but it did have rules about how a faithful Jew was to expend his or her wealth. The widow and the orphan were to be cared for and there were also strict rules of hospitality which meant that feeding a hungry person was an obligation. But it is also true that Jesus was especially hard on the rich and the privileged; he strongly identified with Israel’s prophets, like Jeremiah, who spoke God’s word of judgment against those who ignored the needs of the poor and amassed wealth unjustly. Our gospel reading this morning, Luke’s sermon on the plain, can be distinguished from Matthew’s sermon on the Mount, which is longer, its language more beautiful and more spiritualized. While Matthew says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” Luke proclaims, “Blessed are you, who are poor.” Matthew reads, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,” while Luke declares, “Blessed are you, who are hungry now. And though Matthew has no curses or woes, Luke’s Jesus pronounces judgment on those who have: But woe to you who are rich, for you have received your consolation. The Greek word translated as consolation is a commercial term, meaning having received your due, paid in full. No more, in other words, is coming to you. Woe to you who are full now, for you will be hungry. Woe to you who are laughing now, for you will mourn and weep. These are pretty tough words, directed against the comfortable and the privileged. If Luke’s words leave us feeling a bit uncomfortable, is that really such a bad thing? Individuals as well as society could stand to take a hard look at its priorities. Being attentive to the least of these is exactly what Jesus commanded his followers to do, and many of these least are children, who bear no responsibility for creating the conditions in which they live. When one of our nation’s senators from Wisconsin, Ron Johnson, recently said “It is not society’s responsibility to take care of other people’s children,” does he mean that we should let the children be hungry if their parents cannot or do not feed them, or permit them be cold, if their parents cannot pay the heating bills? Does he think it should not matter to our county that 100,000 children in New York City’s public schools are officially homeless, living in shelters or in some other temporary residence? Do we really think Jesus would say, “None of this is our concern or our responsibility?” Of course, we also know that not all God’s blessings and woes come down to money. Jesus was certainly concerned with more than financial and physical rewards. In today’s lesson it is worth noting that the people who traveled to hear Jesus preach on the plain came from all over, Judea, Jerusalem and the coasts of Tyre and Sidon, the latter Gentile territory. All these people came to hear his words and to experience the healings he offered. And the offer was to a vast variety of people. Luke’s gospel has a very wide reach, beyond the house of Israel. The writer of this gospel wanted to push people beyond themselves and their home territory, to help them realize that God’s love and mercy as expressed in Jesus Christ, embraces a wide world of contrast and difference, including people who were not like them. We can imagine there were Jews who felt very uncomfortable when the Samaritans showed up in the crowd, wanting to be healed by Jesus. He is one of us, they probably thought. What does he have to do with them? And when Jesus actually healed some of those “unclean” gentiles from Tyre and Sidon, there must have been those who took offense at his actions. His blessings are for us, not for them! It is the same old story, time and time again, repeated across the pages of history, including our own time and place---us vs. them, the ingroup vs. the outgroup. But there is something else about blessings and woes. Sometimes what looks like a blessing turns out to be a woe---like some people who win the lottery only to have it destroy their lives. And then there are the woes that can become a blessing. Now we need to be very careful with this, so we don’t end up saying that God intends people to suffer so good can emerge, or so a reward can come in the afterlife. But, as Helen Keller, who was blind and deaf, and certainly knew about suffering once said, “While it is true the world is filled with suffering, it is also true it is full of the overcoming of it.” Some years ago, when I worked in this large medical center on Long Island, there was this man, who used to come a couple of times each week and play the violin. He was a classical violinist. One of the surgeons, who also played the violin, said, “He plays like an angel.” He played on the wards, but he also was permitted to go down into the surgical units, where he played for people going into and exiting surgery. Since so many of these persons were heavily sedated, he began to wonder if this really was helpful. What he didn’t figure on was his influence on the surgeons. When he didn’t show up for a few weeks, some surgeons wanted to know where he was. My God, one surgeon told me, I lost a 10 year old on the operating table last month, and when I heard our musician play Mozart, it gave me the strength to tell the parents their son was gone. I don’t know how I would have faced it without the music lifting me up, reminding me that despite the world’s sufferings, beauty has the power to transform.” Well, when the musician returned and the surgeons poured out their gratitude, he told them his story, how he had been at Columbia Medical School and suffered a car accident that left his blind. He did not think he could continue his medical studies, but what he did was return to music, which he had always loved and studied, but he didn’t think he would ever be able to earn a living as a musician. After his accident he went to Vienna to study, and he returned to find a place not only in the music world but also in the world of a hospital. His blindness, he said, was still a great agony to bear, certainly a woe, and not something God would have ever intended for him, but he told the surgeons that with God’s grace and the help and support of others he was able to turn it into a blessing for himself and for others. It wasn’t what he would have chosen, but it was what he felt called to do. February 10, 2022
Dear Friends, Henry Ford once said, “One of the great discoveries a person makes is when she discovers that she achieved the thing she was afraid she could not do.” And Eleanor Roosevelt told us that each day we should try one thing we are afraid of doing. Fear is powerful. It can keep us from living our lives, but it can also help to motivate us to action. Fear can be crippling, but it can also be life giving. Sometimes people do not act, because they are afraid, but at other times they act precisely because of their fear. Fear is a complicated emotion, and though most of us do not like to be afraid, can you imagine what life would be like, if we never knew fear? There is, in fact, a Hans Christian Anderson story about a man, who could not experience fear, and so he goes through a great deal of trouble to learn how to be afraid. The point of the story is that a human life without fear is a very limited life, indeed. We also know that Jesus spent a great deal of his time and ministry telling people, “Do not be afraid; do not be anxious.” He realized that people live so much of their lives, captive to fear and anxiety, which prevents them from living full and abundant lives. My husband had a brilliant student at Wesleyan, who graduated 22 years ago, but the poor man has spent his life, terrified to go out of the home he inherited when his mother died of cancer 20 years ago. Not only does he struggle with agoraphobia, but he also is terrified that because he has the same cancer prone gene his mother had, he will suffer the same hideous death. My husband said his brilliance would have led him to make so many contributions to medicine and science, but his neurosis has kept him imprisoned in a house of fear. With those thoughts in mind, consider an article I recently read in the New York Times about the winter Olympians. What unites all the competitors, no matter the sport, is fear. They all are afraid. They have all suffered injuries because they have pushed the limits of what is possible for the human body to do, and some have suffered grievous injuries. Alice Merriweather was supposed to be competing in the Olympics this winter, but last September in the Swiss Alps she suffered an injury that will keep her off skies for two years. She claims her greatest fear has never been about the pain of an injury. Her fear is about lost opportunity, the heartbreak of working so hard for something that finally goes on without her. She now must cope with the fear of uncertainty because she cannot know how her body will heal. Will she ever be able to ski as she once did? She is determined to come back, and she says that the joy which comes from going tremendously fast and achieving a beautiful turn is worth the fear. In fact, she claims it outdistances the fear by a ratio of 10 to 1! With each Olympic cycle the pressure grows to be faster, higher, scarier. Olympic snowboarders, skiers, bobsled, and luge racers have died, and in 2010 in the training session at the Vancouver Olympics, a luge racer was killed. That young man’s death traumatized everyone who went down the same run where he was killed. But nowhere is the pressure more apparent than in the aerials, where the skier goes down a four meter jump, hurls himself into the air, twisting and turning in somersaults. The number of flips that can be done has been capped at three, and even these thrill seekers and fear junkies are relieved that limits have been set. Some admit they are in love with fear and the incredible adrenalin rush that inevitably comes, while others acknowledge that fear creates a bond among all those who compete. They respect one another, because they know the fear that drives them forward to push themselves against the limits. But the Olympics are extreme situations, outside the boundaries of what most of us will ever face. Yet fear is no stranger; we all know fear. I remember when I worked as a chaplain on a neurosurgery unit, where people faced (to my way of thinking) the most terrifying surgery, when someone would drill into the skull and then cut deeply into the brain tissue to remove a tumor. Though people were very afraid, they would, nonetheless, undergo the surgery, because they felt they had no choice. It was either submission to the surgery or death. I was very impressed with their courage, so much so that one summer day, while at an amusement park with friends, I decided to go on this super rollercoaster that went upside down. I did not want to go. I hate such rides and I was utterly terrified. But I told myself how every day I saw people undergo brain surgery, which was more terrifying than this, so I made myself get on. From the moment I was belted in, I regretted my decision, and I immediately began to scream as we ascended the first steep incline. It was a horrible experience, and I was terrified the entire time. I am not sure what insights I gained, but I do think there is a world of difference between facing something that you feel you must (as in surgery and war) and making an active decision to do something you do not have to do, but perhaps feel compelled to do---like extreme sports or riding on a rollercoaster. When Jesus talked about fear and anxiety, he was not considering daredevil actions. He was speaking to people who often were threatened with taxes they could not pay, food they could not afford, and sickness that left them unable to work. They lived under Roman rule, which they often experienced as capricious and arbitrary. Rules and laws changed without any input from them. Insecurity was a constant threat. They had very little control over outward circumstances, and so Jesus’ advice was to trust God. Trusting God did not solve their problems. People were still hungry and poor, but trusting God somehow made life look differently to them. Problems still assailed them, but they were assured they were not alone or abandoned, that there was something far larger than self that loved them. And for those who can believe that, the unbearable becomes possible to bear. I once heard a Holocaust survivor say that there came a certain point in his imprisonment, when he realized God was not going to save him or the others from the horrors of the camp. And when that realization came, he said his fear greatly lessened. Each day he would repeat this Jewish prayer. “Listen, Israel, the Lord is our God, The Lord alone, and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your being and with all your might.” While he did not expect the prayer to save him, it was still important for him to pray it. And when he did, fear was no longer the great enemy it once had been. Yours in Christ, Sandra NO MORE WINE
Preached by: Sandra Olsen January 30, 2022 John 2: 1-11 They have no wine, and initially the statement sounds nothing more than an embarrassing problem for the wedding host. We might be tempted to think, “Well, no wonder Jesus tells his mother this is no concern of hers or his. Why should he help people get drunk?’ But something deeper is going on here, and it relates to the very nature of Jewish life. There are two primary elements in this story---water and wine, both essential ingredients in the living of everyday life as well as the celebration of religious rituals. First, consider water. Water is the stuff of life. Life on this planet began in water; our lives begin in the watery womb of our mother’s bodies. Ancient Israel was a very dry place, so water was precious, necessary for the growing of crops and the caring of animals, for bathing and food preparation. Water was essential for the ritual washing of hands before meals and other acts of ritual bathing, both in the home and in the Temple. Women were the ones who fetched water at community wells or at the rivers and lakes. Though the Jews did not drink water, because it was unsafe, unless boiled, they certainly recognized the preciousness of water And wine: it was what people drank on a regular basis, and it was also used in religious rituals along with water. And, of course, both water and wine were offered to guests. They were marks of hospitality, and the obligation of hospitality was at the center of Jewish life. You offered your guests wine to drink and water to wash their hands and feet So, to be out of wine was to be out of one of the essentials of life. It was to be bereft of what one needed to live fully. In other words, you only have part of what you need. It’s like a painter who has all the tools to paint, including talent, but lacks the paint, or a sculptor who has no clay. Now the writer of this gospel wants to communicate the emptiness of Jewish religious life. John’s gospel was written around the year 100, about 30 years after the Jerusalem Temple was destroyed by the Romans. And when the Temple was destroyed, Judaism went through a crisis. First of all, the priestly class came to an end, since there was no Temple where religious ritual could be practiced. “We’re done for, finished, empty”---they could not imagine Judaism without a Temple. But the Pharisees could. So, the Temple is gone, they said, but we still have God’s Word. We still have the Law, and so they moved from the Temple to the synagogues. The synagogues were like house churches, where people read and studied scripture. There were synagogues in Jesus’ time, but they did not become CENTRAL to Jewish religious life until after the Temple was destroyed. The Pharisees saved Judaism by recreating it. But John’s gospel has no interest at all in giving the Pharisees any credit for anything. Its intent is to show the emptiness of Judaism---it’s out of wine. Right after Jesus turned the water into wine, he goes to Jerusalem, where he throws the moneychangers out of the Temple courtyard, declaring they have made God’s house into a den of robbers. The moneychangers, however, were essential, because Jews came to the Temple from all over the Roman empire, and they had to change their money into Jewish money, which was the only money acceptable in the Temple. No coin with Caesar’s image was permitted. In Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus expelled the moneychangers at the end of his earthly ministry, right before his arrest, so his behavior in the Temple was the primary reason the religious leadership wanted Jesus gone. But in John, the story is at the gospel’s beginning, because the writer wants to show that from the beginning Temple religious life is empty. “They are out of wine,” out of what they need, and so they cannot do and be what they are called to do and be. Out of wine, running on empty: Don’t most of us know what that means? Don’t we all have periods in our lives when we feel we are running on empty? Sometimes it’s a marriage that is empty. Let’s face it: you can only work so long and try so hard to fill up what is empty. And when it comes to relationships, it requires other people to help fill the emptiness. Sometimes we run empty on our jobs, when we just can’t do what we need to do anymore. I just heard the other day about one of my former parishioners in Middletown, who was a high school Spanish teacher. And after a year on zoom, when she finally went back to the classroom last April, she discovered she could not do it anymore. Her students in Spanish 2 had learned nothing in Spanish 1, and her students in Spanish 3 had learned nothing the previous year in Spanish 2. She had been told that as long as they showed up on Zoom, even if they did no work all, she had to pass them, which she did, but in the next year, at the next level, they knew nothing. And so, last June she told the school she would not be back. She needs to work; she needs a job, but she can no longer teach in school, because she is running on empty---no more wine. And so, she is spending this year, trying to figure out the next step. And sometimes running on empty happens in the religious life, as it did to the Jewish Temple leadership when the Temple was destroyed. Sometimes people face a crisis, and suddenly ealize they have no spiritual resources to see them through. When Ralph Waldo Emerson, an ordained Unitarian minister, lost his young son, he said, “The wisest among us know nothing.” He was shocked how little his religion was of help to him. And so, he left his pulpit and his denomination and orthodox Christianity, but he did go on and become one of the greatest theological geniuses in our nation---just as the Pharisees went on and recreated Judaism and Jesus too did something new. He turned the water into wine, a way of showing we do not need to remain empty. But notice that the story begins with his not knowing that this was the time, the right time for him to act. He initially resisted, telling his mother, “My hour has not yet come.” And Mary did not argue with him; she only told the servants to do whatever he asked. Perhaps that expressed confidence in Jesus, helped him to recognize that his time had come. The empty jars were filled with water, turned to wine. But who knew? Certainly not everyone. The host did not know; neither the steward nor the guests---only Jesus, his mother, and the servants, the least of these, who filled the stone jars with water, knew from where the wine came. And that is exactly how it often is in life: new life comes, but who sees and who knows? February 2, 2022
January 20th has come and gone, but most people have no idea that the day was an anniversary of something world shattering. On January 20, 1942, fifteen high ranking Nazis met in a villa on Lake Wannsee on the western edge of Berlin to plan the extermination of the Jews. The meeting took all of 90 minutes, but the plan it laid out was extremely efficient and well organized. If you do not know what the subject of the meeting was, the notes taken that day read like most of the bureaucratic plans that emerge from such meetings. The word, murder, was never used, but rather words like evacuation, reduction, treatment are the preferred language. The tasks of this vast and evil undertaking are divided among the various governmental departments. An interesting fact is that no military leaders were present. The plan was to go after 11 million Jews, but they only managed to murder 6 million. The villa, where the plan was made, is stunningly lovely: three stories high, situated on a lake, set back from the road. Boasting beautiful, expansive gardens, a magnificent front portico and four statues of chubby cherubs, dancing on the roof, the villa offers no hint of the machinations on the minds of those 15 participants. The host of the meeting was Reinhold Heydrich, chief of security service in the SS, and the men he invited to partake of the plan were senior civil servants and party officials, most of them in their 30”s, nine of them with law degrees and over half with PhD’s---perhaps the most well educated group of murderers ever gathered. Though we prefer to think that education issues in goodness, what happened in Nazi Germany should clearly reveal that goodness is not a guaranteed result of an educated mind. It is profoundly humbling and disturbing to recognize this bitter truth. By the time these men met in 1942 mass deportation had already begun as well as the murder of Jews in the East---in Russia as well as the Baltic states. But it was at the Wannsee villa that the grand design of efficient murder was laid out. The current President of Germany, when reading the notes of the gathering, said that the language was so familiar. “It reads like so many reports that are issued today,” he said. But his blood congeals, when he considers what it is these 15 men were planning and discussing. So, what happened to these fifteen men, all of whom took direct part in the Holocaust? By 1945 six of them were dead. Only two stood trial for murder and war crimes: Adolph Eichmann was executed in Israel after being apprehended in Argentina, where he had lived for years. Wilhelm Stuckart, who coauthored the Nuremberg Laws, served some years in prison, but was released in 1949. Three others were tried for unrelated offenses and given mild sentences and four were NEVER charged with any crime at all. Gerhard Klopfer, a senior official in Hitler’s chancellery, worked as a lawyer for years after the war. When he died in 1987 his family published a death notice, celebrating his accomplishments and claiming his was “a fulfilled life that was to the benefit of all who came under his sphere of influence.” It may be that the man did some good work as a lawyer after the war, but even that goodness cannot erase the evil he helped to commit. I have no idea what went on in his mind, and his spirit---whether or not he felt any remorse or ever acknowledged his guilt. Only God can know such things. But it should astound and profoundly disturb us that so much was finally ignored and dismissed. The planners of the murders---some of them at least---were never held accountable! Perhaps it was simply too painful for the nation to prosecute crimes that would suggest some form of collective guilt. So many Germans claimed ignorance: “I did not know; I did not commit the crimes.” And yet on a daily schedule the average German citizen witnessed Jews being expelled from their homes and taken away to “who knows where,” which was the common response. People do not want to admit collective guilt; they do not want to examine the many ways in which a society helps to grow the prejudice and hatred that, if unchecked and unacknowledged, can lead to the horror that became the Holocaust. Of course, the Holocaust is not history’s only shame. Again and again, we see people turning away from facing the truth of their history. We see it in our own nation, where people to not want to face the ugly story of racism and slavery. And now we see certain states and boards of education removing books from school library shelves that tell stories and discuss topics some people think are too upsetting to be read and taught in school. But sometimes truth is upsetting! We are called to be faithful, not comfortable. Jesus told us to know the truth, because the truth will make us free--- free FROM fear and free from hate and free TO learn, free to grow and change, free to love God and the other, who is also God’s beloved. Yours in Christ, Sandra January 26, 2022
Dear Friends In a world were divisions on all sorts of things define reality, it is uplifting to realize that the James Webb Space Telescope is not causing division. All the world is excited by this wonderful invention, many, many times more powerful than the famous Hubble Telescope. Weighing in at 7.2 tons and costing $10 billion, the James Webb is the brainchild of NASA and the European and Canadian Space Agencies. It was conceived in the 90’s with a lowball budget of $500 million, and astronomers had to fight off threats to cut the project off, since cost overruns were almost a daily occurrence. But finally, decades later, it was finished, lifting off from French Guiana on December 25. After a journey of one million miles, it landed a few days ago, unfolding a kite shaped sunshade the size of a tennis court, which will allow it to operate at minus 370 degrees Fahrenheit, cold enough to see infrared wavelengths. It boasts a set of eighteen hexagonal, gold coated mirrors, built of beryllium to withstand extreme temperatures. While its predecessor, Hubble, orbits the earth, the James Webb will orbit the sun at Lagrange Point 2, one of five places in the solar system where the gravitational pull of the sun and earth balances the orbital motion of a satellite. Hubble reads primarily visible light, which limits how far it can see and is 340 miles from the earth. William Shatner went up 66 miles on his space ride, so wrap your head around one million miles! At these distances the wavelengths of light grow so long they leave the visible spectrum and become infrared. What scientists hope is that the telescope will be able to “see” into the far distant past in order to examine the formation of early galaxies and stars, the nature of dark energy and whether there are other life forms out there. Its mirrors will focus in movements smaller than the width of a human hair! Other instruments on the telescope will allow it to gaze through intergalactic dust clouds and analyze planets and stars in faraway solar systems. Because the telescope is at such a great distance from earth, there can be no space repair mission as happened with Hubble. Risk averse engineers at NASA had to test and retest every single component, trying to make allowances for every possible problem. But, of course, it is the unexpected that gets us every time! What the James Webb will reveal will most likely be shocking, at least according to astronomers. Hubble, for example, showed us dark energy, which drives the cosmos to expand. Using information from dying stars, James Webb may help astronomers to pin down the rate of the universe’s expansion and whether the influence of dark energy has changed throughout the epochs of the universe’s history. There is also the hope that we will learn much more about black holes, which can weigh millions and even billions of times more than the sun’s mass. These massive black holes have been spotted, lurking in the centers of many different galaxies, but while scientists have different theories about how they came to be, as of yet, there is no corroborating evidence. Some think that in the great expanse of past time massive clouds of hydrogen and helium collapsed under their own weight into super dense black holes, which could be the anchors around which galaxies form. Each time a revolutionary invention has allowed humans to peer into space, amazing new discoveries have been made. Hubble revealed that there are galaxies larger than astronomers ever thought possible, that stars formed in the early creation were far larger and more luminous than they are now. James Webb will almost certainly reveal more shocking truths about the amazing universe. Scientists, for example, wonder if the earth was formed in the presence of water, or if the water came to earth from asteroids or comets that crashed to earth. James Webb will help them to answer that question. When I consider the marvels of this new telescope, I am reminded of some words from the brilliant and imaginative Albert Einstein, who said, “I want to know God’s thoughts. The rest are details.” But God is also in the details, as the medieval theologians taught. Yours in Christ, Sandra Words of Power
Preached by Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ, Congregational in Unionville, CT January 23, 2022 Nehemiah 8: 1-3; 5-6; 8-10 Luke 4: 14-21 My oldest daughter, Alethea, whose name, by the way, means Truth in Greek, remembers being around four years old and hearing her father and me discuss something, using many words she did not know. She remembers listening very intently and thinking to yourself, “One day I will know all those words and then I will understand everything!” She brought this memory up recently when telling us about her experiences teaching high school history. She teaches outside of Boston in a very good suburban school system, but she complained that education these days is not about words. Students pay attention to images, not words, she said. As a teacher I am told I am not supposed to talk very much; lectures are out, and though I can ask questions, discussions are not good either, I am told, because not everyone participates. She was talking to her class about Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address and specifically these words: With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations. Her question to the class was: If you knew nothing else about Lincoln except that he spoke these words, what can you say about him and his priorities as President. Some kids did talk, but that was not good enough, because, as the chair of the history department told her, who was observing the class, some students just sat there and didn’t say a word. “Maybe they were listening,” she countered. “You know people can learn something by listening.” He looked at her as if she had just said the most shocking thing. Words: They matter, and they matter profoundly. Consider our two lessons from this morning. First of all, we have from the Old Testament a story about some of the Jewish people, who after a 50 exile in Babylon, have returned to Jerusalem. They were rebuilding the city walls, and while working on the project, a scroll was discovered, a piece of scripture, lost and forgotten during the years of exile. All the people were gathered, and Ezra, the scribe, read some words that moved them deeply. On that day, in their hearing, they felt and believed that scripture had been fulfilled. Fast forward 500 years to another location, the town of Nazareth, a simple, lackluster place. Now at this point in Luke’s gospel, Jesus, after being baptized by John and driven out into the wilderness by the Spirit, where he successfully resisted Satan’s temptations, returned to his hometown of Nazareth. And there he went to the synagogue, where he read from the prophet Isaiah, beginning with the words, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me.” In Jesus’ day it was common practice to stand while reading the scripture and then sit down for the explication of the text. And this is exactly what Jesus did. He sat down, and the reason the text tells us that the eyes of the congregation were upon him was because they were expecting him to preach. But his sermon was very short, one line, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” It certainly was not what people were expecting to hear. The Jews, who 500 years before, had heard Ezra read God’s law in the rubble of a devastated city must have wondered what God was about to do. And surely the people sitting before Jesus must have pondered the same question. How was scripture fulfilled? What would happen next? Well, what happened was the ministry of Jesus. He went around healing and teaching. He taught by doing and by telling. He used words to tell stories about ordinary life, which engaged peoples’ imaginations. They could see themselves in these stories, imagine themselves as the characters. When Jesus spoke, people listened because his words had power, transformative power, pointing to God. The Apostle Paul said that faith comes by way of hearing. We must hear the Word, learn the stories so that we can see and understand what the Christian life looks like. Just last week our nation celebrated the life and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, a man, who certainly knew the power of words. He knew that words could move people. I remember reading a biography of Lyndon Johnson, who during some of the most challenging days of Civil Rights called Governor George Wallace and told him to get his behind to Washington ASAP. Now Johnson was hardly known for eloquence, but he certainly had a way with words. Sitting Wallace down, directly opposite him, his gaze, boring into Wallace’s eyes, he said, “George in another twenty years or less, you and I are going to be six feet under, and what do you want your legacy to be: George Wallace: he hated? Wallace later said he had to get out of there as fast as he could. Why, before long, he would have had even me believing in Civil Rights. His words were getting to me. Yes, sometimes words do get to people. There was this little French Protestant town, Le Chambon, in southern France, which during the Second World War hid and saved 5000 Jews from Nazi brutality. Andre Trocme, was the minister, and he had always made clear that the Gospel mandates loving both the neighbor and the enemy. And so, the villagers not only protected the Jews, but they also did not harm one Nazi soldier. Buses of German soldiers would suddenly invade the town with the expectation that the buses would leave, filled with French Jews, but no Jew was ever found or surrendered. The citizens of Le Chambon did not consider themselves particularly courageous or heroic. Without exception they simply believed they were doing what Jesus would have them do. “They can close down our church,” Trocme said, “but they cannot close down our faith in Jesus Christ and our duty to him.” When a high church official from Paris once pleaded with the pastor to cease all activity on behalf of the Jews, because it would hurt French Protestantism in France, Trocme replied, “I would rather see every Protestant church burned to the ground in France than to see us turn our backs on one Jewish man, woman or child.” And in 1942 as Jews in Paris were being deported, Rev. Trocme mounted his pulpit and thundered, “The Christian Church should drop to its knees and beg pardon of God for its cowardice and lack of faith.” Powerful, faithful words. Rev. Trocme believed and taught what Paul had said in Romans, “Faith comes though hearing.” (Romans 10:17). His congregation heard; they heard the preached word week after week, and though they lived what appeared to be a life of spiritual simplicity, when the big moment came, they acted. They protected the Jews without a lot of soul searching and spiritual agony. They understood how scripture was indeed being fulfilled as they defended those who could not defend themselves. We would do well to wonder and ponder, if a society, which fails to pay close attention to words and whether they are true or false, will have enough Christians capable of hearing not only what the Gospel says but also what it demands. January 21, 2022
Dear Friends, It has been a while since I have written a reflection letter, but recently I came across something that I found engaging. Apparently, a joint study by the London School of Economics and the University of Wisconsin found that references to nature in novels, songs, and films began to decline in the 1950’s and as only accelerated since then. The study looked at key words such as animals, snow, soil, storm, sky, sun, moon, and seasons and noticed a key decline in their usage. What changed over this time frame was the expansion of technology: television in the 50’s and 60’s, video in the 70’s and then computers, smartphones and the internet after that. In the year 2018 the Nielson study found that the average American adult spend 9.5 hours a day looking at some kind of screen. And teenagers spend even more time. The result of all this is that people are spending more and more time indoors and less time in the natural world. How many of us adults have commented that children no longer play outdoors? When I was growing up, we were always outdoors, even in the cold. I played for hours in the snow, and in the warmer weather, we kids changed into our play clothes after returning from school and outside we went. Summer vacation time meant that we were out the door after breakfast, returning home for lunch and then out again until dinner. We roomed the neighborhood in groups, playing all kinds of games, riding our bikes, and even wandering in the nearby woods. My mother certainly did not know where we were every minute of the day, and she did not worry about it either. We were told never to go with strangers, but that is about as far as the anxiety went. Both children and adults are now suffering from a “nature deficit disorder. “It is simply a fact that mental health is helped by nature---that walks in the woods, or time spent by water offer a kind of healing touch. There is a reason city residents flock to parks. Trees, grass, flowers all help people to be mentally and spiritually healthy. Nature is not magic, and it certainly will not solve or remove all our problems, but we do need nature’s touch. It is simply part of what our humanity requires. After all, are we not part of nature? In 1836 Ralph Waldo Emerson, the great Transcendentalist thinker, (whom one of my professors claimed was one of the two theological geniuses the United States produced---the first was Jonathan Edwards) wrote an essay On Nature, which he revised in 1844. Emerson had been a Unitarian minister in Boston, but he was too intellectually daring to remain in the pulpit, so he resigned his ministry and moved to Concord, where he developed his own theology and became a renowned leader of the Transcendentalist Movement. Nature for the Transcendentalists was both a physical and a spiritual reality. "In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, - no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, - my head bathed by the blithe air and uplifted into infinite space, - all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball. I am nothing. I see all. The currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God." In his 1844 essay, he wrote: “There are days which occur in this climate at almost any season of the year, when the world reaches its perfection when the air, the heavenly bodies and the earth make a harmony, as if nature would indulge her offspring. . . . Here we find nature to be the circumstance which dwarfs every other circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her. We have crept out of our close and crowded houses into the night and morning, and we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in their bosom.” Our world in 1844 was a very different place, and we can only imagine what Emerson would say about our situation today. Surely, he would be appalled at the havoc we have wrecked on our planet, and he would undoubtedly issue a clarion call for us to exit “our close and crowded houses” to see what majesty nature has to offer. While driving home the other night, I came face to face with the full moon, known as the Wolf Moon, the first full moon of the new year. It was gorgeous, inspiring a feeling of unmitigated awe. Emerson, ever the optimist, believed that seeing could actually lead to understanding and understanding could lead to wisdom. And so he ended "Nature" with these words: "Every moment instructs, and every object; for wisdom is infused into every form. Let us hope he was right. Yours in Christ, Sandra THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MAN
A Retelling of the Original Story by Henry Van Dyke Epiphany Sunday, January 2, 2021 When Caesar Augustus sat on Rome’s throne and King Herod reigned in Jerusalem, there was a man named Artaban, who resided in a mountainous city in Persia. Artaban was a nobleman, and his richly designed clothes, including the massive gold collar around his neck and the winged circles of gold, emblazoned across his chest, marked him as a follower of Zoroaster. Artaban was among the wise men, who studied the stars and the movement of the planets, because they believed that the heavens revealed the thoughts of the eternal and could be directly applied to life on earth. On this particular night Artaban had invited other magi to his house to remind them of an ancient prediction: There shall come a star out of Jacob and a scepter shall arise out of Israel. A new star has risen, he said, and for one night its brightness was beyond compare. Now it is gone, but tonight Jupiter and Saturn will meet, Artaban said, and if the star appears again, I will leave my home and join my three companions: Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, and we shall journey together to find the newborn king. They will only wait 10 days for me, so my ride will be long and hard. I have sold my possessions and have purchased these three jewels to give the king: a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl. Will any of you join me? “I have just married,” said one. “The tribes of Israel are scattered like lost sheep.” “Nothing of any worth will rise from them,” said another. But then the oldest among the Magi stepped forward. “Perhaps this will only be an empty search, but those who would find wonderful things must often travel alone. I am too old to accompany you, Artaban, but my heart goes with you.” That very night Jupiter and Saturn conjoined, pulsating with pure, white light. And then the star once again appeared, so Artaban mounted his swiftest horse, Vasda, and began his journey. Days flew by as Artaban and Vasda raced toward their destination, and as the early evening of the 10th day brought its darkness, Artaban approached the city of Babylon, a three hour journey from the Temple of the Seven Spheres, where Artaban would meet his comrades. Approaching a grove of date nut trees, Vasda slackened her pace. Without halting, she moved ahead slowly, tentatively, expecting, it seemed, to come upon something troubling. And there it was---in the road lay a man, a Hebrew, whose pallid skin and dry mouth marked him as a man who had apparently died from a fever. Artaban was about to pass on, saying a silent prayer, when suddenly he heard moaning. The man was alive, and in a flash with no thought but only feeling, Artaban could feel resentment rising. “If I stop to help him, surely I will miss my comrades. It is they, not I, who have the provisions for the journey, and if I miss them, I will have to return to Babylon to buy the necessary supplies. But if I do not help, the man will die.” So Artaban dismounted, and for the next five hours nursed the man back to health. The magi, you see, not only studied the stars, they also were healers of the body. Who are you?, the Hebrew wanted to know, and when Artaban identified himself and his mission, the man said, “May the God of Abraham bless and prosper the journey of the merciful and bring him to his desired haven. I have nothing to give you in return for your healing arts, but I can tell you that our prophets say the Messiah will be born in Bethlehem. May God guide you there.” Artaban raced through the night, but when he arrived at the Temple, his comrades were gone, having left a note: We have waited past midnight and can delay no longer. We go to find the King; follow us across the desert. How can I go? Artaban sighed. I have no supplies and so must return to Babylon and with my sapphire buy what I need. And this is what Artaban did. I may never be able to overtake my friends, he sadly said, all because I tarried to show mercy. Soon Artaban was traveling across the desert, arriving in Bethlehem three days after his comrades had seen Mary, Joseph, and the baby. The streets were deserted, and a strange foreboding hung in the air. Knocking on a door, he was greeted by a young woman with a baby, who explained to him that yes, three other men, dressed like him, had been here, and yes, they did visit a couple who just had a baby. But the visitors left, as did the couple and the infant, on their way, she thought, to Egypt. She also explained to Artaban that there was a rumor that the Romans were about to make a tax raid on the village, and so all the men had moved the cattle into the hills to preserve their herds. Since hospitality was a Jewish virtue, the woman prepared for Artaban a humble meal and invited him to rest for a while, which Artaban did, until suddenly he heard shouts and the terrified warning of screaming women, “Herod’s soldiers are murdering our babies.” The sound of doors being smashed and blood curdling cries were too much for the young mother, who crouched in the corner in total terror, while the door to her home was almost demolished by the force of a determined and brutal kick. Slowly and calmly Artaban opened the door to face a solder holding a bloody spear. “I am alone in this home and willing to give the man who leaves me in peace this sparkling ruby,” and removing the ruby from his pocket, he held it up for the soldier to see. Greedily the soldier’s eyes stared at the shimmering gem, and grabbing it, he said to his comrades, “There are no children here; let us be gone.” O God of truth, Artaban prayed, I spent for man what was intended for God. Shall I ever be worthy to see the king? Artaban asked.” But the voice of the grateful young mother said, “Because you have saved the life of my child, may the God of Israel bless you and keep you always.” The years came and went. Time moved on, and Artaban’s search seemed to have no end. People reported seeing Artaban in Egypt, in Alexandria, in New Babylon. Once he was seen taking counsel from a venerable old Jewish rabbi, who read to him the words from Isaiah about a suffering servant who would be despised and rejected and acquainted with grief. If you would seek the king, the old rabbi said, you would do well to look among the poor, the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed.” And so Artaban did. He visited those in prison; he helped to distribute food to the hungry and clothes to the naked, and though he found many to help, he found no one to worship. Three decades had come and gone. Worn, weary and ready to die, for one last time, Artaban came to Jerusalem. The air was thick with foreboding, a kind of macabre excitement surrounded the city. Have you not heard, someone asked him, about the Jewish man, Jesus of Nazareth, a healer and prophet, whom some call King of the Jews? He is about to be executed. Why not join us for the sport! Is it possible that this is where all my searching will end---at the death of an innocent man? As Artaban made his way toward Golgotha, he suddenly heard the sound of a young woman’s scream. “Help me,” she pleaded, as she broke away from the men who were dragging her way, to sell her as a slave to pay debts that her now dead father could not pay. “Please Sir,” she pleaded, “if there be a drop of compassion in your heart, save me from this fate that for me is worse than death.” Artaban trembled; it was the old conflict he had met in a palm grove near Babylon and in a young mother’s house in Bethlehem, the conflict between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Was this his greatest opportunity or his last temptation? Placing his hands in his pocket to feel the pearl before pulling out its glistening whiteness, he knew only one thing. It was inevitable that he give the pearl away. “This is your ransom, my child,” he said, “the last of my treasures, which I have saved all these years for the king. Take it; it is yours.” As he handed the pearl to her, the sky turned menacingly dark and shuddering tremors ran through the earth. The walls of the house next to where they stood began to rock and loosened stones crashed to the ground. Artaban and the young girl tried to crouch down for safety. But what had Artaban to fear now? His quest was over, and it had failed, but it was not anger or sadness, not even resignation he felt, but rather peace, the peace that passes all human understanding. Suddenly, Artaban felt a sharp pain on his head as a tile from the roof fell upon him, cutting deeply into his skull. He fell to the ground, and the young girl bent down to wipe the blood from his head. Not so, my Lord, she heard Artaban say. For when did I see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink, or when were you in prison that I visited you? And the girl heard the voice answer: As much as you did it to the least of my brothers and sisters, you did it to me. A calm radiance of wonder and joy spread across Artaban’s face. One long last breath of relief exhaled from his lips. His journey was ended; his treasures were accepted. The Other Wise Man had at last found the King. Yours in Christ, Sandra CHRISTMAS EVE AT MCDONALD’S
Preached by: Sandra Olsen Not many people spend Christmas Eve at McDonald’s. Perhaps some parents run there to procure a Happy Meal for a child, who is insisting it is the only thing he or she will eat, while everyone else is gorging on a Christmas Eve feast. And then there may be some who find their way to the Golden Arches just because it is quick way to get something to eat while on their way to someplace else. On Christmas Eve, 2014, I spent 2.5 hours at the McDonald’s on Route 80 in New Haven. I had led a 4:00 PM. Christmas Eve service at Center Church on the Green, where I was serving as minister, and then at 10 PM I had another service with three other churches, so I had no desire to drive the 26 miles back home to Middletown, only to return later. I went to McDonald’s with two of my parishioners, who were also waiting for the later service. Rachel had been homeless for three years, but now had a place to stay. She was not able to eat solid food, because of some medical treatments, and so the thick milkshakes were what she craved. Donna, my other parishioner, was in a nursing home, afflicted with Huntington’s, a degenerative nerve disease, so she was grateful to be out for the evening, and besides, she loved McDonald’s---fish sandwich, fries, sweet tea, and chocolate chip cookies. So, we alighted from the car and walked in. There was the familiar manager; he knew us all because we went there on Thursdays after helping out at the Soup Kitchen. What are you doing here on Christmas Eve, he wanted to know? Oh, we’re just making time, waiting for a later service, I said. Suddenly, the man who was sitting down at one of the tables, got up. Excuse me, he said, I just finished my coke and a small fries, but I am still awfully hungry. Would you be willing to buy me something? Sure, I said. What do you want? A Big Mac, large fries, and a large coke. I fed him lunch, the manager whispered, but he is homeless and often hungry. Kyle was his name, and he asked if he could sit with us. It’s almost Christmas, he said, and I really don’t want to eat alone. I eat alone most days, but Christmas should be different. I’m homeless, he said, but tonight and tomorrow my buddy is letting me stay at his place. He is not supposed to; it’s against the rules, but who is going to check on Christmas? And then Kyle sat down at our table without us ever giving permission. Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m homeless, he asked? I don’t think it is our business, Rachel responded. When you feed someone, you automatically make a connection. It is a given, and so it is your business, even if you don’t want it to be. And then he told us his sad story. He could not get his life together these past five years, because he had fallen asleep at the wheel while driving his wife and three little kids across Montana one Christmas Eve, on the way to his wife’s parents’ home. All were killed, except him. I had a pretty serious neck and head injury, he said, but I recovered from that, but I can’t recover from the pain of losing my family. I couldn’t get my life together after the accident. Everything fell apart, and you know something, most of my friends and even my family—sister, brothers and parents kind of pulled away---not knowing how to deal with my rage and self-hatred. So, here I am, a man with a degree from Tufts and MIT, and homeless. It’s Christmas Eve, when we celebrate the birth of Christ, and I wonder what it is Christ has to say to me. People tell me I’m forgiven; falling asleep is no crime, but it is not really forgiveness I’m after. It’s peace. I want the peace the angels sing about. I need that peace, and I have not felt a hint of it, since I woke up in the hospital and learned that my wife and three kids were dead. Lord, give me peace. I pray for it all the time, and yet it does not come. Lord, I need peace. Please, give me peace. He uttered his prayer for peace rather loudly, and another man around 30 or so, who had just come in, looked at him and at us and said, “We all want peace. I want it too. But it doesn’t come so easily. Maybe we are not supposed to have peace on this earth. I mean those angels you mentioned; they were heavenly creatures. What did they really understand about peace on earth? They weren’t living here in families. They were looking down from afar, from way up there. So, what did they really know, anyway?” “So you must have a story too, Kyle said to him. I mean here you are on Christmas Eve in a McDonald’s in New Haven, CT. No one should be at McDonald’s on Christmas Eve. Everyone has a story, the young man said. But why should I tell you mine? “Oh, you don’t have to,” said Kyle. But all of us have kind of been thrown together on Christmas Eve, and so, if you want to share, we’ll listen, but no one is going to force you. I don’t know these three people’s stories, why they’re here. Maybe they don’t want to share either. Donna, who was always very quiet, suddenly spoke up: We’re from Center Church in New Haven, waiting for a 10 PM service, and this is our minister. Minister: Kyle eyed me with deep suspicion while the young man just stared at me with a measure of anger on his face. Let me tell you, he said, about my minister. I grew up in Austin, Texas, and every Sunday we went to the Baptist Church, but when I came out to my family, the minister came over to our house and told me, “Son, I am praying for you. You don’t need to follow the path of sin. You’re a good boy, and I know God will lead you on the straight and narrow. And of course, I knew exactly what he meant by straight. That was 7 years ago; I have not spoken to my parents or anyone in my family since then. And I certainly have not spoken to any minister. So, Rev, what do you have to say? I don’t think Jesus either demands or expects our paths to be straight. We all have our roads to walk, and God goes with us, blessing us along the way, but sometimes it’s very hard to hear and find the blessing, especially when others are shouting in our ears. I hope you can hear it and find it. So, do I the man said, as he left McDonald’s with his dinner in a bag. Kyle got up and looked outside. Hey, he is driving a pretty fancy Volvo. He may be hurting, but at least he isn’t poor. I wonder why he chose to get food here at McDonald’s. Maybe, I said, he feels this is the kind of place where people are not going to judge him. I guess so, Kyle said. People who chose to eat at McDonald’s on Christmas Eve don’t have a right to judge anyone. I don’t know when the other man came in. I had not noticed him enter, but there he was, suited up, very nicely, sitting at a table about four feet from ours. Hey, Kyle said. You don’t have to sit alone. Come, and join us. It is Christmas Eve, and no one should be sitting at a table alone. The shepherds were not alone; the angels were not alone; Mary and Joseph and the baby were not alone. This is not a night for aloneness. The man smiled but didn’t say a word. Kyle knew enough to respect his privacy and his silence, but suddenly the man got up and went outside and came back in with a violin. He then began to play the most hauntingly beautiful medley of Christmas carols, followed by some music I recognized from Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. Oh, my God, I said, that was stunningly beautiful. Where did you learn to play like that? At the Eastman School of Music, he said. But that was not what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to go to Columbia Medical School, like my mother and father did. Oh, I got in, all right, but I also got into Eastman. You know, my parents did not even know I applied. I studied music in college along with the requisite courses for medical school, but they thought music was my avocation. No one can make a living doing music, or at least not the kind of living my parents make. I’m no Joshua Bell, but I am a good player. I play in a local symphony on the Cape, and I teach music in a private school. I make a decent living, but not decent enough, at least according to my family. I’m on my way to New York to spend Christmas with my family, and I just hope and pray I won’t have to listen to their complaints against me for turning down the profession they had chosen for me. I just came from playing at a couple of nursing homes and then I went to two homeless shelters. People need beauty in their lives. You know something? I believe that people can actually die for lack of beauty. Well, I said, the great Russian writer, Dostoevsky, agrees with you. He once said, “Beauty will save the world.” “I believe that,” the man said. I just wish my parents did. Perhaps they do, I answered. They’re just too busy hanging on to a dream that is theirs, not yours, and they’re clinging so hard to it that they can’t imagine there is anything else to hold on to and touch. The young man, whose name I never learned, held his violin close as he stroked it with great care. Thanks, he said. I had better go, if I want to get to New York at a reasonable hour. And then he left. Christmas Eve, 2014---a gathering of well, we were a motley crew. And even today, seven years later, I wonder how it was that the six of us were thrown together for a time on a night when most people do not end up at a McDonald’s. And as we left, Rachel said to me, “You know all of us are afflicted in one way or another. We all carry burdens, and it is vitally important to know how to carry them. Some manage the carrying better than others.” Christmas Eve, 2021. We are not at McDonald’s but here we are in Unionville, CT. And we too have our burdens and some of them are undoubtedly very hard to carry. Some of them we would love to put down and run away from. So what does the Christmas story say to you? The story is not simply about THEN; it is also about NOW and whether or not we recognize that the one who was born into the poor and humble conditions of a stable in Bethlehem is also the one who continues to stoop down to meet human beings in the messiest conditions of life? And that messiness is the story of Christmas. All over the world, the story of Jesus’ birth is being read and told over and over again. Tonight, he is born---born into the messiness of human life, with all its joys, sorrows, blunders, and victories. But is he born in you, and do you see the way he comes into your life and helps you to recognize not only the burdens you carry but also the blessings you have---the hope, the peace, the joy, and the love of Christmas? Yours in Christ, Sandra THE SHEPHERDS AT THE MANGER December 19, 2021 First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT Shepherd 1( Susan) Many of you probably have a particular image of the Christmas scene, made popular by Luke’s gospel. Of course, Luke’s gospel was written nearly 100 years after the events, so it is no eyewitness report. He has a story to tell with a particular perspective. And it begins with Mary and Joseph, making a trip to Bethlehem for a census, because Bethlehem was Joseph’s hometown with a population of about 300. Luke wanted to show that Jesus’ parents were obedient to the law as laid down by Rome as well as to the religious law. They would later go to the Temple and make the appropriate sacrifices. In other words, they were not out to make trouble. And so, according to Luke, Bethlehem was the place where Jesus was born. Matthew had Jesus born in Nazareth, but Luke wanted to make the point that Jesus shared the same birthplace as the shepherd king, David. Shepherd 2 (John) And so we arrive at our story, the shepherds’ story. We were out in the fields that night, star gazing. All of us were there, staring at the heavens with stars glowing in the darkness---no light pollution in those days. Though it was very cold, it was a beautiful night. We all remember how the sky looked that night, and I recall just staring at the night sky. Shepherd 3 (Julie) Now before we go on, there is something you should understand about shepherds. We were considered among the lowly, people of low status. You see, being a shepherd meant that we had to deal with ewes giving birth, and because birth issues in blood, and blood was considered a contaminant to be avoided at all costs, shepherding was understood to be a ritually unclean profession. Shepherd 1 (Susan): And yet, consider the irony. Israel’s greatest king, David, was a shepherd, and there are places in the scriptures where God is presented as a shepherd. Go no further than the 23rd Psalm, whose first line reads: The Lord is my shepherd. And, of course, Jesus is presented as the Good Shepherd, the one who will leave the 99 to go after the one lost lamb and tenderly carry it back to safety. So, although we shepherds were considered lowly, David, Jesus and even God would stoop so low to become shepherds. Shepherd 2 (John) But there is something else you should understand about shepherds and status. Though lowly, there was a pecking order with some shepherds being of higher status than others. You see, the Jerusalem Temple required unblemished lambs for sacrifice, and these lambs were to be perfect physical specimens. It was the job of specifically trained shepherds to search out those perfect lambs and keep them from getting hurt. So, some of us, who were out in the fields that night, were higher status shepherds. And because the terrain was rocky and sheep could get hurt, one of the things we did was wrap these unblemished lambs in bands of cloth. So, when Luke tells you that Mary wrapped Jesus in bands of cloth, you are supposed to make a connection with the unblemished lambs, who would be offered as a sacrifice in the Temple. Jesus is the lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. Shepherd 3 (Julie) So, there we were, out in the fields, star gazing at the beautiful night sky. And then suddenly, with no warning at all, an angel of the Lord appeared, and the glory of the Lord was so bright our eyes could not bear the sight. We were terrified. But the angel told us, “Do not fear, for today in the city of David a savior has been born, and you will find him wrapped in bands of cloth, lying in a manger.” And then something even more extraordinary happened: a multitude of angels appeared, singing “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to people whom God favors.” I want you to understand how extraordinary it is that a multitude of angels appeared, because when angels appear to human beings, it is a solo appearance, just one angel. There is only one other example in the Bible, where a multitude of angels appears, and that is in the Old Testament, when Jacob has a dream in Bethel, and in his dream, he sees a staircase ascending to heaven with angels moving up and down the staircase steps. Shepherd 1 (Susan) Now that multitude of angels signing praises to God follow a particular pattern, well known in the days of the Roman Empire, when official announcements were made, and then words of praise and honor were offered to Caesar. You see, the people hearing Luke’s gospel would have known that in the year 29, around the time Jesus began to preach, about 60 years or so before Luke wrote his gospel, Caesar Augustus had ended the civil war that had plagued Rome for almost 100 years. The doors of the Shrine of Janus in the Forum were opened during war, but now they were closed. And these days of peace were known as Pax Romana, a great achievement, to be sure. An altar was built to Augustus in praise of the peace he had brought. But now, according to Luke, a new and different kind of peace was coming into the world, and it would transcend the Pax Romana. The multitude of angels declared to us shepherds, “peace to those whom God favors.” And because the angels appeared to us lowly shepherds, we certainly got the idea that God favors the humble and the lowly ones, which is what we were, although some of us might try to boast that our status was a bit higher than the others. The point is that the announcement of this extraordinary birth came first to us, not to the high and mighty, but to the humble and lowly. Shepherd 2 (John) Now there is something else you should know about, though it does not appear in the story. There is a place called Migdal Eder, known as the Tower of the Flock, located somewhere on the road between Bethel and Jerusalem, very near to Bethlehem. We all knew about the Tower, though only those shepherds, who were trained to care for the unblemished lambs, were allowed to go in. And because I was one of those trained shepherds, I had been there many times. I used to climb the stairs of the tower and watch the flocks, and since I could see for quite a distance, I could tell if there were any dangerous animals, moving toward the sheep. And sometimes I would bring into the Tower an ewe, who was about to give birth. Remember, how I mentioned Jacob’s dream? Well, his beloved wife, Rachel, was said to have given birth to Benjamin in this tower, and then sadly she died. Jacob then moved his flocks beyond the tower. I guess he was so saddened by Rachel’s death, he didn’t want to be too near that Tower. Who can blame him? Anyway, years later, we shepherds heard a rumor that Jesus was born in the Tower. But no, I was there in the Tower, the night Jesus was born. I was probably the first one to see the angel of the Lord, but to see Jesus, we had to travel to Bethlehem, which was not far down the road. Shepherd 3 (Julie) And so we made the short trip to see the baby. You know some journeys take a lifetime, but this journey to the baby was quick. We found him and his parents, just as the angel said we would. I was the one who began explaining to Mary about how the angel made an announcement, followed by a host of angels, singing praises to God, and wishing peace to those whom God favors. And you know what I remember best? It was how Mary looked very pensively at all of us. You could tell she was thinking hard. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I guess she was one of these people, who ponder things deeply without saying very much. But back then, I doubt anyone would have paid her words much mind anyway. After all, she was a woman, and women were not expected to speak. But she pondered, and it would have been worth a lifetime of journeys to learn what her ponderings were all about. Shepherd 1 (Susan) So, there you have it: the Christmas story told from the perspective of us lowly shepherds. But that was then and now is now. So, what does it mean today? What does it mean to say that God makes God’s appearance among those of low status, people whom the world would ignore or reject? Some years ago, we received some news in the Heavenly Court about this Canadian sculptor, Timothy Schmalz, a devout Roman Catholic, who made a life size bronze statue of Jesus as a homeless man lying on a bench. You cannot see his face, and you only recognize him as Jesus because of the nail imprints in his feet. It caused quite a stir and when it first appeared at Regis College of the University of Toronto, someone called the police, because she thought it was a real homeless man. Well, when word got around about the statue, some people took great offense, saying it was an insult to Jesus. But you know who really loved the statue, Pope Francis, and he invited Timothy Schmalz to the Vatican, where another statue now sits. In fact, there are a number of these statues around the world, placed on various church properties. One clergyman said he saw a homeless man sitting by the statue with his hand gently placed on Jesus as he prayed. Shepherd 2 (John) So we lowly shepherds get it. But do you? Do you understand that God’s criteria about whom or what is worthy is not the same as your criteria? What might impress you is not what impresses God. God is apparently in the habit of coming to those who will receive, those humble enough to accept the gift of God’s presence and believe what they heard and saw. Shepherd 3 (Julie) This was all such a very long time ago, but we still remember it as if it happened yesterday. We remember how the light shone around the angelic host, and we remember the baby, wrapped in bands of cloth, lying in the manger. He was supposed to be a king like the mighty King David, but he lived his humble life more like a shepherd. He too lacked status, and he ministered to those who also had no status, the mentally and emotionally brutalized, the physically sick, like the lepers and the despised, like the tax collectors. He showed us what and whom we are supposed to care about, what we are supposed to be impressed by, but we still have a hard time learning the lessons he taught, and though for us it was a very short journey to Bethlehem that night, for most people the journey to the manger takes a very long time. What Should We Do?
Preached by: The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen First Church in Unionville, CT December 12, 2021 Luke 3: 7-18 John the Baptist was certainly not an easy person to be around. He was harsh and tough and did not care in the least if his words made you feel badly about yourself. In fact, that is what he was trying to do---make you feel your sinfulness and repent of it. He was definitely from the tough love school, apparently believing gentleness and empathy would not move people to change. And change is what John was after. It is no small question to contemplate how it is that people change. What really encourages people to move ahead and leave behind some of their self-destructive behaviors? Family therapists, for example, will examine the dynamics of a family situation to discover which person has not only the greatest ability to change but also wields enough power to push change. Well, John the Baptist seems to be one of these people, who believed that if you yelled at people long and hard enough and made them uncomfortable with their current behavior, they would change. A few weeks ago, when I was visiting the Johansons, Rod told me how when he was new at Farmington High, the principal told him not to stand around with his hands in his pockets, because it made him look as if he were up to no good. Well, later in the day, there was Rod with his hands in his pockets once again. And the principal came up to him and grabbed him by his collar, hoisted him up and placed him in one of the trash containers. I told Rod I thought that was horrible. Putting him in the trash can was like saying, “You’re a piece of trash!” ‘Horrible or not,” Rod said, it was effective. I never put my hands in my pockets again, at least not at school.” Well, we don’t really know how effective John the Baptist was at getting people to repent. He called them names, a brood of vipers and told them to prepare for the coming fire. God, he said, was getting ready to chop down the trees, which do not bear good fruit, that is, deeds, worthy of repentance. And though we can imagine that the high and mighty scoffed at the mere suggestion, still the crowds were worried enough to ask: What then shall we do? And he told them, “If you have two coats, give a coat to someone who has none, and if you have food, do likewise. The despised and ritually impure tax collectors also asked John: What should we do? And John told them to collect no more than the prescribed amount. You see, tax collectors were known for collecting excess amounts and then keeping the excess for themselves. That is how some managed to make a very lucrative living. Soldiers too asked: And what should we do? John said, “Don’t extort money from anyone through threats and false accusations and be satisfied with your wages.” So, John gave very specific ethical instructions. He told them exactly what they needed to do. And sometimes that can be such a relief, since many are the occasions we simply don’t know what to do. There are times we face issues that are downright ambiguous or confusing, or perhaps situations over which we have no real power, when we face the hard conclusion there is nothing we can do. Some weeks ago, when I was in Sarajevo, a beautiful city, set against a stunning range of mountains and the site of the 1988 Winter Olympics, I told you before how I visited the War Museum there. Sarajevo was mercilessly shelled between 91 and 95, but the museum concentrated on the massacre of 8000 Bosnian and Croatian Muslims by the Serbians. It was not an easy place to visit, and when I exited the museum, I was quite shaken. I struck up a conversation with one of the young women, who worked there, and I told her I was a Protestant clergywoman from the United States, and how moved I was by the exhibition. The young woman then told me about a man in his 30’s, who for a few months came daily to visit the museum, always leaving very upset. Finally, she got up the nerve to ask him about his interest. At first, he was very hesitant to speak, but then he said, “I am the son of a Serbian officer, and when I was a child, I lived in a house by father took over from a Bosnian Muslim family. I didn’t know it, of course; I was just a small child at the time, but recently I learned the truth. And the truth only became more awful when I learned that my father participated in the massacre at Srebrenica (Sray Breh Neet suh). I did not want to believe it, but I know now it is true. What can I do? What must I do? And so, I have begun by coming here and seeing for myself the horror. I will never have anything to do with him again---with none of my family, because they can live with something that is unlivable. As quickly as he came, he stopped coming, the woman told me. I thought that he was too ashamed to face me again. But some months ago, he came back and told me he was volunteering with some of the original refugees---women and their children, He helps them find information about their murdered loved ones. They realize he is Serbian, but he does not tell them the role his father played in their lives. He simply does what he can. I feel so sorry for him, she told me, because he is obviously tortured, and so I spoke with my priest about him, and he told me he believed this young man is doing penance on behalf of his father. And I asked my priest. But is that possible? How can one repent on behalf of another, especially if the one who has committed the wrong, feels no real remorse or sorrow? The young man feels the sorrow of the crime, but what about the father? What if he feels no guilt? What does God do with that? And then she asked me what I thought. I told her that though none of us can know such things with any certainty, I do believe in the power of prayer and in the power of good deeds. There are human beings who work and pray on behalf of not only the innocent but also the guilty, like this young man, who carries the burden of his father’s deeds, and though he bears no direct guilt, he feels the wrong that has been done. And we should be grateful there are such people in the world because their lives become a kind of prayer to God, expressing the conviction that we are all in this together, and no deed committed by another human being is so far away from us that we can ever afford to walk away and feel free from its deadly power. I have been thinking about this in relation to the young shooter in Michigan, a 15 year old boy, Ethan, who killed four students in his high school. He had made a drawing showing a person shot with blood flowing all over the place and words scribbled on the bottom of the page: The thoughts won’t stop coming. Help me. And where at this point is help going to come---from a nation so in love with guns it will do nothing to protect even its children in school? Dare we hope help will come from the God who can accept the deeds, prayers and penance of the innocent on behalf of the guilty, and then with the aid of people like John the Baptist move the nation to active repentance and change? This is the third Sunday of Advent, when we are faced with the twin themes of repentance and joy. And how those two themes work together is one of the great mysteries of the Advent season, the season of waiting and hoping., when we wait and hope for joy as well as for forgiveness. OUT IN THE WILDERNESS
Preached by: Sandra Olsen December 5, 2021 Luke 3: 1-6 Whatever we want to say about John the Baptist, we have to acknowledge that he was an outlier. He was not part of the religious order or establishment, though his father, Zechariah, had been a priest, and his mother Elizabeth, was Mary’s cousin. Elizabeth had trouble conceiving John, and when Mary went to see her after she learned she was to bear the savior of the world, John leaped in Elizabeth’s womb—a sign that he recognized whom Mary was carrying. But John did not follow his father’s footsteps into the priesthood, but instead lived out in the wilderness before he began his ministry of baptism. Living in the wilderness was dangerous not only because of wild animals and beasts, but because wilderness was understood to be a place where dangerous things can happen, a place where God or Satan can make a claim on lives. And one never knows beforehand whom one is going to meet there---God or Satan. Jews remembered the forty year journey through the wilderness, led by Moses, who had to put up with a lot of whining and complaining. Jesus, immediately after his baptism, was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, where he first met, not God, but Satan, who tempted him for forty days and nights. Wilderness is code language; it means pay attention, because something big is on the horizon. So, here we have this screwball of a character, John, who comes to the Jordan River from the wilderness. I suspect that most of us would want very little to do with John, because he seems a bit crazy. But sometimes these are the people to whom the word of God comes, perhaps because they are open to it in a way most of us are not. We are more likely to be defensive and suspicious, asking ourselves (not inappropriately, I might add) how it is we really know this is from God and not from our imagination or even a product of mental illness. We wonder about such things, but apparently John did not. So, John came in from the wilderness to the River Jordan, where he began to baptize people, offering them a cleansing from sin. Now the people who came to John for baptism were a varied lot. Verse 10 simply refers to them as crowds, so it is probably safe to conclude that they were a mixture of all different kinds of people, curious and perhaps spiritually hungry enough to take a chance on someone who was different. Some probably did not trust the Temple elite with all their rules and regulations about ritual purity and temple taxes. And then there might have been those who were members of groups like the Essenes, who preached and practiced radical separation from society in preparation for the coming of God’s Kingdom. Perhaps even some Pharisees came, since they were open to new ideas. It was the Pharisees, after all, who introduced the idea of the oral interpretation of the law and the resurrection of the body. There were many different spiritual options out there, and so some people might have come to see what it was John had to offer. And what John was offering was a baptism of repentance. He offered tough words, telling people to turn their lives around. Get out of your hole of self-obsession and turn toward God. John’s message, however, was not completely new, because some of his words he spoke came from the prophet Isaiah, who lived during another wilderness time, when in 587 BC, the Jewish elite were led into captivity to Babylon. It wasn’t that they were slaves in Babylon; it was just that Babylon was not home. They thought they could not be God’s people in this strange land, and in the midst of this wilderness, Isaiah spoke words of comfort and hope, which John borrowed: “Prepare the way of the Lord; make his paths straight. Every valley shall be lifted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight and the rough ways made smooth, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” The wilderness of Babylon was the past, but in John’s time the wilderness still was very real for the Jews. They were no longer an independent nation. Rome had its boots on their neck. Oh, the people had something to be grateful for. After all, Caesar Augustus had established the peace of Rome, and that was no small achievement, but still there was a yearning for more than Rome could deliver. And so, notice how Luke names the concrete situation in which the Jews found themselves. This is the time, the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius. Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea and King Herod was the ruler of Galilee. In other words, in this specific time and place, God acts, and God will act. The Jews were a people of history, and their God acted in history. God was not some distant, ethereal spirit, who had nothing to do with time and place. The Jews understood that God meets people in the midst of real concerns and troubles, including political and economic issues. Their God was a God who entered into the political fray, taking sides even, and just as God had met the people in the wilderness of Babylon, so the people of John’s day hoped that God would meet them in their wilderness, in the land of Judea during the reign of Tiberius. And, of course, we hope that we will be met in our wildernesses as well. We all have them. You can be in a wilderness after the one whom you thought was the love of your life, dumped you. Mainline churches are living through a kind of wilderness, when each year numbers drop, and young people simply do not show up. And then there are political wildernesses, when things alter in radical ways, and what was once considered a right is suddenly threatened by people who live in privilege and have very little imagination for what it is like to be out in the wilderness. I just returned from a part of the world, which lived through war in the 90’s for four long years, when cities like Sarajevo and Dubrovnik were shelled so badly and there was no electricity or running water for four years. One Croatian family with whom four of us had dinner were chased out of their home for eight years. They lived in this little village close to the border of Serbia, and they were the first people to have a pre-fab home. The townspeople were fascinated to see the house go up in five days, and when the war began in 91, their Serbian next door neighbor told them to leave. “I want your house and I will get it.” And there was enough instability that they decided it would be best to leave, and so for eight years, they lived in their own kind of wilderness. And though they eventually returned to their home, it was to a different country, no longer one Yugoslavia, but now six. The Jews used to call the highway leading through the wilderness to new life, the King’s Highway. They wondered where and how it could be found. But perhaps the lesson of Advent is that there are some situations where we are not the ones who do the finding, but rather we are the ones who are found by a gracious God who finally shows up in a manger no one was even looking for until they were told where to go. December 5, 2021
Dear Friends, The following poem was copyrighted in 1996 by Harvey Ehrlich. It is free to distribute, without changes, as long as this notice remains intact. All follow-ups, requests, comments, questions, distribution rights, etc. should be made to: mduhan@husc.harvard.edu. Enjoy and give yourself permission to smile and laugh! Politically Correct Santa 'Twas the night before Christmas and Santa's a wreck ... How to live in a world that's politically correct? His workers no longer would answer to "Elves," "Vertically Challenged" they were calling themselves. And labor conditions at the North Pole Were alleged by the union to stifle the soul. Four reindeer had vanished, without much propriety, Released to the wilds by the Humane Society. And equal employment had made it quite clear That Santa had better not use just reindeer. So Dancer and Donner, Comet and Cupid, Were replaced with four pigs, and you know that looks stupid! The runners had been removed from his sleigh; The ruts were termed dangerous by the EPA. And people had started to call for the cops When they heard sled noises on their rooftops. Second-hand smoke from his pipe Had his workers quite frightened. His fur-trimmed red suit Was called "unenlightened." And to show you the strangeness of life's ebbs and flows, Rudolph was suing over unauthorized use of his nose And had gone on Geraldo, in front of the nation, Demanding millions in overdue compensation. So, half of the reindeer were gone; and his wife, Who suddenly said she'd had enough of this life, Joined a self-help group, packed and left in a whiz, Demanding from now on her title was Ms. And as for the fits, why, he'd ne'er had a notion That making a choice could cause such a commotion. Nothing of leather, nothing of fur, Which meant nothing for him. And nothing for herNothing that might be construed to pollute. Nothing to aim. Nothing to shoot. Nothing that clamored or made lots of noise. Nothing for just girls. Or just for the boys. Nothing that claimed to be gender specific. Nothing that's warlike or nonpacific. No candy or sweets ... they were bad for the tooth. Nothing that seemed to embellish a truth. And fairy tales, while not yet forbidden, Were like Ken and Barbie, better off hidden. For they raised the hackles of those psychological Who claimed the only good gift was one ecological. No baseball, no football ... someone could get hurt; Besides, playing sports exposed kids to dirt. Dolls were said to be sexist, and should be passe; And Nintendo would rot your entire brain away. So Santa just stood there, disheveled, perplexed; He could not figure out what to do next. He tried to be merry, tried to be gay, But you've got to be careful with that word today. His sack was quite empty, limp to the ground; Nothing fully acceptable was to be found. Something special was needed, a gift that he might Give to all without angering the left or the right. A gift that would satisfy, with no indecision. Each group of people, every religion; Every ethnicity, every hue, Everyone, everywhere. ... even you. So here is that gift, its price beyond worth ... "May you and your loved ones enjoy Peace on Earth." STAND UP AND RAISE YOUR HEADS
Preached by Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT November 28, 2021 Jeremiah 33:14-16 Luke 21: 25-36 Many of us, I suspect, are somewhat puzzled by the lectionary’s choice for today’s gospel reading from Luke. On this first Sunday of Advent, we are beginning to look forward to the loveliness of the season---the decorations, the music, the celebrations with family and friends in spite of Covid. So, who really wants to hear about “signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars and on earth distress among the nations, confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves?” After living through some storms this past fall, which killed more people in New Jersey and New York than a hurricane did in Louisiana, we really don’t want to think right now about all the distress on earth. Between floods and the fires on the west coast and the ravages of Covid 19, we have had quite enough of nature’s disturbances, and we would just as soon settle into a comfortable waiting for Christmas. But no, this is not what we get---at least from the Gospel of Luke. Instead, we have this dramatic text all about the Apocalypse, a Greek word, which means a revelation or an uncovering. It claims that God’s work in the world is about to be revealed, and the Son of Man, as the Chosen One of God, would begin to usher in the new creation. And so, since these New Testament days, people have been trying to second guess when this dramatic revelation and change will come to pass. When the year 1000 made its appearance in the western world, just as in the year 2000, many people were preparing for a radical change. Some even predicted that the end was coming as recently as 2012, when a man named Lawrence Joseph predicted that on December 21 of that year, the sun would line up with the center of the Milky Way for the first time in 26,000 years. And so, Joseph thought that the energy streaming to the earth from the center of the Milky Way would be disrupted on December 21 at 11:11 P.M. and the end of normal time and history would come. And that would be the Apocalypse! Well, I don’t recall what specifically happened on that day, but surely the end did not arrive. There is no doubt that Jesus talked about the end, and most New Testament scholars attest that the historical Jesus did think he was living in the final days of earthly history. He might well have believed that God was about to directly intervene in history to bring about a radical ending of the old creation and the beginning of the birth pangs of the new creation. But exactly when God would do this, even Jesus did not know. The point of all such talk about the end of the old and the beginning of the new is neither to encourage predictions nor to frighten people into faith, but rather to insist that the dramatic ending known as the apocalypse is really far more about salvation than destruction. Listen again to Jesus’ words as we find them in Luke: People will faint from fear and foreboding, then they will see the Son of Man coming on clouds of glory. Now when these things happen, stand up and raise your heads, for your redemption is drawing near. Our tradition is not one of biblical fundamentalism; we do not have to believe that everything in the bible is literally true. This is one of the defining differences between mainliners and the more biblically conservative churches. Where they see literal truth and actual historical images, we see symbolism and metaphorical language, challenging us to use our minds and imaginations so we can hear and understand the meaning and truth that is being communicated. Think about it: when fear strikes and dangerous things from the sky appear, we tell people to duck and take cover. But here Jesus says, “Stand up and raise your heads, for your redemption is coming.” Note well: this is a command, not a pleading, tentative request: Please get up; you have nothing to fear. No, this Jesus is accustomed to giving commands and orders. We have heard such commands before: Get up and walk; Go, your faith has made you well. Forgive, as you have been forgiven. Powerful, commanding words, and now the command comes again. Stand up and raise your heads; your redemption is coming. Perhaps Jesus expected the time of this redemption to be nearer than it has turned out to be. Many people have waited for the wrong time but getting the time wrong is not the same thing as getting the hope wrong. This is the first Sunday of Advent, and we have lit the Candle of Hope. Words from the poet, T.S. Eliot, should haunt us all during this Advent season: “I said to my soul be still and wait without hope, for hope could be hope for the wrong thing.” None of us wants to be fools, waiting and hoping for the wrong thing, for the coming of God’s realm, for the establishment of peace and justice and goodwill---on earth as it is in heaven. We can be wrong about the time, but to be wrong about the hope is a very serious matter, indeed. Now I have just returned from a trip to some of the Balkan countries, where I visited Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, and Slovenia. And though the trip was absolutely wonderful, there were parts that were especially hard—like visiting the war museum in Sarajevo and seeing footage of the massacre of 8000 Bosnian and Croatian Muslims. I could not tear myself away from the video, where women were testifying (with English subtitles) about the murder of their male loved ones. Mothers, whose 10 and 12 year old sons, were ripped away from them, were speaking of a horror that words simply limp to describe. But what struck me was how essential hope was and continues to be for these women. Now this war was between 91 and 95, and yet DNA identification is still going on. There is yet a need for people to know definitively that their loved ones are truly dead. So, the mass graves are unearthed; articles of clothing and personal objects are found along with bones. And when people are notified that definite identification has been made, when they clutch a ragged piece of clothing or even a teddy bear that belonged to a beloved grandson, they revisit the grief all over again, surrendering the hope of ever seeing their loved ones again on this earth. And then some embrace another hope---that death was quick and merciful. The victims were all shot. And so, one mother said, “I hope my little boy died quickly, that he did not suffer long, that his terror was over in an instant.” And finally there were women, who having lost so much hope, now embrace the hope that this horror will not be repeated again. “My son, my husband, my father, my brother, no, they are never coming back, but I choose to live with the hope that their deaths will be a witness to peace, that the world will know what happened here and will refuse to forget. Let the hatred stop now, and let it begin with my refusal to hate.” It is as if she were repeating Jesus’ words: Stand up and raise your heads, for your redemption is coming. She is not Christian, but a devout Muslim, and hope, hope for the coming realm of peace and justice spills beyond the tight boundaries of religion and politics and ideology we human beings are in the habit of drawing. Hope is what are called to do in this season of Advent, a time of waiting in the darkness for the coming of the light. All time is immediate to judgment, immediate to completion. The night is far spent, but the dawn is at hand. Stand up and raise your head, for your redemption is coming. November 4, 2021
Dear Friends There has been a great deal of talk lately about social media and how it impacts our society. With the publication of The Facebook Papers, we have been hearing a great deal about the negative effects. So, it is with great interest that I came across an article about some research done by a professor of sociology and public policy at Duke University, Christopher Bail. Like all of us, Professor Bail had read the many defenses of social media, claiming that by connecting people to ideas and worlds outside their usual comfort zones, greater understanding and tolerance would grow. So, he decided to test that claim. He gathered together 1200 Twitter users, who were identified as either Republican or Democrat, and he got them to agree to follow a particular Twitter access for a month for which they were paid $11/hour. The Republicans were fed messages that Democrats commonly read, and the Democrats were fed Republican ones. He wanted to sew what would happen if people were forced to engage with ideas they did not usually follow. Would their views be moderated? But what he discovered was rather upsetting. Republicans in particular became more conservative and Democrats a bit more liberal. Rather than moderating viewpoints, the exact opposite happened. Both sides expressed more negative views of the other side than they had before. Neither side became more tolerant. Bail concluded that too much exposure to the ideas of those who do not “think like us” grows resentment and even hatred. He concluded that social media actually blocks conversation rather than encourages it. In the normal run of life, before the days of social media, people would sometimes have conversations with those who were on the other side, but these conversations were usually not that intense and not that often. In face to face encounters, people have a tendency to control their reactions in the interest of social harmony. They may feel themselves becoming angry at another viewpoint, but they tend to assert self-control rather than find themselves in an ugly fight. And because these exchanges can be upsetting, people do not engage in them all that frequently. Social media, however, has no built in mechanism for self-control. People can and do write all kinds of outrageous things on Facebook or elsewhere that they never would have had the nerve to say in a face to face exchange. Social media, in fact, allows people to learn much more about the ideas of the other than the usual face to face encounters This certainly rings true to my experience growing up. My father, a socialist, turned New Deal Democrat, passionately argued with my mother’s Republican family. The two sides would quite literally yell at each other, and though my mother would try to control the emotion, she was rarely successful. However, personal insults were simply not permitted or tolerated. They attacked each other’s ideas, but rarely the person who held them. And these arguments were not something that went on all the time. I think people understood that to engage in them too frequently would actually weaken relationships. And I certainly do not think each side wanted to know fully what the other person was thinking. In fact, Professor Bail said that one of the dangers with social media is that it permits us to know much more about the other person and his or her ideas than is actually healthy and helpful to know. It can be very helpful to know less not more about people and their opinions. Of course, this phenomenon concerns far more than politics. It concerns all areas of life. Bullying, for example, has always been a problem, especially for youngsters and teenagers, but cyber bullying is much worse. Again, people will often write things online that they would never say to a person’s face. In school bullying is very painful, but cyber bullying is even more so. Maybe we do not understand why it is that youngsters will constantly read what others are saying about them online, but this is what they do. They seem incapable of ignoring their phone or computer. The church is an institution that is built on relationships. We are drawn together as followers of Jesus Christ, but we also realize that we have a plurality of opinions on what it means to follow Jesus. We have different ideas about God, sin, salvation, and the authority of scripture, and we rarely make our views known. Most of us are content to worship together without demanding a uniformity of belief. Perhaps some of us do not really care what the other believes as long as we can come together and be in community, enjoying each other’s company and worshipping together. Would that be more difficult to do if we learned that someone believed something about God that we find completely distasteful? No wonder Professor Bail said that it is often helpful to know less rather than more about people and their beliefs. We live in a very complex world and the media blitz makes it more complicated than the world in which our parents lived. But there is no turning back the clock, and we must live in the world in which we find ourselves. And we always need to remember that God loves the world and calls us to do the same. This does not mean we must love everything about the world, but it does mean that the world should engage us in a caring and compassionate way. Yours in Christ, Sandra Unbind Him and Let Him Go
Preached by Sandra Olsen at The First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT October 31, 2021 John 11:32-44 Romans 7: 15-25 This is Reformation Sunday as well as the Sunday nearest All Saints Day, which is tomorrow, so we are hearing the gospel text assigned not for today, but the one for tomorrow: the raising of Lazarus. So, let me begin with a question: what is this text about? Anyone, just speak out. So, yes, it is the story of Jesus raising his friend from the dead. But it is not a resurrection, which is understood as a raising into new life. Lazarus was raised into his old life, meaning that he will have to undergo death again. So, this is really a story of resuscitation not of resurrection. Now we do not know if this story is truly historical. It is only in John’s gospel, and according to biblical scholars, John’s gospel shows us a Jesus whose language is not that of a first century Jew. He speaks all throughout the gospel as the resurrected Christ, not as the historical Jesus. But we do not need to be concerned if this story of Lazarus is historical, because whether or not it actually happened, it is true, nonetheless. Its truth is deeply existential, meaning that it shows us something profoundly true about the human condition. And it says the truth in six words: “Unbind him and let him go!” We all know what that means, because we all have had times in our lives when we have been bound, tied up, stuck, unable to move and to grow. Sometimes it comes from a painful past---a trauma, perhaps the death of a parent at a young age, or a divorce we did not want, or a deep betrayal by a trusted friend. It can be a depression that cuts so deeply into our lives that we are left with a limp in actuality or symbolically. We become fearful and withdrawn, crippled, afraid to move. We are all bound up, tied down, and we don’t know how to make ourselves live fully again. I remember some years ago when my husband had this very talented student he was advising. She was a molecular biology and biochemistry major, heading for medical school. My husband thought this was what she wanted, but as he was preparing to write her letter of recommendation, the young woman came into his office and broke down in tears. “Professor Oliver, I don’t want to go to medical school,” she protested. “I don’t want to be a doctor. This is my parents’ dream, but it is not mine.” Both parents were doctors, her father a heart surgeon and her mother a neurosurgeon. Both sets of grandparents were also doctors, and her older brother was a physician, and her older sister was in medical school. According to the family this was the sole licit path in life to take. But what made this young woman’s soul sing was music. She played the violin and the piano. “I want to teach music,” she insisted. “I want to help youngsters fall in love with Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number 2---the way my music teachers helped me to love the beauty and transformative power of music. This is what makes my soul sing, Professor Oliver---not science, not medicine. So, what am I going to do?” Do what makes her soul sing, both my husband and her music professor advised, and when the father called up in a rage what both professors told him in so many words: “Unbind her and let her go!” Sometimes, though, we are bound more by our own internal standards than we are by the outward pressures. This was true of the great Protestant reformer, Martin Luther. Luther had been caught in a terrible thunderstorm with lightning crashing all about him, and he yelled out in fear, “Saint Ann, save me, and I shall become a monk.” Well, Luther was saved, and he followed his promise, much to his father’s chagrin, who wanted him to become a lawyer. Now Luther was a fastidious monk, imposing so many rules on himself that he was completely miserable and literally sick from the rigors of his regimen. He fasted; he prayed on his knees in his cold, dank cell for hours. He whipped his naked body with cords of rope until he bled, all he thought, to show his devotion to God. His spiritual advisor, a wise and compassionate man by the name of Staupitz, tried to dissuade him from this self-destructive path. “Martin,” he said, “God does not demand such cruelties from you. God is not angry at you, but you are angry at God.” And Luther had to admit that Staupitz was correct. He was angry with God, so angry that he admitted he did not love God, but rather hated God. He fervently believed that God had doomed him to hell, and he was powerless to change his course. And then came his great insight. From the book of Romans, he embraced the idea that it is not our deeds, which save us; it is faith, faith in the goodness, love, and mercy of God. And suddenly Luther was unbound. He began to believe and preach differently. “Believe,” he said, “that God’s love and mercy are for you, meant for you, given to you as a gift from a good and gracious God.” God had found Luther, had unbound him, and let him go into his new freedom. Luther wrote movingly of the bondage of the will, that we can know what the right thing to do is, but our wills are in bondage to a lesser and meaner desire. And we all know what that is like; we all have had experiences when we know what the right thing to do is, but we do not do it---just as Paul had written in the Book of Romans. When I was 19, a sophomore at the U. of Chicago, I was tutoring two young black kids, 7 and 9. Their mother worked in the kitchen at my dormitory. But when the winter months came, she told me her kids could no longer come to the university for tutoring, because they lacked warm winter coats. I found two very warm and heavy coats at Sears for a total of $55, which was a great deal of money back then. But I was saving for a beautiful pair of leather boots at Marshall Fields’ Department Store that cost $65. Oh, I already had a pair of boots, but I wanted what I wanted, these beautiful brown leather boats with laces running up the side of them. I knew what the right thing to do was, but I did not do it, because my will was in bondage to another desire. And so, I bought the boots while two little kids went without warm coats. I would feel badly about it but feeling badly is not the same thing as doing the right thing. I needed someone to unbind me and let me go. And someone would, though that is another story. And so do we all; we all need at times to be unbound and let go. Sometimes the tragedy is that we do not even recognize our bondage. Perhaps some of you, like me, have been following the Facebook Papers, which show an organization so bound to power and wealth that it will do almost anything to protect that status. It does not matter if political discord and extremism are spread across the globe, or hate speech is pushed, or dangerous events like January 6 are organized through lies and manipulation. It does not matter if drug cartels expand their reach or girls are sold into sexual slavery. Power and wealth can be as addicting as alcohol and drugs, and the end is as ugly---death, not necessarily of the body but of the soul. The soul becomes shriveled and shrunken, because too many addicting bad choices have been made and then freedom is gone, destroyed by loving wealth and power more than truth. No wonder Jesus taught, Know the truth and the truth shall make you free. Freedom cannot live without truth. In this story of Lazarus, the bands of cloth that were tightly wound around his body were removed. That was the way burials were done. He was unbound and let go, and he entered into his old life again, a good life with family and friends. Oh, he still had problems and challenges to face, including death, which he would have to go through again. But the truth is we do go through any number of mini-deaths. We are bound and unbound many times in our lives, and each time we are unbound, it is a kind of death and rebirth, where though we are still in our old life, yet there is something new and liberating about the unbound state. Being unbound is rarely comfortable. The truth is we often prefer the old bondage to the new state of freedom we are offered, so it is no wonder that Lazarus was given no choice. The command came from Jesus, directed to others: “Unbind him and let him go!” October 26, 2021
Dear Friends, Silence has an important role to play in life. Teachers sometimes must insist on silence in a classroom, so concentrated thought can flourish. We ask for silence during the prelude so we may prepare for worship in a calm way. Even music uses silence, pauses between measures and movements that can allow the listener to truly hear what the music is trying to communicate. So, it is with great interest that I read in the New York Times that in the months between January and September of this year, there have been 17, 733 more complaints about noise in New York City than in all of 2019 and 2020 combined. Now New York is a pretty noisy place, but it is also true that when the pandemic struck in 2020, life quieted down on the streets. First of all, there were many fewer cars and buses on the roads, fewer people as well, as more and more of them worked at home. And because tourism was way down, the noisy helicopter rides over the city were few and far between. The simple truth is that the pandemic ushered in quiet and silence that New Yorkers had not been accustomed to, but now seem to crave. And so, the expansion of complaints against noise. One woman, who called to complain about the loud noise of helicopters said that the pandemic had caused her to rethink her relationship to noise. “Before the pandemic,” she said, “I had come to accept that the city is a noisy place, but now I am wondering if we really should be so tolerant of all this noise. A lot of my friends have noticed that they feel calmer and more centered, less distracted by all the noise going on around them. And now that things are picking up again, we feel more nervous and on edge. Is this really the way life should be lived?” That is the question. What does it really do to us to be constantly inundated by noise? When my daughter, Caitlin, lived in Thailand, she did a number of silent retreats for a week each time. I recently asked her what she got out of it, and she claimed that it put her in touch with the deep parts of her unconscious of which most of the time she was unaware. “I felt as if I knew myself better at the end of the retreat than I did before.” She recently spoke with someone from Nepal, who is at Wesleyan as a temporary scholar. He commented to her that Middletown is an incredibly noisy place, and that he has to remove himself from the environment for two hours a day in order to be deeply quiet. When Caitlin told me that she too thought Middletown was incredibly noisy, I looked at her in shock. “Really? I don’t find it noisy at all.” “Well Mom,” she said, “you just live in your head most of the time, so I am not surprised you don’t hear all the noise.” I told her I have an excellent capacity to block unpleasant things out---including noise. I have always been aware that there is a difference between urban and country dwellers. My brother in law lives in Massachusetts on an apple orchard, and whenever he is FORCED to go to Boston, he complains that all the noise and constant commotion give him a headache and a feeling of dizziness. “I just could never live in the city,” he claims. On the other hand, my son and his girlfriend, who live in Manhattan, took a trip out West this past summer to Lake Tahoe and parts of northern California. They had a great time, but they were so happy to return to the pulse of city life. His girlfriend came to this country at age 5 from the Ukraine, and her whole life has been spent in New York. “I would never leave New York, she says. “It is so alive. I can’t imagine the quiet and calm of rural life as a steady diet.” And she absolutely hates the suburbs as the dullest places on earth. “They are nothing but houses that people live in behind shut doors,” she asserts. I do think it is important for us to reflect on our relationship to noise and quiet. Some people, it is true, struggle to be quiet. They find silence deafening and have no desire to practice the quiet and calm of a silent retreat. But what does it mean that some people cannot bear to be alone with the quiet of their own breathing and thinking and feeling? Are they afraid of what the inner torrent or the calm that later comes might say to them? I have included 15 quotes on silence for you to read and ponder. Whether or not you do it silently is your own choice. 1. “Silence at the proper season is wisdom, and better than any speech.” – Plutarch 2. “In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” – Martin Luther King Jr. 3. “Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute.” – Josh Billings 4. “True silence is the rest of the mind; it is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.” – William Penn 5. “He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words.” – Elbert Hubbard 6. “Work hard in silence, let your success make the noise.” – Frank Ocean 7. “Through the portals of silence, the healing sun of wisdom and peace will shine upon you.” – Paramahansa Yogananda 8. “We need to find God, and God cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature — trees, flowers, grass — grows in silence; see the stars, the moon, and the sun, how they move in silence. We need silence to be able to touch souls.” – Mother Teresa 9. “Sticks and stones are hard on bones aimed with angry art. Words can sting like anything but silence breaks the heart.” – Phyllis Mcginley 10. “Silence is the great teacher, and to learn its lessons you must pay attention to it. There is no substitute for the creative inspiration, knowledge, and stability that come from knowing how to contact your core of inner silence. The great Sufi poet Rumi wrote, “Only let the moving waters calm down, and the sun and moon will be reflected on the surface of your being.” – Deepak Chopra 11. “To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men.” – Abraham Lincoln 12. “I often regret that I have spoken; never that I have been silent.” – Publilius Syrus 13. “Open your mouth only if what you are going to say is more beautiful than the silence.” – Spanish Proverb 14. “Silence is foolish if we are wise, but wise if we are foolish.” – Charles Caleb Colton 15. “Everything that’s created comes out of silence. Thoughts emerge from the nothingness of silence. Words come out of the void. Your very essence emerged from emptiness. All creativity requires some stillness.” – Wayne Dyer Yours in Christ, Sandra When There is No Explanation
Preached by Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT October 23, 2021 Job 42: 1-6; 10-17 Mark 10: 46-52 For a few years, while serving a church in Middletown, I did manage to pressure my husband into going to church as an example to the children, who were then attending Sunday School. My husband is not a believer. He used to describe himself as an atheist, but age has mellowed him. “I don’t know enough to say there is no God, he says, so I guess I’m an agnostic.” My husband’s attendance at church lasted for about four years. One Sunday, my colleague said in a sermon that what we are all looking for is acceptance and love by something much bigger than ourselves. When I arrived home later that day, there was Donald, sitting pensively in a chair. I assumed he was pondering some scientific problem, since he is a professor of molecular biology. But he looked up at me and said, “I am not looking for a celestial embrace from God; I am not looking for God’s love and acceptance. What I want from God, if there is a God, is an explanation, and it had better be a good one!” After that Sunday my husband refused to go to church. “Not only does the church not have my heart,” he said,” it also doesn’t have my head!” A good explanation! Certainly, that is what a lot of people want, including Job. Now Job is one of those biblical books that many people know about, though few have bothered to read through the whole text. It is not an easy book to read, and many people, when they try to do so, complain that it just goes on and on and on with these long winded monologues by Job’s three friends, who are trying to offer him an explanation for his suffering. Though the three friends offer some subtle difference of opinion, the essential arguments came down to either Job’s guilt--- You must have done something wrong---or education---God chastises those whom God loves that they might learn. Well, if I have done wrong, Job says, I want to know what it is. But no one, including God, says anything. And as for learning, what does Job need to learn through his misery, which has left him not only childless and penniless but also afflicted in body, covered with terrible festering sores? But again, no explanation is forth coming. His friends told him it was arrogance to even ask. It is not for mere mortals to know. And indeed, John Calvin, the most theologically brilliant of the Protestant reformers whose thinking most directly impacted our reformed tradition, said the same thing: “For of those things which it is neither given nor lawful to know, ignorance is learned; the craving to know a kind of madness.” “The craving to know a kind of madness.” Is that really true? The craving to know drives human beings on to new frontiers of knowledge and understanding. We have been blessed with a certain kind of intelligence, and intelligence by necessity leads to questions. And for some the passion to discover is the deepest passion of their life. How do we really know where the line is---if there is a line---beyond which our intelligence should not dare go? Besides, when it comes to this question of suffering, a question which remains unanswered, so many people are prevented from believing in God, because they cannot even begin to fathom why a good and gracious God would permit such suffering, especially of the innocent. Surveys do indicate that the single most common reason offered by unbelievers for their unbelief is the presence in the world of evil and suffering. A few weeks ago, when waiting to visit a friend at CVH, I had a brief conversation with a middle age man, who was waiting to visit his 25 year old schizophrenic son. When he learned I was a minister, he told me he had not been to church since the age of 15, when his minister failed to give him any theological account of the meaning of the death camps in World War II. “Where was God in all that?” he demanded to know, and his minister did not know what to say. I told him that while I was deeply sympathetic to his question, I was also sympathetic to the minister: What can anyone really say? I asked him. Would any explanation have satisfied you? Should we human beings be satisfied by any explanation of such a horror? I answered my own question by telling him,”I don’t think so.” The only answer to that horror is our total outrage and protest against it. Of course, we wonder why. We cannot help but wonder. We wonder what God was doing through all that, and even if we do not hold God responsible for the commission of evil, we still question why it is that God should allow the innocent to suffer. Again, to quote John Calvin, who believed that suffering was both a judgment and an instruction. “We are so bedazzled by the things of this world---riches, power and honor---that we are seduced away from God, and toward the belief that our happiness lies here on this earth. Therefore, that we may not promise ourselves a deep and secure joy on this earth, God permits us to be troubled and plagued with all kinds of terrible pains and injuries.” But honestly, how satisfying is such an explanation? It is one thing to come up with an explanation when you are sitting around a table discussing a theological question, or writing a paper to satisfy the requirements of a course at Yale Divinity School, or even preaching a sermon. But when you walk into a hospital room where a 27 year old is dying of cancer, or into an emergency room where parents are waiting to hear from a doctor, who is going to have to tell them that she has just pronounced their 16 year old dead after a car accident, good explanations don’t much matter. They can never be good enough to satisfy human pain. And you know something, they shouldn’t be! In life, where pain and suffering are concerned, it seems that presence matters more than explanations. Caring matters; showing up matters, and at least this is what Job’s friends did. They showed up. The text tells us, When they saw Job from a distance, they did not recognize him, and they raised their voices and wept aloud; they tore their robes and threw dust in the air upon their heads. They sat with Job on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great. They probably should have maintained their silence, for as the writer G.K. Chesterton once said: “There is one thing worse than giving no answer, and that is to give an answer that is wrong.” And perhaps that is one of the points of Job’s story. His friends tried to offer good explanations, but there were none, and even God did not try to give one, just as Jesus offered Bartimaeus no explanation for his blindness. The question of suffering remains unanswered, even though we will and must continue to ask why, because WHY is in our DNA. And yet in the end what counted for God was not an explanation, but presence---the presence of friends and finally the presence of God. And because Job’s friends showed up, even though their words were false and at times hurtful, God was willing to accept their sacrifice, and Job was willing to pray for them, and God was willing to accept Job’s prayer. OUT OF THE WHIRLWIND
Preached by Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT October 17, 2021 Job 38: 1-7; 34-41 Mark 10: 35-45 It begins with the question Why? It is not only Job’s question; it is everyone’s question. Children incessantly ask why, especially around the age of 3. And as soon as you gave them one answer another why immediately follows. It is the most human of questions, and as far as we know, it seems that no other creature asks why or ponders why. The question circles the globe millions of times a day---in every country and city of the world. Walk into a hospital at any time of the day or night, and you will hear even the walls whisper the word, Why. Well, this why is precisely what Job is after in this story/poem. He wants a good explanation, and who can blame him? In the first chapter we learn that Job is a good and upright man, and the only reason he is suffering is because of a bet between Satan, the challenger, whose job it is to unsettle things, and God, who is completely confident that Job will remain faithful to him---even if Job should lose everything---family, wealth and finally health. So, Job has been suffering because of a bet, and then his three friends, Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar, come and sit with him for seven days and seven nights without saying a word, because as the text says, “they saw that his suffering was very great.” Job’s friends were silent until the silence was finally broken by Job. “Let the day perish in which I was born,” he laments. “Let that day be darkness. Let gloom and deep darkness claim it.” What follows then is a long exchange between Job and his friends, back and forth, back and forth. Like Job, they too were struggling mightily to understand what has happened to Job and why, and their solution was to tell Job to look within. Be honest with yourself; you must have done something to deserve this punishment. God is good and God is just, and so if you are suffering, there must be a reason. But Job won’t go there; he insists on his innocence. Job wants God to make an appearance. Make yourself known to me, Job insists. If God would do that, Job says he would lay his case before the Almighty. He would reason with God, and God would surely acquit him. But the problem is---and this is a universal problem that so many other voices have articulated in agonized protest: I cannot find God. “If I go forward, he is not there; or backward, I cannot perceive him; on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him. I turn to the right, but I cannot see him.” God is nowhere to be found. Until we arrive at chapter 38, where God is not found by Job, but rather Job is found by God. Out of the whirlwind God appears. Now consider this image of the whirlwind, a swirling movement of air, constantly in motion, blowing everything around and everything apart. Whirlwinds are something human beings cannot control, and it is out of the whirlwind that God appears. The technical name for God’s appearance is a theophany. There are other theophanies in the Old Testament. God speaks to Moses in a burning bush that is not consumed. And the prophet Elijah meets God not in the wind, or the earthquake, or the fire, but rather in the sound of sheer silence. But silence is not what Job received from God. God rages and God accuses: “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man. I will question you, and you shall declare to me. Where were you, when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you know.” For four chapters, God rants and raves against Job, slamming Job time and time again with the powerful images of a marvelous creation beyond anything Job could ever imagine let alone do---the earth, the sea, the heavens. Where were you Job, when I was fashioning all this bountiful beauty and majestic marvel? You were nothing; you were not here. Now on one level, God’s response sounds completely unfair, because Job never once arrogated to himself divine powers or divine knowledge. Job knows he is not God; he acknowledges the great distance between God and him. All he is asking for is an explanation, a reason for his terrible suffering, which came upon him like a great whirlwind, destroying and devouring everything in its path. Job is not pretending to be God; he has not claimed that he sees and understands as God. He can only see and understand as a human being, and for this he cannot and should not be blamed. He sees and understands as only a human being can. What is fascinating about God’s speech to Job is that in none of the four chapters does God ever describe a place for human beings. It is as if God has made a creation without any human beings at all. Yes, this creation is mighty and marvelous in all its majestic diversity and haunting beauty---from the brilliant stars that shine above to the deep darkness of the ocean, hiding strange creatures no human eye has ever seen. If the point is that from God’s view the human being is such a tiny speck in the creation that God should take no mind or notice of such a creature, well, so be it. But this is not how Job’s story begins. God cares enough about the human creature, in this case Job, that in a contest or debate with The Satan, God is willing to place his bets on Job as the upright and pious man. God will take the challenger on, because God knows there is something so unique about the human creature that no other creature can be used in the bet with The Satan. Other parts of the creation may indeed be more beautiful, powerful, and majestic, but God cannot point to any other creature and say how good and upright and pious it is. If God wants a creature who worships, one who stands before the Divine in awe and wonder, God is also going to get a creature who asks questions, and wonders why, and yes, sometimes even accuses God of not keeping faith with the covenant. After all, even Jesus screamed out an accusation from the cross: Why, oh, why have you abandoned me? On February 25, 1649 in the village of Shamgorod in the Ukraine God was put on trial after a pogrom left a number of Jews dead, murdered by Christians. The verdict: guilty. Fast forward nearly 300 years to a concentration camp named Auschwitz in Poland. Ellie Wiesel, a Jewish boy of 14, who would lose his parents and a sister to Nazi violence, yet would go on to become a writer and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize, witnessed a similar trial of God. There were plenty of people, willing to play the prosecutor, but no one wanted to defend God. And once again, the verdict came down: Guilty as charged, guilty of failure to defend the Jewish people. At the end of the trial, after the guilty verdict was reached, Wiesel noted to his surprise that most of the people who were convinced of God’s guilt, nonetheless prayed to that guilty God. One man said, “Our prayer shawls have been stolen, our Torahs desecrated, but still we remember the words: “The Lord God is one; blessed be the name of the Lord.” And those words were on his lips as he walked toward the gas chamber. No other creature has ever done such a thing. No wonder God placed his bet on Job. No wonder it was the human condition into which God chose to enter that God might be fully known---known not in power and might as he appeared in the theophany to Job, but known in suffering, known in servant love, as he was made known in the story of the Christ. As Christ taught, “Whoever would be great among you must be servant of all.” October 12, 2021
Dear Friends, The Nobel Peace Prize was awarded last week to two journalists, Maria Ressa from the Philippines and Dmitry Muratov from Russia. We are accustomed to prizes being awarded to politicians, like Jimmy Carter in 2002, who negotiated numerous peaceful settlements across the globe, or to activists, like Denis Mukwege and Nadia Murad, who in 2018 were awarded the prize for their work against the use of sexual violence in war and armed conflict. Then there are the organizations, like the World Food Program or the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons or the European Union, all of which received the prize for work done on behalf of building a peaceful world. But the last time the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to a journalist was in 1935, when a German by the name of Carl von Ossietzky won the prize for his revelation of Germany’s rearmament program. Maria Ressa co-founded the Philippines most prominent independent news outlet, Rappler. Begun in 2011, it was a Facebook page before becoming independent. Rappler has been uncompromising in its pursuit of truth, daring to make public the corruption of the current President Duterte and his regime. Her opponents have called for her rape and beheading, but she still speaks and writes the truth. She is very critical of Facebook, which, she says, provides 97% of the news that the citizens of Philippines read and is responsible for spreading copious amounts of disinformation. Ressa asked Mark Zuckerberg to come to the Philippines and see the result of the lies that are readily accepted, as truth, and Zuckerberg’s response to the invitation was, “Where do the remaining 3% get their news?” Dmitry Muratov founded the independent newspaper, Novaja Gazeta, in 1993, which has been an implacable enemy of Putin and his lies. The paper has printed stories of police violence, corruption, and unlawful arrests. Six of its journalists have been murdered and Dmitry’s life has been threatened more times than he can count. But still, he presses on. In granting the award, the Nobel Prize Committee reflected on the critical importance of truth telling. “There must be free expression,” it said. “There must be freedom of information, or there can be no true democracy.” But free expression that uses distortion and lies is not the kind of expression that builds strong communities. It does not build a society of committed persons, working for the common good. In fact, the lies and distortion tear apart societies, pitting citizens against one another. Some people think that granting Ressa the prize was a direct attack against Facebook for its refusal to be guardians of the truth. We all realize that truth can seem ambiguous, since human interpretation honestly looks at reality from many different angles and perspectives. When we look at the world, we do not all see the same thing, and that is to be expected and accepted. But it is also true that we live in a world where lies are spread quickly and efficiently with no accountability at all. People will read something on Facebook and accept it as fact, simply because it is there. The most outlandish things are believed without any degree of proof. Some believe the Covid vaccines will inject computer chips into the body, so the government can track its citizens. Others deny climate change, refusing to believe scientists, who have spent their lives studying the evidence. It really makes me wonder what kind of education such people received. Did not they learn that evidence needs to be offered to defend their positions? Jesus spent a great deal of time talking about the truth that sets us free. Though the truth of which Jesus spoke was spiritual, it is also true that Jesus would not have understood truth as something which is piecemeal. Loving the truth means loving the truth not only in the spiritual life but also in the day to day living of ordinary life. If we seek the truth spiritually, we should also seek it in all other dimensions of life as well. Jesus calls us to love and serve the truth, and though there will always be differences of opinion about what the truth is, we should all care deeply about discerning what is a lie and who the liars are. Liars simply do not make a mistake in judgment or have a difference in opinion. On the contrary, they intend to lie, to obfuscate, to distort. The Nobel Peace Prize this year was granted to two persons, who not only could tell the difference between truth and lies, but also thought it critical for the health and safety of their respective societies to help others to recognize the difference between truth and lies. Peace is NEVER advanced by lies but only becomes possible when truth is loved and valued as much as peace. Yours in Christ, Sandra The Fuss Over Marriage and Divorce
Preached by Sandra Olsen October 10, 2021 Mark 10: 1-12 A few of you might remember some years ago, when the Jesus Seminar met, and scholars voted on whether they thought particular gospel words of Jesus were actually uttered by the historical Jesus or were more likely to have been a product of the community out of which a particular gospel arose, decades after the historical Jesus actually lived. My understanding is that most scholars of the New Testament believe that Jesus actually uttered these words about marriage and divorce. The context for this discussion between Jesus and the Pharisees came as Jesus was moving into the region of Judea beyond the Jordan, which was under Herod’s rule. Herod was the one who had John the Baptist beheaded, because John had criticized his marriage to his sister in law, Herodias, who had been married to and then divorced John’s brother. Herodias was furious with John, and she was the one who had instigated his beheading. So, the writer of this gospel immediately wants to remind of a controversy concerning divorce. Now in Jesus’ day there were two major rabbinic thinkers, Rabbi Shammai and Rabbi Hillel. The former was pretty strict about divorce, insisting that there were few legitimate reasons for it---infidelity and sterility, the latter always blamed on the woman. Rabbi Hillel, on the other hand, gave men (but not women) a great deal of latitude to divorce their wives, including burnt meals! However, in Jesus’ time Rome ruled, and Rome did grant women legal rights, including the right to divorce their husbands. So, this liberalization of women’s rights might have impacted Jewish culture, because in verse 12, notice that Jesus seems to assume women can also divorce their husbands, since he says both men and women who divorce and then remarry are guilty of adultery. Divorce in Jesus’ day usually spelled disaster for women, because of their economic dependence. If a husband divorced his wife, he was supposed to return the dowry, but if it was spent, it was difficult to force repayment. Furthermore, the children belonged to the husband, so in a case of divorce the children always remained with the father. The only real alternative a divorced woman had (unless she immediately remarried) was to return to her family of origin—to her father, brothers or some other male relative. If there were no male relatives, she was left in dire need. So biblical scholars tend to interpret Jesus’ harsh stand against divorce as a defense of women, so as not to leave them vulnerable. That was then, but what about now? So much has radically changed over the past 50/60 years. When I was a child, between kindergarten and the 8th grade, I knew only one divorced person. She was the one who lived in an apartment rather than a house, and when I asked her why, she told me that her mother, who was a nurse, could not get a mortgage. I had no idea what a mortgage was, and when my mother explained, she told me women could not get their own mortgages. At age 8, I was outraged by this, but my mother accepted it as the norm. Not only can women get mortgages today, but women also initiate many of the divorces, and though I have no national statistics on this, a divorce lawyer I know claims that in his experience more women initiate the divorce than men. When I asked him why, he told me rather bluntly that he thought men “get more benefits out of marriage than women do.” “Women are no longer willing to endure the same degree of unhappiness their mothers and grandmothers once did,” he said. I recall in one of my former churches that this woman with whom I had become quite close told me after I had been at the church for over 10 years how profoundly unhappy she had been in her marriage. “You’ve been here long enough for me to trust you,” she said. And then she told me that one of the saddest days in her life was when we stood up in church and clapped, after her husband announced that they had been married for 70 years. “I was not going to say a word about our anniversary,” she cried, “because I am ashamed of my marriage. It was a terrible sham, full of misery---his extramarital affairs, physical and verbal abuse,” but, she admitted, there were also delights and comforts--- two children whom both parents loved, his very successful career, which gave the family a comfortable life with a lovely summer home on the shore, and time and money for the wife to pursue her painting. “But when I look back on it all”, she said, “I recognize now how profoundly unhappy I was. I never, ever really asked myself the question of my happiness. It just wasn’t something I had been raised to consider.” And indeed, this is one of the major cultural shifts. Psychologists and marriage counselors tell us that people are now asking themselves, “Am I happy? Is this marriage helping me to be happy?” Now before we dismiss the question as another example of excessive self-concern, we should remember that the question of happiness—what it is and how to achieve it--- has engaged great minds throughout the history of the world. We can look at happiness in a superficial manner, as a kind of feel good attitude toward life that one pursues even at the expense of others, but it is also true that it means far more than this. When people say, I want to be happy, it means they are looking for deep fulfillment and meaning. They want to know that their lives matter, count for something. And I think this is one of the reasons marriage has become so hard, because the level of expectation is so high. People look to their marriage and their families for more meaning, perhaps, than is reasonable to expect. And so, disappointment sets in. And how we learn to deal with disappointment is key. I wonder if as a culture we have become too intolerant of disappointment, impatient with waiting it out. Let’s face it: sometimes it is wisdom to stay the course, to get through the very hard times, because on the other side there is the possibility of something worth saving and having. As George Eliot so beautifully wrote in her novel, Adam Bede: What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life, to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting. Yet as beautiful as that vision is, there is also no denying that there are times when the wise course is to end it, because the marriage is quite literally sucking the life out of people. If nature abhors a vacuum, depression can rush in to fill it, or bitterness can invade the broken and disappointed heart. This is not what God intends. God does not demand our misery. Sometimes, however, it is not misery, which is the problem, but rather emptiness. Nothing is there. And people have a very hard time believing and hoping that there can be something on the other side of emptiness. Sometimes people simply lack the energy to work to fill up what feels so empty. The gospel is not an invention for ideal times; it is for life as it is actually lived with all its problems and failures. Happiness is not an entitlement, but it is a possibility, and even in failure and disappointment, God invites us to abundant life. God doesn’t give us an exact road map to follow in life or in marriage. We chart our way toward the future with faith and hope, even as we sometimes stumble and fall along the way. Statistics can tell us that second marriages are more likely to fail than first ones and third marriages more likely to fail than second ones. But statistics can never tell the whole story of individual lives because it is also true that people can and do rise from their disappointments and failures. People can and do learn from their past and with God’s grace a new beginning is born. Our Protestant tradition does not stand in the way of divorce and remarriage, for which most of us are grateful. We recognize reality---that life is messy and complicated, and because God calls us to live in hope, we do hope that a new beginning is always possible. September 28, 2021
Dear Friends, Lately we have been inundated about our beleaguered earth: wildfires in California, flooding in New York and New Jersey, hurricanes in Louisiana and Texas. No doubt about it: climate change is here and a threat to our beautiful planet. We all should be concerned and support programs and legislation that try to address the crisis. But I was reminded the other day, as I read about the latest discovery of a massive comet, that the EARTH is not the center of the universe. Back in the days of Galileo, the Church tried to insist that he cease teaching the SUN was the center and not the earth. Galileo finally recanted in 1633, because death by burning was brutal, and he reasoned his death would do nothing to advance the march of truth. He spent eight years under house arrest before dying in 1642. It took the Church until 1992 to admit that Galileo had been wrongly condemned. Remembering that the earth is not the center helps us to gain some perspective on the truth that we are simply one small part of a vast universe about which new information is being learned every day. The newly discovered comet, named Bernardinelli-Berstein, after a graduate student and his professor, is the largest known comet, about one thousand times more massive than any other known comet, measuring between 60 and 124 miles across. Astronomers say the comet will make its closest approach to the sun in the year 2031. The comet is from the edge or the outskirts of our solar system, and it has been making its way toward our sun for many millions of years. Not only is it the most massive comet we know of, but it is also the most distant (from our sun) that we have ever discovered---at least so far. It took more than six years of data collection to discover the comet. The Dark Energy Camera, located on a telescope in Chile, has been collecting data, which is fed into The Dark Energy Survey, studied by more than 400 scientists involving seven countries and 25 institutions. The camera is mapping 300 million galaxies as well as comets and other icy celestial bodies that live on the very edge of our solar system. Comets are icy objects, thrown out of the solar system when the planets formed and then migrated to their current location. As a comet approaches the sun, its ice begins to evaporate, creating the two tails, recognized by many people as the main feature of comets. These tails can be hundreds or even millions of miles long. Comets are composed of a nucleus at the center and gaseous clouds, forming around the nucleus as the ice melts and evaporates. This comet’s journey probably began over 3.7 trillion miles away from the sun and is now about 1.8 billion miles away. It is believed that the comet emerged from the Oort Cloud of objects, an isolated group of icy objects at the very edge of our universe. Though this is where scientists believe comets originate, they have never actually observed an object within the Oort Cloud. Though spacecrafts like Voyager 1 and 2 and New Horizons will eventually reach the Oort Cloud, by the time they arrive, their power sources will have been dead for centuries! So, what are we to make of the vastness of this incredible creation? It fills us with awe and perhaps even a bit of dread as we try to imagine space and time that are almost beyond our imaginations. The Bible extols God as the mysterious creator of everything that is, and what is, is far more than we currently know. When we contemplate the vastness, we can feel as tiny fragments in one galaxy among millions and millions, perhaps even billions of others. We know so little, and we understand even less than we know. We should be humbled by that piece of knowledge, and our humility should make us more committed to saving our tiny fragment of our galaxy. Yours in Christ, Sandra Money Matters
The Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT October 3, 2021 Mark 10: 17-22 When I was a college senior, I took an anthropology course with a famous anthropologist, Sol Tax. He had spent years doing original field work in Native American culture as well as some island cultures in the Pacific. When I took his course, he was already in his mid 70’s, and he struck me at the time as a wise old man, someone who had lived in many different places across the face of the earth and had spent a great deal of time observing and thinking about the human condition. Though I do not remember much from the course, I do recall him telling our class that there are some societies, where status is not measured by how much you can accrue but rather by how much you give away. If something precious comes to you, the expectation is that you give it away. He told us that the home of a wealthy person in such a society does not look so different from the home of a poor person, yet the status is different all because of what was given away. Now that is almost impossible for us to fathom, because we live in a culture that is the exact opposite. And I am not only speaking of American culture. The philosopher, Jacob Needleman, wrote in his book, Money and the Meaning of Life, “We do not create the art of the Renaissance or the medieval world; we do not worship the state as did ancient Rome. We do not build as did the Egyptians. But none of them has created the immense global mechanism of finance whose penetration into every aspect of human life has been the chief feature of our contemporary culture. In other times and places, not everyone has wanted money above all else. People have desired salvation, beauty, power, strength, pleasure, explanations, food, adventure, conquest, comfort. But here and now money---and not necessarily the things that money can buy--- is what everyone wants. The outward expenditure of mankind’s energy now takes place in and through money.” Long after we are gone, perhaps hundreds or even thousands of years from now, when the history of our time is written, money, that is, finance, will be the major character and theme. And that theme has now seeped into the East---into Japan, China, Southeast Asia. The West rules in its concentration on money. So, what does Jesus say about money? Certainly, in Jesus’ day there were wealthy persons, like the rich young man in our story, but most people were very poor and most likely did not aspire to be rich, because they could not imagine such possibility. In Jesus’ day there was trade, which made some people rich, and agriculture also played an important role. So, some wealthy people had a lot of land with sheep and goats, and perhaps barns filled with grain. Others might have traded in spices and cloth, but because barter was the common means of exchange, wealthy people did not accrue money as people do today. Besides, wealth was often seen to be very precarious, since it could easily be stolen or destroyed without the benefit of modern day insurance and other legal protections. Wealth, according to Jesus, was not something to be desired; it was something to be used. He certainly lived off the generosity of some wealthy people and spent a considerable amount of time talking about money and what it can and cannot buy. 27 of Jesus’ 43 parables are concerned with money and possessions, and one out of ten verses in the gospels deals with money. The Bible, as a whole, includes 500 verses on prayer, fewer than 500 on faith, but over 2000 on money. So, it is a subject that concerns the spiritual life. Why? Because money shows where the heart is, revealing what matters to people, where their values truly lie. Jeff Bezos, the world’s wealthiest person, who just spent a bundle on going up into space, is worth about $200 billion, and he’s giving away half to conservation and climate concerns. His ex-wife, MacKenzie Scott, is worth about $58 billion, and has given away over 8 billion to a variety of causes, including the arts, education and organizations working to overcome racism. And she promises to keep giving. As admirable as such generosity is, these gifts are given out of tremendous excess, which should lead us to ponder some words from Mother Theresa: “I hope that what you give comes not from your surplus but is the fruit of a sacrifice made for the love of God. You must give what costs you.” Give what costs you: This is exactly what Jesus was asking the rich man to do, but he could not do what Jesus asked because he had much wealth, and the cost for him was simply too high. I have often been struck by the reality that people who have very little often have an easier time letting it go. When I worked in New Haven, I had a great deal of contact with the poor. In the midst of a terrible winter freeze, when temperatures dropped to zero, I saw a homeless man give away his mittens to another, who had none. “I have pockets in my coat,” he said, “but your coat doesn’t have any.” I saw another homeless person find a $20 bill on the ground outside the soup kitchen and offer half of it to his friend. “I didn’t do anything to deserve this,” he said. “It just fell into my hands, and I think God wouldn’t want me to keep it all.” And then there was a woman I met in the hospital, who had no money to speak of, but when a homeless woman turned up in the hospital, dying of terminal cancer, Elsie paid to put her in an apartment for the rest of her life, which was about 6 months. The social worker tried to dissuade Elise, who had barely enough to pay her own bills. But, Elsie insisted, “A dying person should have a home. She needs a home, and I can help her.” These gifts were given at a cost. They came out of poverty, and yet were given, it seemed to me, without much struggle---unlike the rich man, who wanted to find eternal life, but could not do what Jesus commanded. It was simply too hard. And so, he went away with a heavy heart, a heart burdened by his wealth. How hard is it to give to the church? What does it really cost you? That is a question each of us can only answer for ourselves. When we give to the church, we are giving to an institution which has a particular and unique call---to love and serve God, who shows us time and time again that justice, truth, mercy, generosity, and forgiveness matter. They matter to God, and so they should matter to us. The church is a human institution, populated by imperfect people, like you and me. But our imperfections and the church’s imperfections are no excuses for failing to give, just as they are no excuses for failing to try to be what God calls us to be as the church—Christ’s body, heart, and mind in a world sorely in need of redemption. God calls us to proclaim and live the Good News---that the love and mercy of God in Jesus Christ stand forever over all. And because that truth matters, the church, which proclaims it, also matters, just as the money, which you give to support the church, also matters. Making Life Count for Something
First Church of Christ, Unionville, CT September 26, 2021 Mark 9: 38-50 A friend of mine, who although not ordained, does some preaching in and outside of church, was asked to do some services at a nursing home, and so Mark asked the residents, who bothered to come to the services, what they were interested in hearing in sermons. “Well,” they said, “we don’t want to hear much about sin. We know there is a lot of it in the world, but we are too old to do much serious sinning anymore. What we really want to hear is that our lives counted for something---that it mattered we lived.” So, what makes our lives count for something? Most of us recognize that a completely self-centered life is simply not enough. And so, we see how common it is for people to find meaning by being part of some larger group or identity. The identification can be national, ethnic, racial, religious, political, social or a mixture of some or all of them. These identifications not only give people a sense that their lives count for something, but they also are a way of helping people distinguish themselves from others. For example, as Israel developed its identity as God’s chosen people, they also had a very strong sense that they were different from others and at times even better. And in today’s lesson this is what we see, disciples, who as followers of Jesus, are deeply troubled because someone is casting out a demon in the name of Jesus---though he was not a follower. And we can also imagine they expected Jesus to be on their side---to tell them, why yes, this man has no right to use my name, when he is not part of our inner group. But this is not what Jesus said or did. He greatly widened the circle by saying, “The one who is not against us is with us.” In so many words Jesus told them, “Get over yourselves. You are neither the center nor the fullness of the story. Others, whom you refuse to recognize, are also included.” Now it is important to understand that scripture often tells us something very significant about the time in which it was written, so this text is not simply about what Jesus taught to his disciples. It is also about what was going on in and around the year 70, which is when Mark’s gospel was most likely written. And at that time, there was great concern about the people not only coming into the new faith, but also those who were on the outside, perhaps looking in, not fully believers, but maybe admirers of Jesus, or at least admirers of the stories they were hearing about Jesus. And so, there was concern about how the followers of Jesus were supposed to respond to others, who were not yet fully in. Should they be like the disciples, rejecting the outsiders, or would it be wise to be more temperate, to see them as Jesus did? If they are not against us, in some way they are with us. And then immediately the conversation moves to sin. Though Jesus is here seen talking to his disciples, what is being said is directly applicable to the end of the first century with people on the outside looking in, not quite sure what to make of the new faith. And when Jesus talks about physical parts, like the hand, foot, and eye as causes for sin that should be cut off, this is directly related to some of the other sects, which were beginning to flourish during this time. You see, some groups (like the Gnostics) made the body into the big problem, the locus of sin. But this is neither what Jesus taught not what the Christian church would come to believe and preach. The physical world is God created and therefore good. In his lifetime Jesus had taught that sin comes from within, from a heart and head wrongly oriented. The foot or the eye or hand alone can have no guilt---so Jesus is really being absurd here, engaging in hyperbole to make the point that the body is not the problem. Though the translation puts the world hell on Jesus’ lips, the word he actually used was Gehenna, a place in the Hinnom Valley, south of Jerusalem. This was a place where the Jews believed pagans had sacrificed children to Baal. In Jesus’ time it was a trash heap, where things were discarded and burned, including the bodies of criminals. Gehenna was nothing like the common Christian understanding of hell, which comes from the 13th century Italian writer, Dante, whose Divine Comedy gives us hell as a place of terrible punishment and torture. Jesus is never shown actually condemning people to hell. On the contrary, it is his job to move people out of hell, out of the trash heap, where life is not properly valued as the gift from God that it is. To be in hell is to be in a place where your desires and priorities are misshapen and distorted in the sense that to follow such desires will only bring you to dead and miserable ends. To be in hell is to be misery because you love and serve the wrong ends. So, the scripture is telling us to get our priorities straight and care about the right things, things that bring full and abundant life not only for us but also for others. This hardly means perfection, but the test is: Are we moving in the right direction, because no one wants to get to the end of life and say, “I’ve missed the point. I failed to get it. My life was a catalogue of trivial pursuits, a pile of trash.” This is hell, what Jesus called Gehenna. Most people want their lives to have counted for something. This is what the old people in that nursing home told my friend they wanted to hear---that their lives mattered, counted for something. The Rev. Phillips Brooks’ life did seem to count for something. A beloved Episcopal priest, who served in Boston’s Trinity Church as rector for many years, he was a graduate of Harvard, and would often return there to preach and lecture, where he was also beloved. Soon after he died, his parishioners hired the illustrious sculpturer, Augustus St. Gaudens to sculpt a statute of their beloved priest. If you want to see St. Gaudens’ work today, go to Lincoln Park in Chicago, and see his statue of Lincoln; or NYC's Central Park where his statue of General Sherman is, or in Boston Commons, his Shaw Memorial. So, Saint Gaudens came to Trinity Church in hopes of getting to know the man who had so faithfully served there. But the beautiful architecture of the church did not help him, nor did Brooks' old office. He spoke with Brooks' parishioners and his friends, and then he went to the Harvard Community that loved Brooks so much, but he still couldn't get a handle on who this preacher was and what made him so special. He then spent weeks reading Brooks' sermons and lectures, but these didn't help him either. In desperation, St. Gaudens returned to Trinity Church one last time. The church was empty, save for one elderly woman, bent with care, bent in prayer. When she had finished her praying, St. Gaudens went over to her and struck up a conversation. He confessed to her his frustration at not being able to grasp who this man was he was supposed to sculpt. The woman turned to him and spoke these words: "Sir, if you would know our preacher, you must first know his Master. You must know whom he spent this life loving and serving. " St. Gaudens returned to his room and wrote in his diary days later: "I read the Gospels for the first time, and I realized I had never met this man named Jesus until now.” It was only then that Saint Gaudens was able to sculpt Brooks with Jesus, resting on a granite base, standing in a domed marble niche. It was placed in the church in 1893. No one wants to feel or believe that his or her life is or was trivial, discarded on a trash heap. So, we should take stock now and then, and consider what it is we are pursuing, whom and what it is we are loving and serving. But we can take great consolation in this----even if the worse happens, and someone’s life does end up on a trash heap, the final word is never spoken by human beings, but by a merciful God, who can repair and save what is beyond our capacity to do. THE GOD WE DID NOT EXPECT (OR EVEN WANT)
Preached by Sandra Olsen First Church of Christ in Unionville, CT September 19, 2021 James 3: 13-18 Mark 9: 30-37 Abraham Joshua Heschel was one of the great rabbis of the 20th century. Known for his sharp mind and big heart, he had many friends among the Christian community with whom he eagerly entered into dialogue. One time the subject under discussion was the question: Does God suffer, and so Heschel began, as he often did, by telling a story. At the end of the Second World War, a Jewish diplomat was about to board a train, when a young and obviously poor Jewish man entered behind him. Because the diplomat had a whole compartment to himself, and because both men were headed to Israel, the diplomat invited the young man to share his compartment. Pulling out his prayer shawl, the diplomat prayed, and throughout the day, at designated times, he repeated his actions, while the young man looked on very sadly and uncomfortably. Finally, at the end of the day, the young man said, “I’m never going to pray again, because of what happened to us at Auschwitz”. But at the end of the second day, suddenly he pulled out his prayer shawl and joined the diplomat in evening prayers. “Why did you change your mind,” the diplomat asked? I felt sorry for God, he said. Look at mess we have made of the world. And look with whom God has to work.” And then Heschel added: Faith truly begins when we can feel sorry for God. I first heard that story when I was in seminary, and I must admit that I had never before considered the question of God suffering. After all, we are more accustomed to the idea that God should feel sorry for us and help us in our distress. God, we tend to think, has all the power, and we, in contrast, have very little. In the same seminar I first heard Heschel’s story, I also read Letters and Papers from Prison by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. A Lutheran pastor and brilliant theologian, Bonhoeffer was imprisoned for two years before he was hanged for his participation in a plot against Hitler’s life, and during those years he wrote copious letters to family and friends, collected in the book now called, Letters and Papers from Prison. Blown away by what I read 40 years ago, I still am haunted and challenged by Bonhoeffer’s life and his words, especially the following ones: And we cannot be honest unless we recognize that we have to live in the world as if there were no God. And this is just what we do recognize before God. God compels us to recognize it. God would have us know that we must live as people who manage our lives without him. The God who is with us is the God who forsakes us. Before God and with God we live without God. God lets himself be pushed out of the world on to the cross. God is weak and powerless in the world and that is precisely the only way in which God is with us and helps us. Christ helps us not by virtue of his omnipotence, but by virtue of his weakness and suffering. Here is the decisive difference between Christianity and all religions. Human religiosity makes people look in their distress to the power of God in the world. But the Bible directs us to God's powerlessness and helplessness; only the suffering God can help. A false conception of God is being done away with as we are opened to seeing the God who wins power and space in the world by weakness. Only a suffering God can help? What can that possibly mean? Last week’s gospel lesson from Mark, when Jesus asked, “Who do people say I am,” showed Jesus predicting his death, and Peter understandably objected. And now this morning’s lesson gives us Jesus’ second prediction of his death, and though we hear no open verbal protest from the disciples, we are told they don’t get it. And who can blame them? A suffering Messiah is not what the Jews wanted or expected. Their model was a strong monarch like David, a military leader, who would defeat Israel’s enemies with the sword. Each time a contender for the Messianic throne was executed by the Romans, the Jews had to cope with their disappointment that this one was not the Messiah after all. And then along came Jesus, insisting that he must suffer and die, because God is revealed most perfectly in the cross. This is Christianity’s fundamental claim. Many Christians these days tend to think that Christianity can best be summarized by the golden rule or doing the good works that show wisdom and understanding as the Letter of James attests. Of course, these are marks of the Christian life, but these are also things we share with other religions as well as with secularity. It is not necessary to be a Christian to be good and to do good. The uniqueness of Christianity is manifested in the cross. What is truly god-like about God is self-giving, suffering love. In the early centuries of Christianity, some very definite ideas of perfection were laid down. God, for example, was defined as unchanging, because change would imply a lack in God. And certainly, these thinkers insisted, God could not suffer, because suffering too implies a lack as well as change. But Christian theology also affirmed Jesus Christ as the fullness of God, that is, showing us what God is like when God is expressed in a human life. And certainly Jesus grew; Jesus suffered; Jesus changed. How could God be involved in all this flow and flux? And so, there were all kinds of discussions about God suffering in God's human nature, but not in the divine nature, solutions, which were not very compelling. Perhaps to many of you this sounds like a lot of theological nit-picking, but the central question was and is about how God is present to us. Where is God now? That is the question the sufferer pleads in his or her distress. It is a cry seeking a presence in the midst of what is experienced as an absence. Where is God in the midst of the suffering at our southern border? Where is God in the midst of the sexual abuse of children? Where is God in the midst of a battle with cancer? God is right there, sharing and undergoing the suffering. The God to whom Jesus points in Mark’s Gospel is a suffering God. But why would anyone believe in a suffering God when the need is for release from suffering? The human desire is for escape, not participation. Besides, we all know that much human suffering is degrading. Someone once said to me, "The worst thing about having this brain tumor is not that it is going to kill me, but that it is first going to destroy me." And the same is true of so many other forms of suffering. It destroys by first degrading. What does God say to that? God answers in the cross: "What I take belongs to me in a different way from what I can only bear." When Jesus chose the cross, he was certainly subjected to terrible suffering, but not subjected in the sense of being a total victim. He chose to go the way of the cross, not because God demanded it, but because human beings demanded his death. Jesus died for our sins not to satisfy God’s demands for a perfect sacrificial victim, but to satisfy the human lust for blood. We humans say No to God, and in the cross God says No to our No. “Do what you will; reject the love I offer; do to me the worst you can do, and I will still love you. That is God’s answer. In Jesus Christ God freely takes on suffering. And God's freedom to take on suffering is also God's radical protest against suffering, which is why Bonhoeffer said that only a suffering God can help. Only a suffering God can save. God hears our protest, “This must not be,” and joins in the protest by promising that finally all shall be made well. But all is not well now, and so we wait and hope and work for that future. And while waiting, hoping, and working, we sometimes do feel sorry for God. Some years ago, when I was a chaplain, I was called to the emergency room, where a young woman was in the throes of a miscarriage. She was inconsolable, and also homeless and unemployed with a history of abuse, and somehow she thought that her baby would save her life, give her a reason to live and to hope. For three hours I sat with her, listening to her sobs as she poured out her sorrow and rage at the abuse she had suffered as a child and the abuse she still suffered as a young woman. What could I say? I had nothing to give except my presence, and that seemed pathetic enough, so as the third hour approached, I found myself silently praying, “Oh God, I feel so sorry for you, because it this god-forsaken place, I’m all you’ve got, and I’m very little help.” Sorry for God, because God suffers with us, for us and from us. This is not the God we expect and not even the one we want, but it is the God we get, and it is the God who loves us. And love is the Good News because it is love which finally heals and saves. September 16, 2021
Dear Friends, In the weeks leading up to the 20th anniversary of 9/11 there were many engaging articles to read. One of my favorites was in The Atlantic about a family, who lost a young son in the Twin Towers, and how these past twenty years they have coped. The mother spent time, obsessing over the fact that her son’s fiancée would not give up a journal written by her son a few weeks before he died, a journal, by the way, the father had given to her. The mother was furious her husband had given the woman the journal and tried to convince the young woman to loan it to her, insisting that she would give it right back. The father, on the other hand, spent his time investigating all these conspiracy theories, which his wife would no longer even listen to. And the younger son simply stopped telling anyone he lost his brother in 9/11. (By the way, after 20 years the woman gave the mother the journal.) Yet what grabbed my attention the most was not a story at all, but rather a single comment I read about a man who had escaped one of the towers, when a few minutes later, it suddenly collapsed. He had run into a store, where he was shaking and crying, when a fireman gave him a hug and said, “You’re in shock.” The man looked at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding?” he said. “I have never been more awake and aware in my entire life. I hope this feeling never goes away.” I think many of us can understand what this man meant. When one has a close call with death, it is hardly unusual to feel more alive, more attuned to what is going on around one, more aware of what life’s truly important priorities are. I have seen it in people who have escaped the ravages of a life-threatening illness, who then promised they would live their lives differently. They often feel they have been given a second chance, and they are not going to waste it. I have seen people end marriages they recognized as toxic, and I have seen people recommit to marriages that seemed beyond repair. People have left high paying jobs, because they suddenly realized that money is not nearly so important as they used to believe. I have heard of people doing something daring---like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, they highest mountain in Africa, something they never would have tried before their reprieve from death. And then I remember reading a story about a man, who thought he was going to die, when his plane was about to go down on the Hudson River. We all recall the incredible landing, how not one person was lost and how Captain Sully became the nation’s hero. This man said he realized how shallow his life had been, and he promised he was going to change. I wonder if he really did. Promises are easy to make yet hard to keep. One of my favorite true stories concerns the brilliant Russian writer, Fyodor Dostoevsky, surely one of the world greatest writers, famous for such novels as Crime and Punishment and the Brothers Karamazov. Dostoevsky was a gambler, a womanizer, and a political rebel, which eventually led to his arrest and condemnation to death before a firing squad. There, he was with a bunch of other people, waiting to be executed. He saw groups of men lined up against a wall and shot. Group by group went before him, and he realized in only a few minutes, his turn would come. Then as he was about to be lined up, a man on a horse arrived, with a decree from the Czar granting amnesty. Dostoevsky had come so close to death, and the result was that his writing took off as his creative juices flowed beyond anything he had before accomplished. He still gambled and drank and womanized, but he now wrote, and he wrote brilliantly. Sometimes the closeness of death does lead people to make radical changes in their lives. Change is never easy, something we see not only in those who struggle with addictions of all types, but we also see it in the most ordinary of life’s circumstances. My father and I would enter into fierce arguments, from the time I could put words together, and so it would go, even when we agreed on the issues. In my mid 40’s, I decided I was going to stop arguing with him. Did I succeed? No, not really. My husband finally pointed out to me that I would continue to fail, because, as he said, “You and your father just live to argue.” I had to admit he was more right than wrong. And so, I accepted that reality. It only changed in the last year of my father’s life, when he was simply slowing down, and did not have the energy to argue. He did not seem ill, but I should have figured something was not right, because there was hardly anything my father loved more than a good argument. At the end of my first year in seminary I did a unit of clinical training at Deaconess Hospital in Boston, where one of my assignments was the heart unit. And the head cardiologist talked with us aspiring clergy about heart disease as well as his new and eager young residents. “I get the best and the brightest here,” he said. “All these eager young doctors are going to change the behavior of many of these patients, who eat too much, smoke too much and don’t exercise enough. They are going to save their patients from their fates. And I am going to tell you aspiring clergy when I tell my young residents: Be prepared for the hard truth. Most people would rather die than change.” I am sure as Jesus wandered around, ministering to a variety of people, he ran into many people who had very little interest in changing. We have all these wonderful stories, where people SEEM to change, but I cannot help wondering, how permanent these changes really were. When Jesus told the woman caught in adultery, “No one has condemned you, and neither do I. Go, now and sin no more,” I wonder if she did avoid sinning, at least in that particular way. And what about the prodigal son, who was such a wastrel? Did he truly reform after his father welcomed him home and threw a big party for him? And what about the older brother, so resentful of his father’s generosity toward his younger sibling? Did he remain resentful, or did he turn around and change? We do not know, but we can wonder. And we can also hope that change truly is possible, even if never easy. I would wager that Jesus did a great deal of hoping, and I would guess that God does the same. Yours in Christ, Sandra September 8, 2021
Dear Friends, Have any of you ever heard of the Battle of Blair Mountain? It happened in late August,1921 in southern West Virginia, when thousands of coal miners, exercising their right to bear arms as well as to protest, marched against not only their oppressive working conditions but also against the open assassination of union sympathizers. It was the largest armed labor uprising in American history. This army of miners was met by another army of civilians, who volunteered to fight with the county sheriff, who happened to be on the payroll of coal companies. Anger at the severe and dangerous working conditions had been building for years, but when union sympathizers were assassinated in broad daylight, anger transmuted into rage, and so the miners marched and fought. The number of deaths is believed to have been around 16, and before that number could grow, the United States Army was called in to quell the fight. It was then that many of the miners gave up. They had fought in the Army of the First World War, and they had no interest in fighting against the Army in which they had served. There is a roadside marker on the stretch of highway leading into the hills that bears the words, Battle of Blair Mountain, but that is all the reminder there is, except perhaps for some stray shell casings. The people who made up the army of miners were a varied group: black, white, recent immigrants and those with long and proud histories in the area. But they all had one thing in common: They did dangerous work for very little pay, and they were literally guarded by hired guns, men who stood over the miners with rifles. As for their pay, they were paid in company money, which meant they could only buy at the company store and pay for their housing with company money. They also had to pay for their own tools, and if they were hurt on the job, any medical care given was deducted from their “wages.” No wonder they protested. And yet almost no one has ever heard of this protest. It is not in the American history books, where labor rights and disputes are discussed. Why? Because the story was suppressed by the power of the coal companies, who did not want it told as part of American history. Today it is being talked about more, but it tends to be a local story, not one that makes it into a larger discussion about labor rights and protests. People in West Virginia would rather talk about the feud between the Hatfields and the McCoys, which plays a lot better with most tourists. Labor rights and feuds are much more unsettling. In 2015 a small and dedicated group of local residents, activists and retried union people helped to put together and open The West Virginia Mine Wars Museum. Privately funded, its home is in a union owned building in Matewan. On the Battle’s centennial the Museum staged re-enactments of the march and battle and gave talks about the issues involved. None of this was state sponsored, so it was a big surprise when the state’s governor, Jim Justice, showed up. He is a billionaire owner of coal companies, so he shocked people even more when he issued a proclamation, acknowledging the significance of the battle as a “fight for fair working conditions.” The Mine era wars between workers and those who owned the mines were bloody---at least 100 deaths in shootouts. Some of the mine workers, who were most committed to labor rights, were ostracized and had difficulty finding any kind of work. But it was the coal industry and their supporters in the state government that made sure no mention of the mine wars became part of recorded history. State officials even demanded that any mention of the Blair Mountain incident be stripped from the public record! There is much discussion these days about history and how and what is taught in our public schools. But surely we should realize that is left out can be just as important as what is included. There is greatness and there is shame in any history, and both need to be recognized. Christianity too has its share of shameful stories. Consider the vicious execution of so called heretics—people whose only crime was disagreement with the orthodox position. Roman Catholics had their Inquisition, but we Protestants also executed people. Michael Servetus was burned at the stake in Geneva because he refused to accept the doctrine of the Trinity. God, he insisted, is one, not three. Jesus taught that we are called to love the truth and serve the truth, for the truth does make us free. And though there will always be disagreements about what the truth is, if the love of truth rather than the love of power, is the guide, surely the journey will take us to more solid ground. Yours in Christ, Sandra |
August 29, 2021
Dear Friends,
Bertrand Russell was one of the great minds of the 20th century. Born in 1872, he died in 1970 after earning a renowned reputation as a logician, social philosopher, and anti-war activist. Though sometimes his writings are abstruse, written for the professional academic community, he also wrote for common readers, believing them capable of understanding his positions and arguments. In 1950 he was granted the Nobel Prize “in recognition of his varied and significant writings, in which he champions humanitarian ideals and freedom of thought.”
Nobel Prize acceptance speeches run the gamut of topics, and Russell chose to speak on the central role that desire plays in human life. He said, “All human activity is prompted by desire. There is a wholly fallacious theory advanced by some earnest moralists to the effect that it is possible to resist desire in the interest of duty and moral principle.” Russell did not disagree that duty plays a role, but his claim was that duty is only effective if there is a desire to follow the dictates of duty. Without that desire, duty has no hold on human beings.
“The human being, Russell claimed, “differs from other animals in one very important respect, and that is that he has some desires which are, so to speak, infinite, which can never be fully gratified, and which would keep him restless even in Paradise.” So, what are these infinite desires, according to Russell?
The first one is acquisitiveness, the wish to possess as much as possible of goods or the title to goods. Russell sees this desire originating in fear---the fear that there will not be enough. That makes perfect sense when we consider our ancestors and their struggle for survival, but in a capitalistic system, the struggle for more and more is yet very pronounced, way beyond the satisfaction of basic needs. And it is even most pronounced Russell points out, in the very rich and powerful.
The second desire, which, he claims, is even more powerful than acquisitiveness is rivalry. He told a story about the Kaiser of Germany being shown the Royal Navy, and though the English thought this would impress the Kaiser that the English were not to be toyed with, the Kaiser decided he must build a navy even more grand than the Royal one! As a species, we would be far better off, Russell thought, if acquisitiveness were more powerful than rivalry, but alas, it is not. A great many people and nations will choose to ruin themselves if they can also ruin their competitors. Consider war and its ugly consequences.
From rivalry we move to vanity. “Look at me” is one of the fundamental motivators in human life. We see it in children, when quite literally they beg to be looked at, but it hardly stops at childhood. Russell believed that we even project this vanity onto God, when we proclaim that God desires our adulation and praise. I am reminded of one of my friends, who years ago told me that when she was seven years old and learning the Baltimore Catechism, she objected to the idea that God wants our praise. Well, she concluded, God must be very conceited! For that impertinence she had to stay after school for three days. She said she never did understand why she was punished, since she was confident that she was correct in her view of God, who seemed to her very vain, indeed.
Finally, Russell moves to the love of power, which he understands to be the most destructive of human desires. “Power, like vanity, is insatiable,” he said in his address. “Nothing short of omnipotence could satisfy it completely. And as it is especially the vice of energetic men, the causal efficacy of love of power is out of all proportion to its frequency. It is, indeed, by far the strongest motive in the lives of important men.” Russell went on to say that “the love of power is greatly increased by the experience of power.” This explains why we do not necessarily notice this drive in people as they begin their terms of service, but as they exercise their power, they can become more and more infatuated with it.
Again, we need to be reminded that Russell did not mean that people NEVER put limits on their love of power. It is obvious they do, but Russell would remind us again and again this is because they have a desire to limit themselves and without that desire, no appeal to fairness or goodness will be effective.
We should all remember the story of our first President, George Washington, who could have been named King of the new nation, if he had so desired. But Washington said, “I did not fight George the Third of England to become George the First of the United States.” And when after two terms as President, King George the Third heard that George Washington was surrendering his power, he said. “He is the greatest man in all of human history.”
Christian ethics have often been termed “the great reversal,” because so much of normal human behavior and desire are completely turned upside down. Jesus said, “The one who would be great in God’s kingdom must be servant of all.” And even the most cursory glance at Jesus’ life shows us someone who renounced power in the service of love. That he died a horrible and humiliating death as a criminal only corroborates that the love of power as it is normally understood is not what he desired.
We would all do well to ponder desire and what it is we truly do desire and why. The ancient Greek philosopher, Aristotle, would remind us that so much of what we do is habitual, and so, it is important to cultivate good habits---including the habit of desiring what is life giving and affirming.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Bertrand Russell was one of the great minds of the 20th century. Born in 1872, he died in 1970 after earning a renowned reputation as a logician, social philosopher, and anti-war activist. Though sometimes his writings are abstruse, written for the professional academic community, he also wrote for common readers, believing them capable of understanding his positions and arguments. In 1950 he was granted the Nobel Prize “in recognition of his varied and significant writings, in which he champions humanitarian ideals and freedom of thought.”
Nobel Prize acceptance speeches run the gamut of topics, and Russell chose to speak on the central role that desire plays in human life. He said, “All human activity is prompted by desire. There is a wholly fallacious theory advanced by some earnest moralists to the effect that it is possible to resist desire in the interest of duty and moral principle.” Russell did not disagree that duty plays a role, but his claim was that duty is only effective if there is a desire to follow the dictates of duty. Without that desire, duty has no hold on human beings.
“The human being, Russell claimed, “differs from other animals in one very important respect, and that is that he has some desires which are, so to speak, infinite, which can never be fully gratified, and which would keep him restless even in Paradise.” So, what are these infinite desires, according to Russell?
The first one is acquisitiveness, the wish to possess as much as possible of goods or the title to goods. Russell sees this desire originating in fear---the fear that there will not be enough. That makes perfect sense when we consider our ancestors and their struggle for survival, but in a capitalistic system, the struggle for more and more is yet very pronounced, way beyond the satisfaction of basic needs. And it is even most pronounced Russell points out, in the very rich and powerful.
The second desire, which, he claims, is even more powerful than acquisitiveness is rivalry. He told a story about the Kaiser of Germany being shown the Royal Navy, and though the English thought this would impress the Kaiser that the English were not to be toyed with, the Kaiser decided he must build a navy even more grand than the Royal one! As a species, we would be far better off, Russell thought, if acquisitiveness were more powerful than rivalry, but alas, it is not. A great many people and nations will choose to ruin themselves if they can also ruin their competitors. Consider war and its ugly consequences.
From rivalry we move to vanity. “Look at me” is one of the fundamental motivators in human life. We see it in children, when quite literally they beg to be looked at, but it hardly stops at childhood. Russell believed that we even project this vanity onto God, when we proclaim that God desires our adulation and praise. I am reminded of one of my friends, who years ago told me that when she was seven years old and learning the Baltimore Catechism, she objected to the idea that God wants our praise. Well, she concluded, God must be very conceited! For that impertinence she had to stay after school for three days. She said she never did understand why she was punished, since she was confident that she was correct in her view of God, who seemed to her very vain, indeed.
Finally, Russell moves to the love of power, which he understands to be the most destructive of human desires. “Power, like vanity, is insatiable,” he said in his address. “Nothing short of omnipotence could satisfy it completely. And as it is especially the vice of energetic men, the causal efficacy of love of power is out of all proportion to its frequency. It is, indeed, by far the strongest motive in the lives of important men.” Russell went on to say that “the love of power is greatly increased by the experience of power.” This explains why we do not necessarily notice this drive in people as they begin their terms of service, but as they exercise their power, they can become more and more infatuated with it.
Again, we need to be reminded that Russell did not mean that people NEVER put limits on their love of power. It is obvious they do, but Russell would remind us again and again this is because they have a desire to limit themselves and without that desire, no appeal to fairness or goodness will be effective.
We should all remember the story of our first President, George Washington, who could have been named King of the new nation, if he had so desired. But Washington said, “I did not fight George the Third of England to become George the First of the United States.” And when after two terms as President, King George the Third heard that George Washington was surrendering his power, he said. “He is the greatest man in all of human history.”
Christian ethics have often been termed “the great reversal,” because so much of normal human behavior and desire are completely turned upside down. Jesus said, “The one who would be great in God’s kingdom must be servant of all.” And even the most cursory glance at Jesus’ life shows us someone who renounced power in the service of love. That he died a horrible and humiliating death as a criminal only corroborates that the love of power as it is normally understood is not what he desired.
We would all do well to ponder desire and what it is we truly do desire and why. The ancient Greek philosopher, Aristotle, would remind us that so much of what we do is habitual, and so, it is important to cultivate good habits---including the habit of desiring what is life giving and affirming.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
August 15, 2021
Dear Friends,
I don’t know if any of you is familiar with the book, The Little Prince, written by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. The book was published in 1943 during the Second World War, and indeed, Saint-Exupery was a pilot during the war, though his love of aviation began long before the war. He died in 1944 in a crash, most likely resulting from enemy fire.
Saint-Exupery wrote a number of books, but his most beloved is The Little Prince. Though usually considered a children’s book, there is much wisdom in it worthy of adult attention. Early in the book, the main character, who is simply called, The Little Prince, complains that adults do not know how to ask good and important questions. They concentrate too much on numbers, he claims. When you make a new friend, for example, and you tell your parents or other adults that you have this wonderful new friend, they ask questions like, “How old is he? How many brothers and sisters does he have? How much does he weigh? What do his parents do for a living, which is really a question about how much money they make. They fail to ask the really important questions like, What does his voice sound like? What does he like to do? Does he like butterflies? What games does he like to play?
I immediately thought of this book when the other day I came across a short article about what kinds of questions are worth asking, when you meet people, let’s say at a party or perhaps some other kind of gathering. Avoid questions like, “What do you do for a living?” and “Where do you live?” The Little Prince would certainly agree that such questions are BORING, and do not really spark interesting conversation. And so here is the list of five questions that should stimulate conversation.
1. What’s your story? That is an open ended questions that invites the person to consider what he or she might like to share. The person might ask you what you mean by this. What kind of story are you looking for, and then you can give it right back. Well, what would you like to tell me about your life?
2. What makes you smile when you get up in the morning? We can all think about many things that make us upset or sad or anxious. All you have to do is turn on the news, and in less than five minutes, you can find your blood pressure rising. So, instead of concentrating on the negative, ask someone what makes he or she smile upon rising in the morning.
3. What is the one book that has influenced you the most? This is a very direct question that should encourage some thought, and the conversation that ensues could be very engaging. If you have read the book yourself, you might have some follow up questions, but if not, asking the person how and why the book had such a profound influence could spark conversation.
4. What absolutely excites you now? This is a question that really gets at someone’s passion. What does he or she really care about? People do all kinds of jobs to make a living, but making a living is not necessarily the same thing that making a life.
5. What is the most important thing I should know about you? I find this a great question, because I could imagine answering it differently, depending upon the circumstances. If I were at a political meeting, my answer might differ from one, I might give at a theology seminar or certainly a job interview. And if at a party, where I have no idea what interests are drawing people together, I might come up with something completely different from the other contexts.
At any rate, I wonder what the Little Prince would think about these questions. I have a hunch he would approve. Read the book; it’s a bit over 50 pages with illustrations. You won’t regret reading it, and it will help you appreciate even more the five questions above.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
I don’t know if any of you is familiar with the book, The Little Prince, written by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. The book was published in 1943 during the Second World War, and indeed, Saint-Exupery was a pilot during the war, though his love of aviation began long before the war. He died in 1944 in a crash, most likely resulting from enemy fire.
Saint-Exupery wrote a number of books, but his most beloved is The Little Prince. Though usually considered a children’s book, there is much wisdom in it worthy of adult attention. Early in the book, the main character, who is simply called, The Little Prince, complains that adults do not know how to ask good and important questions. They concentrate too much on numbers, he claims. When you make a new friend, for example, and you tell your parents or other adults that you have this wonderful new friend, they ask questions like, “How old is he? How many brothers and sisters does he have? How much does he weigh? What do his parents do for a living, which is really a question about how much money they make. They fail to ask the really important questions like, What does his voice sound like? What does he like to do? Does he like butterflies? What games does he like to play?
I immediately thought of this book when the other day I came across a short article about what kinds of questions are worth asking, when you meet people, let’s say at a party or perhaps some other kind of gathering. Avoid questions like, “What do you do for a living?” and “Where do you live?” The Little Prince would certainly agree that such questions are BORING, and do not really spark interesting conversation. And so here is the list of five questions that should stimulate conversation.
1. What’s your story? That is an open ended questions that invites the person to consider what he or she might like to share. The person might ask you what you mean by this. What kind of story are you looking for, and then you can give it right back. Well, what would you like to tell me about your life?
2. What makes you smile when you get up in the morning? We can all think about many things that make us upset or sad or anxious. All you have to do is turn on the news, and in less than five minutes, you can find your blood pressure rising. So, instead of concentrating on the negative, ask someone what makes he or she smile upon rising in the morning.
3. What is the one book that has influenced you the most? This is a very direct question that should encourage some thought, and the conversation that ensues could be very engaging. If you have read the book yourself, you might have some follow up questions, but if not, asking the person how and why the book had such a profound influence could spark conversation.
4. What absolutely excites you now? This is a question that really gets at someone’s passion. What does he or she really care about? People do all kinds of jobs to make a living, but making a living is not necessarily the same thing that making a life.
5. What is the most important thing I should know about you? I find this a great question, because I could imagine answering it differently, depending upon the circumstances. If I were at a political meeting, my answer might differ from one, I might give at a theology seminar or certainly a job interview. And if at a party, where I have no idea what interests are drawing people together, I might come up with something completely different from the other contexts.
At any rate, I wonder what the Little Prince would think about these questions. I have a hunch he would approve. Read the book; it’s a bit over 50 pages with illustrations. You won’t regret reading it, and it will help you appreciate even more the five questions above.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
BETRAYED & BROKEN HEARTS By Sandra L. Olsen 8/1/2021
2 Samuel 18: 5-9’ 15. 31-33
Ephesians 4: 25-5:2
When I was a child in Sunday school, we spent considerable time learning the stories of David. As children we were impressed with this shepherd boy, who slew with his slingshot the giant Goliath. We also learned about
David’s extraordinary friendship with Jonathan, Saul’s son. Saul, you might recall, became jealous of David’s success as a warrior, and so Saul conspired to kill David, but Jonathan intervened to save David’s life. We also knew the story of Bathsheba and David, but the concentration in Sunday school was not on the sex scandal, but rather on David’s manipulation of the circumstances that led to Uriah’s death. And so, even to children, it is obvious that David was far from a perfect man or perfect king, and yet early on in the David narratives we hear from Samuel, who had anointed him king, that God had sought David out as “one who was after God’s own heart.”
But being after God’s own heart does not guarantee that one’s life will go smoothly. David’s surely did not. David had many wives and concubines, which resulted in numerous children. When one of David’s sons, Amnon, raped his half sister, Tamar, David, who greatly loved Amnon, said and did nothing. And then when another son, Absalom, in revenge for the rape of his sister, killed Amnon, his half brother, the heart broken David managed to banish Absalom from his kingdom for only a short while, until Joab, one of David’s commanders, helped to bring Absalom back to Jerusalem where he was reconciled with his father. But the reconciliation was short lived, because in no time at all, Absalom would seek to usurp the throne from his father. And since love often is blind, David did not see Absalom’s evil intention. And so, we arrive at our lesson from Samuel for today.
We learn that Absalom has raised an army against his father, and yet the father cannot help but love his son. This is the human condition. Remember Timothy McVeigh, who bombed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City? He too was loved by his father. And so, we should not be surprised that David told his commanders, “Deal gently for my sake with the young man, Absalom.” But the king’s words were ignored. Convinced that Absalom would continue to cause disruptions in the kingdom, Joab first struck Absalom with three spears, and then ten men surrounded him and finished him off.
The text tells us that 20,000 men died in the battle, but David showed no concern for the number of casualties. He had only one question in his mind and heart: Is it well with the young man, Absalom? He asked it first of Ahimaaz, who was an Israelite soldier, and when David received no definite answer, he asked the same question of a nameless Cushite—an outsider, someone from another tribe. It seems that no Israelite wanted to tell the king that his son was dead, and so the task fell to the Cushite, who could have been the recipient of David’s rage.
But it is not rage we get. It is heart broken grief: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!” Every parent can feel David’s agony, because it is the fear that every parent must live with---that their child might pre-decease them. It matters not if the child is 4 or 40. That modern medicine has helped to make this a relatively uncommon experience for most of us, does not mean that the fear has been removed.
The loss of a son or daughter is a theme literature has readily embraced throughout the centuries, precisely because it is a story, which goes to the very depths of human life. Consider Shakespeare’s King Lear, who lost his daughter, Cordelia, or Homer’s The Iliad, when King Priam of Troy, lost his son, the valiant warrior, Hector, to the mighty Greek fighter, Achilles. Priam then went to Achilles in the dead of night to ask for the body of his dead son. You would have to have a heart of stone to be unmoved by these stories of terrible heartbreak.
But David had double heartbreak. Not only was his son killed, but also his son betrayed him. And so, we have here two of the most poignant themes in human life: broken hearts and betrayed hearts. Bad enough that the son is dead, but the agony is compounded by the painful truth that the son betrayed his father. And yet what else can a father do but love his son: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!”
The David stories grab our attention, because they show us what we as human beings are like. We love, and yet we betray. And are betrayed. And we can also continue to love those who have betrayed us. So yes, these stories show us who we are, but they also show us who God is. It means something that David is described as “one after God’s own heart”. It means that David helps us to see what is in God’s heart. In David’s anguished cry over his dead son, we also hear God’s anguished cry over his dead son, a son murdered and betrayed by God’s own people, people whom God yet continues to love, even when they are the betrayers.
The suffering of David mirrors in some mysterious way the suffering of God. Though David was a mighty warrior and united the northern and southern kingdoms into a regional power with which other nations had to reckon, it is not his success as a warrior that offers us the deepest insight into God. We often call God mighty and powerful, but God’s might and power are not fully grasped in God’s absolute control, but rather in God’s absolute love, a love that remains love even when it betrayed and rejected. Human beings can and do destroy human love. But God’s love for us does not disappear. There is nothing we can do to destroy God’s love for us. No matter what we do, no matter who we are, God loves us. And that is the reason God suffers.
Some years ago, I audited a course at Yale Divinity School, taught by Marilyn Adams and Nicholas Wolterstorff. It was a philosophical theology course on the question of God’s suffering. Does God really suffer? Many theologians throughout Christian history, including Thomas Aquinas, have taught that God does not suffer and cannot suffer, because God is completely self-sufficient and lacks nothing.
Suffering implies incompletion, a lack, a longing for what is not yet. Now Wolterstorff lost a son in a mountain climbing accident some years ago, and in response to his horrific loss, he wrote a book, Lament for a Son in which he wrote:
God is love. That is why God suffers. To love our suffering sinful world is to suffer. God so suffered for the world that God gave up God’s only son to suffering. The one who does not see God suffering does not see God’s love. God is suffering love. So suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is.
David’s plaintive cry over his dead son pierces our ears and jolts us into remembering another one of David’s descendants----Jesus, who was nothing like Absalom. You see, Absalom was beautiful with a stunning thick mane of hair that was the envy of everyone. People could not help but be attracted to this beautiful and charismatic man. And Jesus? Using the book of Isaiah to help us interpret Jesus Christ, we are reminded that “he had no form or comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by others, a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.” No, Jesus was not like Absalom, and yet his God whom Jesus called Father, would also grieve over the son, who was surely after God’s own heart.
2 Samuel 18: 5-9’ 15. 31-33
Ephesians 4: 25-5:2
When I was a child in Sunday school, we spent considerable time learning the stories of David. As children we were impressed with this shepherd boy, who slew with his slingshot the giant Goliath. We also learned about
David’s extraordinary friendship with Jonathan, Saul’s son. Saul, you might recall, became jealous of David’s success as a warrior, and so Saul conspired to kill David, but Jonathan intervened to save David’s life. We also knew the story of Bathsheba and David, but the concentration in Sunday school was not on the sex scandal, but rather on David’s manipulation of the circumstances that led to Uriah’s death. And so, even to children, it is obvious that David was far from a perfect man or perfect king, and yet early on in the David narratives we hear from Samuel, who had anointed him king, that God had sought David out as “one who was after God’s own heart.”
But being after God’s own heart does not guarantee that one’s life will go smoothly. David’s surely did not. David had many wives and concubines, which resulted in numerous children. When one of David’s sons, Amnon, raped his half sister, Tamar, David, who greatly loved Amnon, said and did nothing. And then when another son, Absalom, in revenge for the rape of his sister, killed Amnon, his half brother, the heart broken David managed to banish Absalom from his kingdom for only a short while, until Joab, one of David’s commanders, helped to bring Absalom back to Jerusalem where he was reconciled with his father. But the reconciliation was short lived, because in no time at all, Absalom would seek to usurp the throne from his father. And since love often is blind, David did not see Absalom’s evil intention. And so, we arrive at our lesson from Samuel for today.
We learn that Absalom has raised an army against his father, and yet the father cannot help but love his son. This is the human condition. Remember Timothy McVeigh, who bombed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City? He too was loved by his father. And so, we should not be surprised that David told his commanders, “Deal gently for my sake with the young man, Absalom.” But the king’s words were ignored. Convinced that Absalom would continue to cause disruptions in the kingdom, Joab first struck Absalom with three spears, and then ten men surrounded him and finished him off.
The text tells us that 20,000 men died in the battle, but David showed no concern for the number of casualties. He had only one question in his mind and heart: Is it well with the young man, Absalom? He asked it first of Ahimaaz, who was an Israelite soldier, and when David received no definite answer, he asked the same question of a nameless Cushite—an outsider, someone from another tribe. It seems that no Israelite wanted to tell the king that his son was dead, and so the task fell to the Cushite, who could have been the recipient of David’s rage.
But it is not rage we get. It is heart broken grief: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!” Every parent can feel David’s agony, because it is the fear that every parent must live with---that their child might pre-decease them. It matters not if the child is 4 or 40. That modern medicine has helped to make this a relatively uncommon experience for most of us, does not mean that the fear has been removed.
The loss of a son or daughter is a theme literature has readily embraced throughout the centuries, precisely because it is a story, which goes to the very depths of human life. Consider Shakespeare’s King Lear, who lost his daughter, Cordelia, or Homer’s The Iliad, when King Priam of Troy, lost his son, the valiant warrior, Hector, to the mighty Greek fighter, Achilles. Priam then went to Achilles in the dead of night to ask for the body of his dead son. You would have to have a heart of stone to be unmoved by these stories of terrible heartbreak.
But David had double heartbreak. Not only was his son killed, but also his son betrayed him. And so, we have here two of the most poignant themes in human life: broken hearts and betrayed hearts. Bad enough that the son is dead, but the agony is compounded by the painful truth that the son betrayed his father. And yet what else can a father do but love his son: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!”
The David stories grab our attention, because they show us what we as human beings are like. We love, and yet we betray. And are betrayed. And we can also continue to love those who have betrayed us. So yes, these stories show us who we are, but they also show us who God is. It means something that David is described as “one after God’s own heart”. It means that David helps us to see what is in God’s heart. In David’s anguished cry over his dead son, we also hear God’s anguished cry over his dead son, a son murdered and betrayed by God’s own people, people whom God yet continues to love, even when they are the betrayers.
The suffering of David mirrors in some mysterious way the suffering of God. Though David was a mighty warrior and united the northern and southern kingdoms into a regional power with which other nations had to reckon, it is not his success as a warrior that offers us the deepest insight into God. We often call God mighty and powerful, but God’s might and power are not fully grasped in God’s absolute control, but rather in God’s absolute love, a love that remains love even when it betrayed and rejected. Human beings can and do destroy human love. But God’s love for us does not disappear. There is nothing we can do to destroy God’s love for us. No matter what we do, no matter who we are, God loves us. And that is the reason God suffers.
Some years ago, I audited a course at Yale Divinity School, taught by Marilyn Adams and Nicholas Wolterstorff. It was a philosophical theology course on the question of God’s suffering. Does God really suffer? Many theologians throughout Christian history, including Thomas Aquinas, have taught that God does not suffer and cannot suffer, because God is completely self-sufficient and lacks nothing.
Suffering implies incompletion, a lack, a longing for what is not yet. Now Wolterstorff lost a son in a mountain climbing accident some years ago, and in response to his horrific loss, he wrote a book, Lament for a Son in which he wrote:
God is love. That is why God suffers. To love our suffering sinful world is to suffer. God so suffered for the world that God gave up God’s only son to suffering. The one who does not see God suffering does not see God’s love. God is suffering love. So suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is.
David’s plaintive cry over his dead son pierces our ears and jolts us into remembering another one of David’s descendants----Jesus, who was nothing like Absalom. You see, Absalom was beautiful with a stunning thick mane of hair that was the envy of everyone. People could not help but be attracted to this beautiful and charismatic man. And Jesus? Using the book of Isaiah to help us interpret Jesus Christ, we are reminded that “he had no form or comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by others, a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.” No, Jesus was not like Absalom, and yet his God whom Jesus called Father, would also grieve over the son, who was surely after God’s own heart.
BETRAYED & BROKEN HEARTS By Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 8/8/2021
2 Samuel 18: 5-9’ 15. 31-33
Ephesians 4: 25-5:2
When I was a child in Sunday school, we spent considerable time learning the stories of David. As children we were impressed with this shepherd boy, who slew with his slingshot the giant Goliath. We also learned about
David’s extraordinary friendship with Jonathan, Saul’s son. Saul, you might recall, became jealous of David’s success as a warrior, and so Saul conspired to kill David, but Jonathan intervened to save David’s life. We also knew the story of Bathsheba and David, but the concentration in Sunday school was not on the sex scandal, but rather on David’s manipulation of the circumstances that led to Uriah’s death. And so, even to children, it is obvious that David was far from a perfect man or perfect king, and yet early on in the David narratives we hear from Samuel, who had anointed him king, that God had sought David out as “one who was after God’s own heart.”
But being after God’s own heart does not guarantee that one’s life will go smoothly. David’s surely did not. David had many wives and concubines, which resulted in numerous children. When one of David’s sons, Amnon, raped his half sister, Tamar, David, who greatly loved Amnon, said and did nothing. And then when another son, Absalom, in revenge for the rape of his sister, killed Amnon, his half brother, the heart broken David managed to banish Absalom from his kingdom for only a short while, until Joab, one of David’s commanders, helped to bring Absalom back to Jerusalem where he was reconciled with his father. But the reconciliation was short lived, because in no time at all, Absalom would seek to usurp the throne from his father. And since love often is blind, David did not see Absalom’s evil intention. And so, we arrive at our lesson from Samuel for today.
We learn that Absalom has raised an army against his father, and yet the father cannot help but love his son. This is the human condition. Remember Timothy McVeigh, who bombed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City? He too was loved by his father. And so, we should not be surprised that David told his commanders, “Deal gently for my sake with the young man, Absalom.” But the king’s words were ignored. Convinced that Absalom would continue to cause disruptions in the kingdom, Joab first struck Absalom with three spears, and then ten men surrounded him and finished him off.
The text tells us that 20,000 men died in the battle, but David showed no concern for the number of casualties. He had only one question in his mind and heart: Is it well with the young man, Absalom? He asked it first of Ahimaaz, who was an Israelite soldier, and when David received no definite answer, he asked the same question of a nameless Cushite—an outsider, someone from another tribe. It seems that no Israelite wanted to tell the king that his son was dead, and so the task fell to the Cushite, who could have been the recipient of David’s rage.
But it is not rage we get. It is heart broken grief: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!” Every parent can feel David’s agony, because it is the fear that every parent must live with---that their child might pre-decease them. It matters not if the child is 4 or 40. That modern medicine has helped to make this a relatively uncommon experience for most of us, does not mean that the fear has been removed.
The loss of a son or daughter is a theme literature has readily embraced throughout the centuries, precisely because it is a story, which goes to the very depths of human life. Consider Shakespeare’s King Lear, who lost his daughter, Cordelia, or Homer’s The Iliad, when King Priam of Troy, lost his son, the valiant warrior, Hector, to the mighty Greek fighter, Achilles. Priam then went to Achilles in the dead of night to ask for the body of his dead son. You would have to have a heart of stone to be unmoved by these stories of terrible heartbreak.
But David had double heartbreak. Not only was his son killed, but also his son betrayed him. And so, we have here two of the most poignant themes in human life: broken hearts and betrayed hearts. Bad enough that the son is dead, but the agony is compounded by the painful truth that the son betrayed his father. And yet what else can a father do but love his son: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!”
The David stories grab our attention, because they show us what we as human beings are like. We love, and yet we betray. And are betrayed. And we can also continue to love those who have betrayed us. So yes, these stories show us who we are, but they also show us who God is. It means something that David is described as “one after God’s own heart”. It means that David helps us to see what is in God’s heart. In David’s anguished cry over his dead son, we also hear God’s anguished cry over his dead son, a son murdered and betrayed by God’s own people, people whom God yet continues to love, even when they are the betrayers.
The suffering of David mirrors in some mysterious way the suffering of God. Though David was a mighty warrior and united the northern and southern kingdoms into a regional power with which other nations had to reckon, it is not his success as a warrior that offers us the deepest insight into God. We often call God mighty and powerful, but God’s might and power are not fully grasped in God’s absolute control, but rather in God’s absolute love, a love that remains love even when it betrayed and rejected. Human beings can and do destroy human love. But God’s love for us does not disappear. There is nothing we can do to destroy God’s love for us. No matter what we do, no matter who we are, God loves us. And that is the reason God suffers.
Some years ago, I audited a course at Yale Divinity School, taught by Marilyn Adams and Nicholas Wolterstorff. It was a philosophical theology course on the question of God’s suffering. Does God really suffer? Many theologians throughout Christian history, including Thomas Aquinas, have taught that God does not suffer and cannot suffer, because God is completely self-sufficient and lacks nothing.
Suffering implies incompletion, a lack, a longing for what is not yet. Now Wolterstorff lost a son in a mountain climbing accident some years ago, and in response to his horrific loss, he wrote a book, Lament for a Son in which he wrote:
God is love. That is why God suffers. To love our suffering sinful world is to suffer. God so suffered for the world that God gave up God’s only son to suffering. The one who does not see God suffering does not see God’s love. God is suffering love. So suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is.
David’s plaintive cry over his dead son pierces our ears and jolts us into remembering another one of David’s descendants----Jesus, who was nothing like Absalom. You see, Absalom was beautiful with a stunning thick mane of hair that was the envy of everyone. People could not help but be attracted to this beautiful and charismatic man. And Jesus? Using the book of Isaiah to help us interpret Jesus Christ, we are reminded that “he had no form or comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by others, a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.” No, Jesus was not like Absalom, and yet his God whom Jesus called Father, would also grieve over the son, who was surely after God’s own heart.
2 Samuel 18: 5-9’ 15. 31-33
Ephesians 4: 25-5:2
When I was a child in Sunday school, we spent considerable time learning the stories of David. As children we were impressed with this shepherd boy, who slew with his slingshot the giant Goliath. We also learned about
David’s extraordinary friendship with Jonathan, Saul’s son. Saul, you might recall, became jealous of David’s success as a warrior, and so Saul conspired to kill David, but Jonathan intervened to save David’s life. We also knew the story of Bathsheba and David, but the concentration in Sunday school was not on the sex scandal, but rather on David’s manipulation of the circumstances that led to Uriah’s death. And so, even to children, it is obvious that David was far from a perfect man or perfect king, and yet early on in the David narratives we hear from Samuel, who had anointed him king, that God had sought David out as “one who was after God’s own heart.”
But being after God’s own heart does not guarantee that one’s life will go smoothly. David’s surely did not. David had many wives and concubines, which resulted in numerous children. When one of David’s sons, Amnon, raped his half sister, Tamar, David, who greatly loved Amnon, said and did nothing. And then when another son, Absalom, in revenge for the rape of his sister, killed Amnon, his half brother, the heart broken David managed to banish Absalom from his kingdom for only a short while, until Joab, one of David’s commanders, helped to bring Absalom back to Jerusalem where he was reconciled with his father. But the reconciliation was short lived, because in no time at all, Absalom would seek to usurp the throne from his father. And since love often is blind, David did not see Absalom’s evil intention. And so, we arrive at our lesson from Samuel for today.
We learn that Absalom has raised an army against his father, and yet the father cannot help but love his son. This is the human condition. Remember Timothy McVeigh, who bombed the Federal Building in Oklahoma City? He too was loved by his father. And so, we should not be surprised that David told his commanders, “Deal gently for my sake with the young man, Absalom.” But the king’s words were ignored. Convinced that Absalom would continue to cause disruptions in the kingdom, Joab first struck Absalom with three spears, and then ten men surrounded him and finished him off.
The text tells us that 20,000 men died in the battle, but David showed no concern for the number of casualties. He had only one question in his mind and heart: Is it well with the young man, Absalom? He asked it first of Ahimaaz, who was an Israelite soldier, and when David received no definite answer, he asked the same question of a nameless Cushite—an outsider, someone from another tribe. It seems that no Israelite wanted to tell the king that his son was dead, and so the task fell to the Cushite, who could have been the recipient of David’s rage.
But it is not rage we get. It is heart broken grief: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!” Every parent can feel David’s agony, because it is the fear that every parent must live with---that their child might pre-decease them. It matters not if the child is 4 or 40. That modern medicine has helped to make this a relatively uncommon experience for most of us, does not mean that the fear has been removed.
The loss of a son or daughter is a theme literature has readily embraced throughout the centuries, precisely because it is a story, which goes to the very depths of human life. Consider Shakespeare’s King Lear, who lost his daughter, Cordelia, or Homer’s The Iliad, when King Priam of Troy, lost his son, the valiant warrior, Hector, to the mighty Greek fighter, Achilles. Priam then went to Achilles in the dead of night to ask for the body of his dead son. You would have to have a heart of stone to be unmoved by these stories of terrible heartbreak.
But David had double heartbreak. Not only was his son killed, but also his son betrayed him. And so, we have here two of the most poignant themes in human life: broken hearts and betrayed hearts. Bad enough that the son is dead, but the agony is compounded by the painful truth that the son betrayed his father. And yet what else can a father do but love his son: O my son, Absalom, my son, my son, Absalom. Would I had died instead of you. O Absalom, my son, my son!”
The David stories grab our attention, because they show us what we as human beings are like. We love, and yet we betray. And are betrayed. And we can also continue to love those who have betrayed us. So yes, these stories show us who we are, but they also show us who God is. It means something that David is described as “one after God’s own heart”. It means that David helps us to see what is in God’s heart. In David’s anguished cry over his dead son, we also hear God’s anguished cry over his dead son, a son murdered and betrayed by God’s own people, people whom God yet continues to love, even when they are the betrayers.
The suffering of David mirrors in some mysterious way the suffering of God. Though David was a mighty warrior and united the northern and southern kingdoms into a regional power with which other nations had to reckon, it is not his success as a warrior that offers us the deepest insight into God. We often call God mighty and powerful, but God’s might and power are not fully grasped in God’s absolute control, but rather in God’s absolute love, a love that remains love even when it betrayed and rejected. Human beings can and do destroy human love. But God’s love for us does not disappear. There is nothing we can do to destroy God’s love for us. No matter what we do, no matter who we are, God loves us. And that is the reason God suffers.
Some years ago, I audited a course at Yale Divinity School, taught by Marilyn Adams and Nicholas Wolterstorff. It was a philosophical theology course on the question of God’s suffering. Does God really suffer? Many theologians throughout Christian history, including Thomas Aquinas, have taught that God does not suffer and cannot suffer, because God is completely self-sufficient and lacks nothing.
Suffering implies incompletion, a lack, a longing for what is not yet. Now Wolterstorff lost a son in a mountain climbing accident some years ago, and in response to his horrific loss, he wrote a book, Lament for a Son in which he wrote:
God is love. That is why God suffers. To love our suffering sinful world is to suffer. God so suffered for the world that God gave up God’s only son to suffering. The one who does not see God suffering does not see God’s love. God is suffering love. So suffering is down at the center of things, deep down where the meaning is.
David’s plaintive cry over his dead son pierces our ears and jolts us into remembering another one of David’s descendants----Jesus, who was nothing like Absalom. You see, Absalom was beautiful with a stunning thick mane of hair that was the envy of everyone. People could not help but be attracted to this beautiful and charismatic man. And Jesus? Using the book of Isaiah to help us interpret Jesus Christ, we are reminded that “he had no form or comeliness that we should look at him, and no beauty that we should desire him. He was despised and rejected by others, a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief.” No, Jesus was not like Absalom, and yet his God whom Jesus called Father, would also grieve over the son, who was surely after God’s own heart.
August 5, 2021
Dear Friends,
We hear a great deal these days about critical race theory and the structural racism that has been a major part of our nation’s history. There is no denying the fact that black persons were brought here as slaves, and even after the Civil War, which was supposed to guarantee their freedom, racist laws prevented them from the full rights and responsibilities of citizenship. It was not until 1954 that the United States Supreme Court declared “separate but equal” unconstitutional. And still deep, structural problems persisted in education and voting rights---and still do. When I consider my own youth in various suburbs, it embarrasses me to admit that from kindergarten through high school, I did not have one person of color in any of my schools or neighborhoods!
So, it was with surprise and delight that I recently came across a review about a book, A Stronger Kingship, by historian Anna-Lisa Cox. The book tells the story of a small town, Covert, in Michigan, where black and white people lived together as neighbors, farming together, and doing what needed to be done to make their little community a decent place to live. According to Ms. Cox, black and white men (not women) voted together, and black men actually ran for office and won! But to me the most shocking thing was what happened in the schools.
In Michigan in the year 1866 it was illegal to educate black and white children together, so when black settlers, after the Civil War, began showing up in Covert and buying land with a schoolhouse on it, the town had to make a decision. And the town decided to educate the children together.
The town was required each year to submit a report to the state capital, listing all the students they were teaching, and though race was supposed to be included, Covert’s School Board simply omitted it. The town had a secret, and this secret would protect ALL their students.
According to this book, black and white people lived side by side, socializing and worshipping together. There were even a handful of intermarriages, something almost unheard of in the 19th, let alone the 20th century, before 1967, when the U.S. Supreme Court overturned miscegenation laws, which had outlawed marriage between white and black persons. The town, by the way, was not founded by abolitionists, and it was not intended to be a utopia, and yet it rejected all the Jim Crow laws, the lynchings and court sanctioned segregation that became the nation’s common history.
How was this possible and why was it that Covert, Michigan happened? Ms. Cox apparently does not answer the question directly, but writes, “Our puzzlement over Covert reveals a hidden assumption that racism is the norm, that unfairness and injustice are the natural partners that the nation falls into if given half a chance.” That is an understandable conclusion “given the horrific and sorrow filled history of race relations in this country.” But Covert reminds us “that the terrible history was a choice, not a given.” Ponder those words: a choice, not a given. And if a choice, that means we can make changes.
I am no historian, and I have not read the book, but the story intrigues me. I have no idea whether or not religion or faith played any role in how this town chose to live its life, but that is certainly an interesting question to pursue. Yes, Covert citizens made a choice, but what was it that helped them to make the right choice, the choice for goodness and fairness and justice? That is the question I am most interested in seeing answered. Perhaps I will simply have to read the book.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
We hear a great deal these days about critical race theory and the structural racism that has been a major part of our nation’s history. There is no denying the fact that black persons were brought here as slaves, and even after the Civil War, which was supposed to guarantee their freedom, racist laws prevented them from the full rights and responsibilities of citizenship. It was not until 1954 that the United States Supreme Court declared “separate but equal” unconstitutional. And still deep, structural problems persisted in education and voting rights---and still do. When I consider my own youth in various suburbs, it embarrasses me to admit that from kindergarten through high school, I did not have one person of color in any of my schools or neighborhoods!
So, it was with surprise and delight that I recently came across a review about a book, A Stronger Kingship, by historian Anna-Lisa Cox. The book tells the story of a small town, Covert, in Michigan, where black and white people lived together as neighbors, farming together, and doing what needed to be done to make their little community a decent place to live. According to Ms. Cox, black and white men (not women) voted together, and black men actually ran for office and won! But to me the most shocking thing was what happened in the schools.
In Michigan in the year 1866 it was illegal to educate black and white children together, so when black settlers, after the Civil War, began showing up in Covert and buying land with a schoolhouse on it, the town had to make a decision. And the town decided to educate the children together.
The town was required each year to submit a report to the state capital, listing all the students they were teaching, and though race was supposed to be included, Covert’s School Board simply omitted it. The town had a secret, and this secret would protect ALL their students.
According to this book, black and white people lived side by side, socializing and worshipping together. There were even a handful of intermarriages, something almost unheard of in the 19th, let alone the 20th century, before 1967, when the U.S. Supreme Court overturned miscegenation laws, which had outlawed marriage between white and black persons. The town, by the way, was not founded by abolitionists, and it was not intended to be a utopia, and yet it rejected all the Jim Crow laws, the lynchings and court sanctioned segregation that became the nation’s common history.
How was this possible and why was it that Covert, Michigan happened? Ms. Cox apparently does not answer the question directly, but writes, “Our puzzlement over Covert reveals a hidden assumption that racism is the norm, that unfairness and injustice are the natural partners that the nation falls into if given half a chance.” That is an understandable conclusion “given the horrific and sorrow filled history of race relations in this country.” But Covert reminds us “that the terrible history was a choice, not a given.” Ponder those words: a choice, not a given. And if a choice, that means we can make changes.
I am no historian, and I have not read the book, but the story intrigues me. I have no idea whether or not religion or faith played any role in how this town chose to live its life, but that is certainly an interesting question to pursue. Yes, Covert citizens made a choice, but what was it that helped them to make the right choice, the choice for goodness and fairness and justice? That is the question I am most interested in seeing answered. Perhaps I will simply have to read the book.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
No One is Good But God by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 8/1/2021
Mark 10: 17-22
2 Samuel 11: 1-17
Consider how this story of David’s lust begins: In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab with his officers and all Israel with him. So, kings go out to battle in the springtime, but this is not what David did. He remained home, in his palace, where he rose from his couch one late afternoon and walked about. We can almost imagine his boredom. No longer in the flush of youth, David is most likely middle aged. The lust for battle has perhaps passed; he will leave that to his younger officers. But his lust for beautiful flesh has not diminished, and so when spies Bathsheba, bathing, he decides he must have her. Now our text says he sent messengers to get her, which really is an abduction. How could she possibly refuse to go with them
The incomparable Dutch artist, Rembrandt, paints the scene with a different twist. He imagines Bathsheba reading a letter, commanding her to come to the king. And he paints on her face a look of pensive sadness as she ponders her fate. What else can she do but go? There is no choice at all. It is rape, though I suppose some would try to argue that Bathsheba had some limited agency in this sordid affair. What would David have done, if she had refused to come to his chamber? We do not fully know, though we have our deep suspicions that powerful men like David do not react well when their power is thwarted. The Hebrew uses some rather violent language, saying that David took her, though most English translations read euphemistically he lay with her. And, of course, things become messy, when she becomes pregnant, and David tries to hide the fact of his ignominy by trying to entice Uriah, her husband, to return home and sleep with his wife, which he refuses to do. Uriah is a warrior, a man of honor, and he will not desert his men and do something he considers to be shameful. So, David conspires to have him killed by telling Joab to make sure the men withdraw at the right time, leaving Uriah vulnerable and finally dead.
So, there we have it, a story which is far older than David, yet a story we are all too familiar with today. We hear it time and time again----powerful men abusing their power to sexually have their way with women. Sometimes women claim rape, and at other times they claim their consent came from fear of what would happen if they refused---not unlike Bathsheba. The repetitive details would be almost boring, if we did not know they involve real people with real sufferings. The list of names is long, but hardly exhaustive, including Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Jeffrey Epstein. Then there are leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, John Kennedy and Donald Trump whose behaviors with women certainly crossed lines---perhaps even criminal lines. I recall a few years back, listening to a grandmother, being interviewed about her affair with President Kennedy. She had been a young intern in the White House, and she claimed the President seduced her. She never said a word until she was named in a book, and then she came forward, talking about a bath with the President playing with toy boats in the bathtub during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when she reported him saying, “I would prefer my children to be Red rather than dead! I was at the Y at the time, watching the television along with the two other women around my age, and we were all were shocked she would make such things public. I mean she was a grandmother, for goodness sakes! What would her grandchildren think? We all agreed: we would keep our mouths shut!
Of course, historically that is what women have done. They have kept quiet, because they saw no advantage in talking. When there is a disequilibrium of power, as there is between a President and in intern or a king and the wife of one of the king’s soldiers, it is all too easy to dismiss the voice of the less powerful one. We have no idea what Bathsheba said other than the text telling us that she told David she was pregnant. She remains voiceless, and that is a major problem. Her side of the story is never told. We see it solely from David’s angle, from the position of a man of power, considered to be a great man.
And despite his major moral failure, greatness did shine. He accomplished great things in battle as well as in politics. He held together both the northern and the southern kingdoms, Israel and Judah, hardly an easy thing to do with diversity threatening to unravel the alliances he also made with other countries. Did these successes justify his treatment of Bathsheba? Of course not, but perhaps we would be wise to consider a truth we often deny: character is rarely consistent. Oh, we expect it to be, and we look for it, and should we discover that the strong and great really do evidence flaws and weaknesses, we are shocked, as many of us were about Martin Luther King’s infidelities. But should we really be so surprised? People are strong and weak in different places and being broken in one place does not mean broken in all places. Now it is true that if there are too many broken places, the character structure is in danger of breaking down, but most human beings are a mixture of both strength and weakness. And the same is true of the so called great men and women. That is simply the way it is. Remember, even Jesus wanted to know why people were calling him good. “No one is good except God,” he insisted.
We would do well to pay greater heed to the Christian doctrine of the human being---the idea that sin lurks in all of us. We are all fallen creatures, which is why Christianity points out that the greatest of saints are also the greatest of sinners, meaning that bold people often are guilty of bold sin. Consider the Protestant reformer, Martin Luther, who spent his early years in the monastery confessing trivial sins---until the Reformation helped him realize that he might be guilty of spiritual pride---believing that he alone understood God’s Word. The most bedeviling question put to him by the Roman authorities, the one that disquieted his soul was: “Why is it, Martin, that you think you are right, that you alone understand, when for more than one thousand years the church has been teaching what you now reject?” Luther had no answer to that question. Was it God’s truth that was grasping his heart and mind, or was it spiritual pride? He could never be sure, and I suspect it was probably a mixture of both----but without the sin of spiritual pride, would not have been able to do what he did---defy the Roman Church and offer a new way of understanding faith?
Luther was far from perfect; he was partly responsible for the slaughter of many thousands of peasants in the Peasant uprising against the aristocracy. And in later life he penned such filth against the Jews that we can only cringe in horror even as we condemn his words. But do those sins undo his achievements and overturn the brilliance of his insights? If they do, the fault lies with us, not with Luther. It is not perfection we should expect from human beings. It is not even an unblemished goodness, for as Jesus insists, “Only God is good.”
When Larry King interviewed Bill Clinton after he was no longer President, he asked him why he did what he did with Monica Lewinsky. Why would you risk your Presidency? And I give Clinton credit for answering honestly, “For the worst of all reasons,” he said, “because I could.” And King David, like so many others, wrote the same script. They did what they did because they could---and they continue to do it today, because they still think they can get away with it. Without a doubt, such behavior was and is immoral, but again, consider David. He is still in the pages of biblical history, remembered as Israel’s greatest king, the one who ruled over a United Kingdom, the one from whose line Jesus would come. We look at David and so many others, clearly seeing that character is inconsistent. That is the way it is, the way human beings are, which is why, with no ambiguity intended, Jesus told us: “No one is good but God.”
Mark 10: 17-22
2 Samuel 11: 1-17
Consider how this story of David’s lust begins: In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab with his officers and all Israel with him. So, kings go out to battle in the springtime, but this is not what David did. He remained home, in his palace, where he rose from his couch one late afternoon and walked about. We can almost imagine his boredom. No longer in the flush of youth, David is most likely middle aged. The lust for battle has perhaps passed; he will leave that to his younger officers. But his lust for beautiful flesh has not diminished, and so when spies Bathsheba, bathing, he decides he must have her. Now our text says he sent messengers to get her, which really is an abduction. How could she possibly refuse to go with them
The incomparable Dutch artist, Rembrandt, paints the scene with a different twist. He imagines Bathsheba reading a letter, commanding her to come to the king. And he paints on her face a look of pensive sadness as she ponders her fate. What else can she do but go? There is no choice at all. It is rape, though I suppose some would try to argue that Bathsheba had some limited agency in this sordid affair. What would David have done, if she had refused to come to his chamber? We do not fully know, though we have our deep suspicions that powerful men like David do not react well when their power is thwarted. The Hebrew uses some rather violent language, saying that David took her, though most English translations read euphemistically he lay with her. And, of course, things become messy, when she becomes pregnant, and David tries to hide the fact of his ignominy by trying to entice Uriah, her husband, to return home and sleep with his wife, which he refuses to do. Uriah is a warrior, a man of honor, and he will not desert his men and do something he considers to be shameful. So, David conspires to have him killed by telling Joab to make sure the men withdraw at the right time, leaving Uriah vulnerable and finally dead.
So, there we have it, a story which is far older than David, yet a story we are all too familiar with today. We hear it time and time again----powerful men abusing their power to sexually have their way with women. Sometimes women claim rape, and at other times they claim their consent came from fear of what would happen if they refused---not unlike Bathsheba. The repetitive details would be almost boring, if we did not know they involve real people with real sufferings. The list of names is long, but hardly exhaustive, including Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Jeffrey Epstein. Then there are leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, John Kennedy and Donald Trump whose behaviors with women certainly crossed lines---perhaps even criminal lines. I recall a few years back, listening to a grandmother, being interviewed about her affair with President Kennedy. She had been a young intern in the White House, and she claimed the President seduced her. She never said a word until she was named in a book, and then she came forward, talking about a bath with the President playing with toy boats in the bathtub during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when she reported him saying, “I would prefer my children to be Red rather than dead! I was at the Y at the time, watching the television along with the two other women around my age, and we were all were shocked she would make such things public. I mean she was a grandmother, for goodness sakes! What would her grandchildren think? We all agreed: we would keep our mouths shut!
Of course, historically that is what women have done. They have kept quiet, because they saw no advantage in talking. When there is a disequilibrium of power, as there is between a President and in intern or a king and the wife of one of the king’s soldiers, it is all too easy to dismiss the voice of the less powerful one. We have no idea what Bathsheba said other than the text telling us that she told David she was pregnant. She remains voiceless, and that is a major problem. Her side of the story is never told. We see it solely from David’s angle, from the position of a man of power, considered to be a great man.
And despite his major moral failure, greatness did shine. He accomplished great things in battle as well as in politics. He held together both the northern and the southern kingdoms, Israel and Judah, hardly an easy thing to do with diversity threatening to unravel the alliances he also made with other countries. Did these successes justify his treatment of Bathsheba? Of course not, but perhaps we would be wise to consider a truth we often deny: character is rarely consistent. Oh, we expect it to be, and we look for it, and should we discover that the strong and great really do evidence flaws and weaknesses, we are shocked, as many of us were about Martin Luther King’s infidelities. But should we really be so surprised? People are strong and weak in different places and being broken in one place does not mean broken in all places. Now it is true that if there are too many broken places, the character structure is in danger of breaking down, but most human beings are a mixture of both strength and weakness. And the same is true of the so called great men and women. That is simply the way it is. Remember, even Jesus wanted to know why people were calling him good. “No one is good except God,” he insisted.
We would do well to pay greater heed to the Christian doctrine of the human being---the idea that sin lurks in all of us. We are all fallen creatures, which is why Christianity points out that the greatest of saints are also the greatest of sinners, meaning that bold people often are guilty of bold sin. Consider the Protestant reformer, Martin Luther, who spent his early years in the monastery confessing trivial sins---until the Reformation helped him realize that he might be guilty of spiritual pride---believing that he alone understood God’s Word. The most bedeviling question put to him by the Roman authorities, the one that disquieted his soul was: “Why is it, Martin, that you think you are right, that you alone understand, when for more than one thousand years the church has been teaching what you now reject?” Luther had no answer to that question. Was it God’s truth that was grasping his heart and mind, or was it spiritual pride? He could never be sure, and I suspect it was probably a mixture of both----but without the sin of spiritual pride, would not have been able to do what he did---defy the Roman Church and offer a new way of understanding faith?
Luther was far from perfect; he was partly responsible for the slaughter of many thousands of peasants in the Peasant uprising against the aristocracy. And in later life he penned such filth against the Jews that we can only cringe in horror even as we condemn his words. But do those sins undo his achievements and overturn the brilliance of his insights? If they do, the fault lies with us, not with Luther. It is not perfection we should expect from human beings. It is not even an unblemished goodness, for as Jesus insists, “Only God is good.”
When Larry King interviewed Bill Clinton after he was no longer President, he asked him why he did what he did with Monica Lewinsky. Why would you risk your Presidency? And I give Clinton credit for answering honestly, “For the worst of all reasons,” he said, “because I could.” And King David, like so many others, wrote the same script. They did what they did because they could---and they continue to do it today, because they still think they can get away with it. Without a doubt, such behavior was and is immoral, but again, consider David. He is still in the pages of biblical history, remembered as Israel’s greatest king, the one who ruled over a United Kingdom, the one from whose line Jesus would come. We look at David and so many others, clearly seeing that character is inconsistent. That is the way it is, the way human beings are, which is why, with no ambiguity intended, Jesus told us: “No one is good but God.”
No One is Good But God by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 7/25/2021
Mark 10: 17-22
2 Samuel 11: 1-17
Consider how this story of David’s lust begins: In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab with his officers and all Israel with him. So, kings go out to battle in the springtime, but this is not what David did. He remained home, in his palace, where he rose from his couch one late afternoon and walked about. We can almost imagine his boredom. No longer in the flush of youth, David is most likely middle aged. The lust for battle has perhaps passed; he will leave that to his younger officers. But his lust for beautiful flesh has not diminished, and so when spies Bathsheba, bathing, he decides he must have her. Now our text says he sent messengers to get her, which really is an abduction. How could she possibly refuse to go with them?
The incomparable Dutch artist, Rembrandt, paints the scene with a different twist. He imagines Bathsheba reading a letter, commanding her to come to the king. And he paints on her face a look of pensive sadness as she ponders her fate. What else can she do but go? There is no choice at all. It is rape, though I suppose some would try to argue that Bathsheba had some limited agency in this sordid affair. What would David have done, if she had refused to come to his chamber? We do not fully know, though we have our deep suspicions that powerful men like David do not react well when their power is thwarted. The Hebrew uses some rather violent language, saying that David took her, though most English translations read euphemistically he lay with her. And, of course, things become messy, when she becomes pregnant, and David tries to hide the fact of his ignominy by trying to entice Uriah, her husband, to return home and sleep with his wife, which he refuses to do. Uriah is a warrior, a man of honor, and he will not desert his men and do something he considers to be shameful. So, David conspires to have him killed by telling Joab to make sure the men withdraw at the right time, leaving Uriah vulnerable and finally dead.
So, there we have it, a story which is far older than David, yet a story we are all too familiar with today. We hear it time and time again----powerful men abusing their power to sexually have their way with women. Sometimes women claim rape, and at other times they claim their consent came from fear of what would happen if they refused---not unlike Bathsheba. The repetitive details would be almost boring, if we did not know they involve real people with real sufferings. The list of names is long, but hardly exhaustive, including Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Jeffrey Epstein. Then there are leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, John Kennedy and Donald Trump whose behaviors with women certainly crossed lines---perhaps even criminal lines. I recall a few years back, listening to a grandmother, being interviewed about her affair with President Kennedy. She had been a young intern in the White House, and she claimed the President seduced her. She never said a word until she was named in a book, and then she came forward, talking about a bath with the President playing with toy boats in the bathtub during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when she reported him saying, “I would prefer my children to be Red rather than dead! I was at the Y at the time, watching the television along with the two other women around my age, and we were all were shocked she would make such things public. I mean she was a grandmother, for goodness sakes! What would her grandchildren think? We all agreed: we would keep our mouths shut!
Of course, historically that is what women have done. They have kept quiet, because they saw no advantage in talking. When there is disequilibrium of power, as there is between a President and in intern or a king and the wife of one of the king’s soldiers, it is all too easy to dismiss the voice of the less powerful one. We have no idea what Bathsheba said other than the text telling us that she told David she was pregnant. She remains voiceless, and that is a major problem. Her side of the story is never told. We see it solely from David’s angle, from the position of a man of power, considered to be a great man.
And despite his major moral failure, greatness did shine. He accomplished great things in battle as well as in politics. He held together both the northern and the southern kingdoms, Israel and Judah, hardly an easy thing to do with diversity threatening to unravel the alliances he also made with other countries. Did these successes justify his treatment of Bathsheba? Of course not, but perhaps we would be wise to consider a truth we often deny: character is rarely consistent. Oh, we expect it to be, and we look for it, and should we discover that the strong and great really do evidence flaws and weaknesses; we are shocked, as many of us were about Martin Luther King’s infidelities. But should we really be so surprised? People are strong and weak in different places and being broken in one place does not mean broken in all places. Now it is true that if there are too many broken places, the character structure is in danger of breaking down, but most human beings are a mixture of both strength and weakness. And the same is true of the so called great men and women. That is simply the way it is. Remember, even Jesus wanted to know why people were calling him good. “No one is good except God,” he insisted.
We would do well to pay greater heed to the Christian doctrine of the human being---the idea that sin lurks in all of us. We are all fallen creatures, which is why Christianity points out that the greatest of saints are also the greatest of sinners, meaning that bold people often are guilty of bold sin. Consider the Protestant reformer, Martin Luther, who spent his early years in the monastery confessing trivial sins---until the Reformation helped him realize that he might be guilty of spiritual pride---believing that he alone understood God’s Word. The most bedeviling question put to him by the Roman authorities, the one that disquieted his soul was: “Why is it, Martin, that you think you are right, that you alone understand, when for more than one thousand years the church has been teaching what you now reject?” Luther had no answer to that question. Was it God’s truth that was grasping his heart and mind, or was it spiritual pride? He could never be sure, and I suspect it was probably a mixture of both----but without the sin of spiritual pride, would not have been able to do what he did---defy the Roman Church and offer a new way of understanding faith?
Luther was far from perfect; he was partly responsible for the slaughter of many thousands of peasants in the Peasant uprising against the aristocracy. And in later life he penned such filth against the Jews that we can only cringe in horror even as we condemn his words. But do those sins undo his achievements and overturn the brilliance of his insights? If they do, the fault lies with us, not with Luther. It is not perfection we should expect from human beings. It is not even an unblemished goodness, for as Jesus insists, “Only God is good.”
When Larry King interviewed Bill Clinton after he was no longer President, he asked him why he did what he did with Monica Lewinsky. Why would you risk your Presidency? And I give Clinton credit for answering honestly, “For the worst of all reasons,” he said, “because I could.” And King David, like so many others, wrote the same script. They did what they did because they could---and they continue to do it today, because they still think they can get away with it. Without a doubt, such behavior was and is immoral, but again, consider David. He is still in the pages of biblical history, remembered as Israel’s greatest king, the one who ruled over a United Kingdom, the one from whose line Jesus would come. We look at David and so many others, clearly seeing that character is inconsistent. That is the way it is, the way human beings are, which is why, with no ambiguity intended, Jesus told us: “No one is good but God.”
Mark 10: 17-22
2 Samuel 11: 1-17
Consider how this story of David’s lust begins: In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab with his officers and all Israel with him. So, kings go out to battle in the springtime, but this is not what David did. He remained home, in his palace, where he rose from his couch one late afternoon and walked about. We can almost imagine his boredom. No longer in the flush of youth, David is most likely middle aged. The lust for battle has perhaps passed; he will leave that to his younger officers. But his lust for beautiful flesh has not diminished, and so when spies Bathsheba, bathing, he decides he must have her. Now our text says he sent messengers to get her, which really is an abduction. How could she possibly refuse to go with them?
The incomparable Dutch artist, Rembrandt, paints the scene with a different twist. He imagines Bathsheba reading a letter, commanding her to come to the king. And he paints on her face a look of pensive sadness as she ponders her fate. What else can she do but go? There is no choice at all. It is rape, though I suppose some would try to argue that Bathsheba had some limited agency in this sordid affair. What would David have done, if she had refused to come to his chamber? We do not fully know, though we have our deep suspicions that powerful men like David do not react well when their power is thwarted. The Hebrew uses some rather violent language, saying that David took her, though most English translations read euphemistically he lay with her. And, of course, things become messy, when she becomes pregnant, and David tries to hide the fact of his ignominy by trying to entice Uriah, her husband, to return home and sleep with his wife, which he refuses to do. Uriah is a warrior, a man of honor, and he will not desert his men and do something he considers to be shameful. So, David conspires to have him killed by telling Joab to make sure the men withdraw at the right time, leaving Uriah vulnerable and finally dead.
So, there we have it, a story which is far older than David, yet a story we are all too familiar with today. We hear it time and time again----powerful men abusing their power to sexually have their way with women. Sometimes women claim rape, and at other times they claim their consent came from fear of what would happen if they refused---not unlike Bathsheba. The repetitive details would be almost boring, if we did not know they involve real people with real sufferings. The list of names is long, but hardly exhaustive, including Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Jeffrey Epstein. Then there are leaders like Martin Luther King, Jr, Bill Clinton, John Kennedy and Donald Trump whose behaviors with women certainly crossed lines---perhaps even criminal lines. I recall a few years back, listening to a grandmother, being interviewed about her affair with President Kennedy. She had been a young intern in the White House, and she claimed the President seduced her. She never said a word until she was named in a book, and then she came forward, talking about a bath with the President playing with toy boats in the bathtub during the Cuban Missile Crisis, when she reported him saying, “I would prefer my children to be Red rather than dead! I was at the Y at the time, watching the television along with the two other women around my age, and we were all were shocked she would make such things public. I mean she was a grandmother, for goodness sakes! What would her grandchildren think? We all agreed: we would keep our mouths shut!
Of course, historically that is what women have done. They have kept quiet, because they saw no advantage in talking. When there is disequilibrium of power, as there is between a President and in intern or a king and the wife of one of the king’s soldiers, it is all too easy to dismiss the voice of the less powerful one. We have no idea what Bathsheba said other than the text telling us that she told David she was pregnant. She remains voiceless, and that is a major problem. Her side of the story is never told. We see it solely from David’s angle, from the position of a man of power, considered to be a great man.
And despite his major moral failure, greatness did shine. He accomplished great things in battle as well as in politics. He held together both the northern and the southern kingdoms, Israel and Judah, hardly an easy thing to do with diversity threatening to unravel the alliances he also made with other countries. Did these successes justify his treatment of Bathsheba? Of course not, but perhaps we would be wise to consider a truth we often deny: character is rarely consistent. Oh, we expect it to be, and we look for it, and should we discover that the strong and great really do evidence flaws and weaknesses; we are shocked, as many of us were about Martin Luther King’s infidelities. But should we really be so surprised? People are strong and weak in different places and being broken in one place does not mean broken in all places. Now it is true that if there are too many broken places, the character structure is in danger of breaking down, but most human beings are a mixture of both strength and weakness. And the same is true of the so called great men and women. That is simply the way it is. Remember, even Jesus wanted to know why people were calling him good. “No one is good except God,” he insisted.
We would do well to pay greater heed to the Christian doctrine of the human being---the idea that sin lurks in all of us. We are all fallen creatures, which is why Christianity points out that the greatest of saints are also the greatest of sinners, meaning that bold people often are guilty of bold sin. Consider the Protestant reformer, Martin Luther, who spent his early years in the monastery confessing trivial sins---until the Reformation helped him realize that he might be guilty of spiritual pride---believing that he alone understood God’s Word. The most bedeviling question put to him by the Roman authorities, the one that disquieted his soul was: “Why is it, Martin, that you think you are right, that you alone understand, when for more than one thousand years the church has been teaching what you now reject?” Luther had no answer to that question. Was it God’s truth that was grasping his heart and mind, or was it spiritual pride? He could never be sure, and I suspect it was probably a mixture of both----but without the sin of spiritual pride, would not have been able to do what he did---defy the Roman Church and offer a new way of understanding faith?
Luther was far from perfect; he was partly responsible for the slaughter of many thousands of peasants in the Peasant uprising against the aristocracy. And in later life he penned such filth against the Jews that we can only cringe in horror even as we condemn his words. But do those sins undo his achievements and overturn the brilliance of his insights? If they do, the fault lies with us, not with Luther. It is not perfection we should expect from human beings. It is not even an unblemished goodness, for as Jesus insists, “Only God is good.”
When Larry King interviewed Bill Clinton after he was no longer President, he asked him why he did what he did with Monica Lewinsky. Why would you risk your Presidency? And I give Clinton credit for answering honestly, “For the worst of all reasons,” he said, “because I could.” And King David, like so many others, wrote the same script. They did what they did because they could---and they continue to do it today, because they still think they can get away with it. Without a doubt, such behavior was and is immoral, but again, consider David. He is still in the pages of biblical history, remembered as Israel’s greatest king, the one who ruled over a United Kingdom, the one from whose line Jesus would come. We look at David and so many others, clearly seeing that character is inconsistent. That is the way it is, the way human beings are, which is why, with no ambiguity intended, Jesus told us: “No one is good but God.”
KNOWING AND LOVING THE TRUTH by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 7/11/2021
Psalm 24
Mark 6: 14-29
John the Baptist ended up dead, his head cut off, for one reason: He spoke truth to power. Herod really did not want to have John killed. In the past he had even enjoyed John’s preaching, but John had said some things that his wife, Herodias, did not like at all. According to Jewish law in the Book of Leviticus, a brother in law should not marry his brother’s wife, and this is exactly what Herod did, so John called them out on it, named it as sin, which infuriated Herodias. Perhaps Herod would have been willing to live with John’s disapproval, but drunken fool that he was, he promised Herodias’ daughter, known as Salome, that she could have anything she wanted, and her mother told her to demand the head of John the Baptist on a platter. And so, Herod, cowardly sycophant that he was, felt he had no option but to comply. And so, there we have it. Now, if John had kept quiet, his head would have remained attached to his body, but this is not what he did, and so he suffered dire consequences. Speaking truth to power often gets one into very deep trouble, because if power does not like the truth, it can do some pretty awful things.
Most of you are probably aware that Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense under Gerald Ford and later, George W. Bush, died on June 28 at the age of 88. He is known as the architect of the war on Iraq and Afghanistan, though his career in politics spans far more than such service. Rumsfeld was both brilliant and powerful, but if you spoke truth he did not like, you could find yourself in deep trouble. Both Henry Kissinger and Colin Powell found themselves on the wrong side in some battles with Rumsfeld, and the results for them were not pretty. They became sidelined; their voices were ignored, and though that hardly compares to losing one’s head, for those accustomed to asserting power, losing it does not feel good.
There was nothing wrong with Rumsfeld’s brain; he was richly blessed with great intelligence, and under pressure he was cool, articulate and confident, but he had a fatal flaw. His arrogance could overrule his reason, and he would not listen to others, whose views not only differed from his own, but also whose experience in some areas surpassed his. He was notorious for ignoring what military leaders told him, and one thing they told him was that a post-war Iraq could be very challenging. But no, he would not listen, and he would not plan, and we are still living with the terrible consequences of that failure. And unlike Robert Mc Namera who later apologized for the Viet Nam debacle, Rumsfeld never once offered an apology. He thought he had nothing to apologize for. Power has this uncanny ability to ignore the truth that is staring it directly in the face. Power, in fact, can distort the truth and prevent people from truly seeing it.
Now truth is a pretty important component of human life. Even as young children we learned the difference between truth and falsehood, and most of us learned that we could get into deep trouble for lying. That did not necessarily mean that we did not lie, for we also learned that sometimes we could and did get away with it ---but only sometimes, and so we learned something about the virtue of truth. And as we grew older, we also learned something else--- truth is not always a question of black and white. We learned about different shades of grey, and we even learned that sometimes the truth is hidden and sometimes it is served in ways that are not always literal. And so, it is critical to ask the question: What and whom does the truth serve?
Some years ago, when I worked in a big medical center, I heard about this case of a woman, pregnant with her second child. She and her husband had a four year old, stricken with cystic fibrosis, a hereditary disease that will show up only if the two parents are carrying the gene and the child gets the gene from both parents. The child had almost died a number of times, but now things were stabilized, and so the couple decided to have another baby. There would be genetic testing through an amniocentesis, but when the preliminary blood tests of the parents came back, the doctor called the woman and said, “There is no use proceeding any further, for it is obvious that your husband is not the father of your four year old son. Your husband does not carry the gene”. There was a silence, and the mother continued,” I thought this was a possibility,” she said. “The father of my son is my husband’s brother. We had had an affair, over now for nearly four years, and now things are good between my husband and me. He knows nothing of this.” Well, that is not my business, the doctor said, but there is no need to continue with the test, since your pregnancy is not at risk.”
But you have to do the test, she insisted. My husband is a PhD in genetics; he knows the science, and he will want to know why no test. You must do it, or at least say you did it. I can’t do that, the doctor insisted. I cannot do the test, because it puts the fetus at risk for no reason. And I cannot lie and say I did something I did not do. And so, the argument went. The doctor brought the case to the ethics committee of the hospital, because he genuinely was in a quandary. The woman was his patient, but when he took blood from the husband, he too became a patient. The Committee was composed of 12 people, doctors, my boss, a Roman Catholic priest, who was head of pastoral care as well as a professor of ethics in the medical school, two geneticists, and social workers. The opinion of the Ethics Committee was not binding. It was suggestive, a way of helping people, in this case the doctor, thinking through the options. The Committee, by the way, was evenly divided between men and women. Now I was not on the Committee, but my boss was, and he told us chaplains about the case. And do you know what the recommendation was: it split right down the middle: The six men thought the doctor should not perform the test, nor should he lie and say he performed it. Their argument was that the truth, the literal truth, was the most critical value.
The women, on the other hand, argued that the most important concern in this case was the integrity of the family. The truth, they argued, should serve the preservation of the family and the relationships in it. What would it do to the husband to discover that he was not truly the father of the older child? And what would it also do to his relationship with his brother and his wife. Perhaps at some point the truth needs to come out—but not now, when vulnerability is so stark. The woman needs to tell her brother in law that he has the gene, but more truth than this is not now needed, the women argued.
The doctor received no clarity and though he really should not have told his family anything, he asked his wife and two teenage daughters what they thought. And they all voted with the women. Do the test, they said, or say you did the test, which is what he did. He lied and said the test was negative.
So many times in my life I have thought about this case and the struggle with truth and what truth serves and what and whom it finally protects. Some years later, when I was studying theology at a Roman Catholic seminary, one of the professors said, “We are called to love the truth and serve the truth, but when speaking the truth, we always should consider how others will hear the truth and use the truth.” Considering the scandal of sexual abuse in the Roman Church, we can wonder if the truth was often hidden out of fear for what would happen to the power of the Church if the whole ugly truth came out?
What are we loving and defending when we tell the truth? And are there cases when truth is truly served by hiding at least part of it—as it was in the case of this family? A healthy baby was born, and the family did go on to prosper---at least for a while. I do not know the final outcome. But that is often the way that truth or its lack works. We don’t necessarily know or see the results until much later, and sometimes the threat of harm never comes to be. I don’t know what Jesus would have counseled in this particular case. He told us to love the truth and follow it, but never for the sake of power but always for the sake of love.
Psalm 24
Mark 6: 14-29
John the Baptist ended up dead, his head cut off, for one reason: He spoke truth to power. Herod really did not want to have John killed. In the past he had even enjoyed John’s preaching, but John had said some things that his wife, Herodias, did not like at all. According to Jewish law in the Book of Leviticus, a brother in law should not marry his brother’s wife, and this is exactly what Herod did, so John called them out on it, named it as sin, which infuriated Herodias. Perhaps Herod would have been willing to live with John’s disapproval, but drunken fool that he was, he promised Herodias’ daughter, known as Salome, that she could have anything she wanted, and her mother told her to demand the head of John the Baptist on a platter. And so, Herod, cowardly sycophant that he was, felt he had no option but to comply. And so, there we have it. Now, if John had kept quiet, his head would have remained attached to his body, but this is not what he did, and so he suffered dire consequences. Speaking truth to power often gets one into very deep trouble, because if power does not like the truth, it can do some pretty awful things.
Most of you are probably aware that Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense under Gerald Ford and later, George W. Bush, died on June 28 at the age of 88. He is known as the architect of the war on Iraq and Afghanistan, though his career in politics spans far more than such service. Rumsfeld was both brilliant and powerful, but if you spoke truth he did not like, you could find yourself in deep trouble. Both Henry Kissinger and Colin Powell found themselves on the wrong side in some battles with Rumsfeld, and the results for them were not pretty. They became sidelined; their voices were ignored, and though that hardly compares to losing one’s head, for those accustomed to asserting power, losing it does not feel good.
There was nothing wrong with Rumsfeld’s brain; he was richly blessed with great intelligence, and under pressure he was cool, articulate and confident, but he had a fatal flaw. His arrogance could overrule his reason, and he would not listen to others, whose views not only differed from his own, but also whose experience in some areas surpassed his. He was notorious for ignoring what military leaders told him, and one thing they told him was that a post-war Iraq could be very challenging. But no, he would not listen, and he would not plan, and we are still living with the terrible consequences of that failure. And unlike Robert Mc Namera who later apologized for the Viet Nam debacle, Rumsfeld never once offered an apology. He thought he had nothing to apologize for. Power has this uncanny ability to ignore the truth that is staring it directly in the face. Power, in fact, can distort the truth and prevent people from truly seeing it.
Now truth is a pretty important component of human life. Even as young children we learned the difference between truth and falsehood, and most of us learned that we could get into deep trouble for lying. That did not necessarily mean that we did not lie, for we also learned that sometimes we could and did get away with it ---but only sometimes, and so we learned something about the virtue of truth. And as we grew older, we also learned something else--- truth is not always a question of black and white. We learned about different shades of grey, and we even learned that sometimes the truth is hidden and sometimes it is served in ways that are not always literal. And so, it is critical to ask the question: What and whom does the truth serve?
Some years ago, when I worked in a big medical center, I heard about this case of a woman, pregnant with her second child. She and her husband had a four year old, stricken with cystic fibrosis, a hereditary disease that will show up only if the two parents are carrying the gene and the child gets the gene from both parents. The child had almost died a number of times, but now things were stabilized, and so the couple decided to have another baby. There would be genetic testing through an amniocentesis, but when the preliminary blood tests of the parents came back, the doctor called the woman and said, “There is no use proceeding any further, for it is obvious that your husband is not the father of your four year old son. Your husband does not carry the gene”. There was a silence, and the mother continued,” I thought this was a possibility,” she said. “The father of my son is my husband’s brother. We had had an affair, over now for nearly four years, and now things are good between my husband and me. He knows nothing of this.” Well, that is not my business, the doctor said, but there is no need to continue with the test, since your pregnancy is not at risk.”
But you have to do the test, she insisted. My husband is a PhD in genetics; he knows the science, and he will want to know why no test. You must do it, or at least say you did it. I can’t do that, the doctor insisted. I cannot do the test, because it puts the fetus at risk for no reason. And I cannot lie and say I did something I did not do. And so, the argument went. The doctor brought the case to the ethics committee of the hospital, because he genuinely was in a quandary. The woman was his patient, but when he took blood from the husband, he too became a patient. The Committee was composed of 12 people, doctors, my boss, a Roman Catholic priest, who was head of pastoral care as well as a professor of ethics in the medical school, two geneticists, and social workers. The opinion of the Ethics Committee was not binding. It was suggestive, a way of helping people, in this case the doctor, thinking through the options. The Committee, by the way, was evenly divided between men and women. Now I was not on the Committee, but my boss was, and he told us chaplains about the case. And do you know what the recommendation was: it split right down the middle: The six men thought the doctor should not perform the test, nor should he lie and say he performed it. Their argument was that the truth, the literal truth, was the most critical value.
The women, on the other hand, argued that the most important concern in this case was the integrity of the family. The truth, they argued, should serve the preservation of the family and the relationships in it. What would it do to the husband to discover that he was not truly the father of the older child? And what would it also do to his relationship with his brother and his wife. Perhaps at some point the truth needs to come out—but not now, when vulnerability is so stark. The woman needs to tell her brother in law that he has the gene, but more truth than this is not now needed, the women argued.
The doctor received no clarity and though he really should not have told his family anything, he asked his wife and two teenage daughters what they thought. And they all voted with the women. Do the test, they said, or say you did the test, which is what he did. He lied and said the test was negative.
So many times in my life I have thought about this case and the struggle with truth and what truth serves and what and whom it finally protects. Some years later, when I was studying theology at a Roman Catholic seminary, one of the professors said, “We are called to love the truth and serve the truth, but when speaking the truth, we always should consider how others will hear the truth and use the truth.” Considering the scandal of sexual abuse in the Roman Church, we can wonder if the truth was often hidden out of fear for what would happen to the power of the Church if the whole ugly truth came out?
What are we loving and defending when we tell the truth? And are there cases when truth is truly served by hiding at least part of it—as it was in the case of this family? A healthy baby was born, and the family did go on to prosper---at least for a while. I do not know the final outcome. But that is often the way that truth or its lack works. We don’t necessarily know or see the results until much later, and sometimes the threat of harm never comes to be. I don’t know what Jesus would have counseled in this particular case. He told us to love the truth and follow it, but never for the sake of power but always for the sake of love.
July 13, 2021
Dear Friends,
I must admit that I am not very enthusiastic about space travel tourism. To be honest, I felt a bit sickened by these billionaires trying to outdo each other by going into space. Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Atlantic and the space company, Virgin Galactic, took a ride into space, 53 miles above the earth, which is considered the edge of space, on Sunday, July 11. I guess he found the ride quite thrilling. On July 20 Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon, and his brother, Mark Bezos along with two other unnamed persons, one of whom paid $28 million for the ride, will take a trip that goes beyond the edge of space, which is defined as 62 miles above the earth. Furthermore, on June 25 Virgin Galactic received approval from the Federal Aviation Administration to take passengers into space, which should begin sometime in 2022. With all the world’s problems, many of them, screaming out for funding, it does seem wasteful and self-obsessive thrill seeking to be spending money this way. Why not figure out how to be more helpful to a humanity in pain? While Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife, McKenzie Scott, is giving away billions, Jeff has a very different center of gravity. He is worth about $211 billion, the richest man in the world.
But this is not the end of it. Jane Poynter, co-founder of Space Perspectives, is working to develop giant balloons that will send eight tourists at a time 19 miles into the atmosphere beginning in 2024. Now 19 miles above the earth is not space, but Ms. Poynter believes that seeing the earth from this new perspective could have a profound impact on how people understand our swirling, blue planet and our place in it. She points out that many of the astronauts were changed people after their forays into space, involving themselves in environmental and humanitarian causes. But wait! Should we not consider the carbon footprint space travel makes before we start touting it as a way of transforming people. One rocket launch uses as much fuel as a car would over the course of 200 years! Our planet is in peril, and faith tells us that. God loves the world and declares it good. Should we not do the same?
Until quite recently NASA was very hesitant and circumspect about the possibilities of space travel tourism. But now it is beginning to see some benefit. But it isn’t clear what those benefits are. So much remains unknown and space travel is dangerous. There will be casualties. But perhaps this is the price paid for facing challenges and pushing the frontiers of technology. The truth is we simply do not know what lies on the other side of space travel. We have no idea what we might learn or how it might alter our perspective. There is something in we human beings that drives us to push against limits, and that being the case, when the line of space travel has been crossed, there is probably no turning back. II seriously doubt this is the best use of our limited resources, but human beings are not always practical in this regard. We hear this call, “Go forward,” even when, especially when, we do not know what we will find ahead or on the other side. I guess this is the way we are made, and God seems to have adjusted to our reach being beyond our grasp. God keeps hoping we will learn our lessons, but maybe we are just incredibly slow learners, and so God has learned to be patient with our slowness.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
I must admit that I am not very enthusiastic about space travel tourism. To be honest, I felt a bit sickened by these billionaires trying to outdo each other by going into space. Richard Branson, owner of Virgin Atlantic and the space company, Virgin Galactic, took a ride into space, 53 miles above the earth, which is considered the edge of space, on Sunday, July 11. I guess he found the ride quite thrilling. On July 20 Jeff Bezos, CEO of Amazon, and his brother, Mark Bezos along with two other unnamed persons, one of whom paid $28 million for the ride, will take a trip that goes beyond the edge of space, which is defined as 62 miles above the earth. Furthermore, on June 25 Virgin Galactic received approval from the Federal Aviation Administration to take passengers into space, which should begin sometime in 2022. With all the world’s problems, many of them, screaming out for funding, it does seem wasteful and self-obsessive thrill seeking to be spending money this way. Why not figure out how to be more helpful to a humanity in pain? While Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife, McKenzie Scott, is giving away billions, Jeff has a very different center of gravity. He is worth about $211 billion, the richest man in the world.
But this is not the end of it. Jane Poynter, co-founder of Space Perspectives, is working to develop giant balloons that will send eight tourists at a time 19 miles into the atmosphere beginning in 2024. Now 19 miles above the earth is not space, but Ms. Poynter believes that seeing the earth from this new perspective could have a profound impact on how people understand our swirling, blue planet and our place in it. She points out that many of the astronauts were changed people after their forays into space, involving themselves in environmental and humanitarian causes. But wait! Should we not consider the carbon footprint space travel makes before we start touting it as a way of transforming people. One rocket launch uses as much fuel as a car would over the course of 200 years! Our planet is in peril, and faith tells us that. God loves the world and declares it good. Should we not do the same?
Until quite recently NASA was very hesitant and circumspect about the possibilities of space travel tourism. But now it is beginning to see some benefit. But it isn’t clear what those benefits are. So much remains unknown and space travel is dangerous. There will be casualties. But perhaps this is the price paid for facing challenges and pushing the frontiers of technology. The truth is we simply do not know what lies on the other side of space travel. We have no idea what we might learn or how it might alter our perspective. There is something in we human beings that drives us to push against limits, and that being the case, when the line of space travel has been crossed, there is probably no turning back. II seriously doubt this is the best use of our limited resources, but human beings are not always practical in this regard. We hear this call, “Go forward,” even when, especially when, we do not know what we will find ahead or on the other side. I guess this is the way we are made, and God seems to have adjusted to our reach being beyond our grasp. God keeps hoping we will learn our lessons, but maybe we are just incredibly slow learners, and so God has learned to be patient with our slowness.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
July 7, 2021
Dear Friends,
There is no doubt that this past year has been a challenging one with a worldwide pandemic that has left over four million people dead. And yet, despite that bad news, we are celebrating the vaccine, which is helping many countries return to normal. There is other good news as well, and some of it might surprise you.
Despite the turbulence, fear and uncertainty of this past year, the world has witnessed a rise in giving. Take Myanmar, for example, which has increased its giving, though on the edge of an economic meltdown because of a military coup last February that disposed of the democratically elected government. Myanmar is known as one of the most altruistic countries in the world, and they continue to live up to that reputation in spite of grave hardship.
Our own country has also witnessed an uptake in giving. During most recessions giving goes down, but this past year charitable giving reached a record high. Americans donated $471 billion dollars, which is a 3.8% increase over the previous year. A bull stock market certainly helped, but it is also true that the call for racial justice as well as the pandemic have moved people to feel generous. Charities that deal with basic needs like food saw over an 8% increase in giving. Food banks experienced a doubling of donations, and overall the number of individual donors grew by 7.3%. Another surprising turn in our country was among the 18 to 30 year olds, whose giving doubled. According to the 2021 World Giving Index, more than half of adults worldwide helped someone in the past year they did not personally know
There is also another giving story, this one quite dramatic. McKenzie Scott, ex-wife of Jeff Bezos, who in 2019 received 4 % of Amazon’s stock, valued at the time about $36 billion, has pledged to give it all away. The challenge is that her wealth keeps growing faster than she can donate. Her estimated wealth is now $60 billion, and this is after she gave many billions away. In 2020 she gave $6 billion to 500 different organizations, and for the third time in under a year, she has announced a new gift, amounting to 2.74 billion to 286 organizations, including universities, art groups and other nonprofits, working to combat racial injustice and domestic violence. Among those receiving grants were the Alaska Heritage Foundation, Broward College in Florida and Jazz at Lincoln Center.
The interesting thing about Ms. Scott is that unlike most wealthy people into philanthropy, she does not have a Foundation. Foundations require a staff and a lot of paper filing, but this is not how she wants to spend her time or her money. Instead, she deals directly with the organizations she is interested in supporting. There is no formal application process, but she does rely on friends, and advisors as well as her new husband, Dan Jewett, a chemistry teacher at one of her children’s schools.
Ms. Scott does seem to have some discomfort about where her wealth comes from. She is very aware of the criticism Amazon receives about its pay scale and working conditions. Though an intensely private person, she did write in a blog that it would be preferable if “disproportionate wealth was not concentrated in a small number of hands.” She also wrote that she hoped to “de-emphasize privileged voices and cede focus to others.” Yet she shows no interest in countering Amazon’s mega influence, and so far, she has not supported any think tanks or research groups that feed information and knowledge to Washington and state capitals that are in a position to make changes. Some think that if she really wants to see structural change, she should support people and groups who are researching how change does and can occur. While change often occurs from the top down, it also happens from the bottom up.
MacKenzie Scott does not attempt to micromanage any of the organizations to whom she gives. She does not tell organizations how to spend the money they receive, because she insists that organizations best know their needs. This is also part of her anti-elitist approach to giving. She is certainly changing how big philanthropy is done, and indeed, people are taking notice. And perhaps those of us, who by comparison are tiny givers, can take note as well. Her life shows how important giving is, and whether we are in a position to give little or much, there is always something for us to learn in the process of giving.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
There is no doubt that this past year has been a challenging one with a worldwide pandemic that has left over four million people dead. And yet, despite that bad news, we are celebrating the vaccine, which is helping many countries return to normal. There is other good news as well, and some of it might surprise you.
Despite the turbulence, fear and uncertainty of this past year, the world has witnessed a rise in giving. Take Myanmar, for example, which has increased its giving, though on the edge of an economic meltdown because of a military coup last February that disposed of the democratically elected government. Myanmar is known as one of the most altruistic countries in the world, and they continue to live up to that reputation in spite of grave hardship.
Our own country has also witnessed an uptake in giving. During most recessions giving goes down, but this past year charitable giving reached a record high. Americans donated $471 billion dollars, which is a 3.8% increase over the previous year. A bull stock market certainly helped, but it is also true that the call for racial justice as well as the pandemic have moved people to feel generous. Charities that deal with basic needs like food saw over an 8% increase in giving. Food banks experienced a doubling of donations, and overall the number of individual donors grew by 7.3%. Another surprising turn in our country was among the 18 to 30 year olds, whose giving doubled. According to the 2021 World Giving Index, more than half of adults worldwide helped someone in the past year they did not personally know
There is also another giving story, this one quite dramatic. McKenzie Scott, ex-wife of Jeff Bezos, who in 2019 received 4 % of Amazon’s stock, valued at the time about $36 billion, has pledged to give it all away. The challenge is that her wealth keeps growing faster than she can donate. Her estimated wealth is now $60 billion, and this is after she gave many billions away. In 2020 she gave $6 billion to 500 different organizations, and for the third time in under a year, she has announced a new gift, amounting to 2.74 billion to 286 organizations, including universities, art groups and other nonprofits, working to combat racial injustice and domestic violence. Among those receiving grants were the Alaska Heritage Foundation, Broward College in Florida and Jazz at Lincoln Center.
The interesting thing about Ms. Scott is that unlike most wealthy people into philanthropy, she does not have a Foundation. Foundations require a staff and a lot of paper filing, but this is not how she wants to spend her time or her money. Instead, she deals directly with the organizations she is interested in supporting. There is no formal application process, but she does rely on friends, and advisors as well as her new husband, Dan Jewett, a chemistry teacher at one of her children’s schools.
Ms. Scott does seem to have some discomfort about where her wealth comes from. She is very aware of the criticism Amazon receives about its pay scale and working conditions. Though an intensely private person, she did write in a blog that it would be preferable if “disproportionate wealth was not concentrated in a small number of hands.” She also wrote that she hoped to “de-emphasize privileged voices and cede focus to others.” Yet she shows no interest in countering Amazon’s mega influence, and so far, she has not supported any think tanks or research groups that feed information and knowledge to Washington and state capitals that are in a position to make changes. Some think that if she really wants to see structural change, she should support people and groups who are researching how change does and can occur. While change often occurs from the top down, it also happens from the bottom up.
MacKenzie Scott does not attempt to micromanage any of the organizations to whom she gives. She does not tell organizations how to spend the money they receive, because she insists that organizations best know their needs. This is also part of her anti-elitist approach to giving. She is certainly changing how big philanthropy is done, and indeed, people are taking notice. And perhaps those of us, who by comparison are tiny givers, can take note as well. Her life shows how important giving is, and whether we are in a position to give little or much, there is always something for us to learn in the process of giving.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
DESPERATE PEOPLE DOING DESPERATE AND BOLD THINGS
by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 7/4/2021
2 Samuel 1: 17-27
Mark 5: 25-54
Many decades ago, probably in the 70’s, when so many plane hijackings occurred, I recall this one story about a man, who tried to hijack a plane, because his son had leukemia and he had no money (or apparently insurance) for treatment. I don’t recall the outcome and I could find no reference to the deed online, but at the time it really struck me as incredibly sad. A poor desperate father trying to save the life of his young son: As we all know, desperate people will sometimes try desperate things.
Well, the Bible is really a lens through which we can look at life, and in today’s readings we have two biblical stories about desperate people trying desperate things. Mark’s story tells us about a woman, suffering from excessive bleeding, most probably a female problem. Now blood---any kind of blood--- was considered unclean, but blood from female organs, including menstruation and childbirth, was characterized as particularly unclean and there were all kinds of rules to deal with it. So, right away we should be aware that we have a woman, who is deemed unclean. No one should touch her---that was the rule.
Secondly, she is out in public in the middle of the day with no male to protect her, another social taboo. The expectation would have been that she remain at home, and if she had to be out in the public square, she either had to be surrounded by other women, doing women’s chores, like fetching water, or she should have been accompanied by a male relative. Thirdly, she, a female, is about to approach Jesus, a male. That is completely contrary to Jewish behavior and law. Women were not allowed to approach strange men, and men were never to speak to a woman in public. Now she knew this, because her whole plan was simply to touch Jesus’ robe in faith and confidence that the touch would be enough. And it was enough, and though she had no desire to be noticed, Jesus felt some power flow from him into her. “Who touched me,” he demanded to know? And she came forward to admit her bold act. “Faith has made you well,” he said, a bold act on his part, since men were not to speak in public to a woman. Yes, her faith did make her well, but it was faith coupled with bold action. A shier, more retiring type, too afraid to move beyond the confines of her home would never have obtained the healing she desperately needed. Sometimes faith requires also bold action.
And then we have this fascinating story about David. Now it is difficult for you to appreciate David’s lament, because we have not read much of what has gone before. Some weeks ago, we did read the lesson about David being chosen as king, when God’s favor had turned away from King Saul toward David. We also heard how David played the lyre for Saul to soothe his terrible torment and excruciating headaches. Most of you probably do not know that David would eventually marry Saul’s daughter, Michel, and David would also become best friends with Jonathan, Saul’s son. David became a great warrior, and the people acclaimed him, shouting, “Saul has killed thousands, but David has killed tens of thousands.” And though David did love Saul and Saul had indeed loved David, jealousy intervened to the point where Saul wanted David dead. And so David ran for his life, at one point even hiring himself out as a mercenary to the Philistines, who were enemies of Israel. So this is quite a drama.
In our story for today Saul and Jonathan are dead, people whom David had deeply loved, and here all enmity is gone or at least hidden, and David pours out his grief in heartfelt lament. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” David cries. Saul, the great king, who had tried to kill David and Jonathan, Saul’s son, and David’s beloved friend, are now dead. And David unashamedly mourns for both, putting behind him any enmity he might have felt for Saul’s betrayal. Though we do not know David’s true motivations, we do know that grief can sometimes drive people to do desperate and even bold things, including forgiving people, who do things that at the time seem unforgivable.
Some years ago, in the late 80’s, when I was a hospital chaplain, I had this case of a three year old, stricken with Aids. Katie had been sick from the time she was six months; yet all the tests showed nothing. Finally in exasperation, the doctor said he was going to test for HIV, and it turned up positive, a full blown case of AIDS. It was a complete shock---at least to the mother. But the father, a brilliant and successful Wall Street lawyer, was an IV drug user, and apparently he had used a dirty needle. So, he passed the virus on to his wife and she onto the fetus, though neither parents were showing any symptoms of the disease. As you might imagine, she immediately divorced him, while blaming herself for being so blind. Why did I never see the needle marks, she lamented over and over again? The truth was he had hidden them all too well.
Well, finally Katie died, and I can tell Katie’s death was a horror show and so was the desperate mother’s grief. There was simply no consolation at all, and grief intertwined with guilt sometimes issues in pain that transcends the bearable. I left the hospital a few months later, but three years after that, I heard the completion of the story from another chaplain, who had become close to the mother, who although HIV positive still had no active disease. But when her ex-husband was dying, against all reason, she took him into her home and cared for him until he died.
She did not have to do this. She too was a lawyer with plenty of money, and her ex-husband was also quite wealthy with enough money to pay for the best private care available. But these were two desperate people, pulled together by grief and guilt. By caring for her ex-husband, the alchemy of grief and guilt no longer had its way with her. And he died, forgiven by the one whose heart he had broken apart.
Sometimes desperation drives people to do things that we would never expect—like the people in Jesus’ day would not have expected a woman to leave her home unaccompanied to seek healing from a man she did not know but had only heard about. How many of David’s peers would have expected him to publicly praise Saul, when this same man had tried to kill him? At one time Saul had been like a father to David, and perhaps because Saul was also his father in law and the father of his dear friend, he put his hurt behind him and offered a lament for all the ages.
Sometimes desperation does drive people to do bold things, and thank God that it does, for we can learn from their examples. And learning is sometimes exactly what God intends us to do.
by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 7/4/2021
2 Samuel 1: 17-27
Mark 5: 25-54
Many decades ago, probably in the 70’s, when so many plane hijackings occurred, I recall this one story about a man, who tried to hijack a plane, because his son had leukemia and he had no money (or apparently insurance) for treatment. I don’t recall the outcome and I could find no reference to the deed online, but at the time it really struck me as incredibly sad. A poor desperate father trying to save the life of his young son: As we all know, desperate people will sometimes try desperate things.
Well, the Bible is really a lens through which we can look at life, and in today’s readings we have two biblical stories about desperate people trying desperate things. Mark’s story tells us about a woman, suffering from excessive bleeding, most probably a female problem. Now blood---any kind of blood--- was considered unclean, but blood from female organs, including menstruation and childbirth, was characterized as particularly unclean and there were all kinds of rules to deal with it. So, right away we should be aware that we have a woman, who is deemed unclean. No one should touch her---that was the rule.
Secondly, she is out in public in the middle of the day with no male to protect her, another social taboo. The expectation would have been that she remain at home, and if she had to be out in the public square, she either had to be surrounded by other women, doing women’s chores, like fetching water, or she should have been accompanied by a male relative. Thirdly, she, a female, is about to approach Jesus, a male. That is completely contrary to Jewish behavior and law. Women were not allowed to approach strange men, and men were never to speak to a woman in public. Now she knew this, because her whole plan was simply to touch Jesus’ robe in faith and confidence that the touch would be enough. And it was enough, and though she had no desire to be noticed, Jesus felt some power flow from him into her. “Who touched me,” he demanded to know? And she came forward to admit her bold act. “Faith has made you well,” he said, a bold act on his part, since men were not to speak in public to a woman. Yes, her faith did make her well, but it was faith coupled with bold action. A shier, more retiring type, too afraid to move beyond the confines of her home would never have obtained the healing she desperately needed. Sometimes faith requires also bold action.
And then we have this fascinating story about David. Now it is difficult for you to appreciate David’s lament, because we have not read much of what has gone before. Some weeks ago, we did read the lesson about David being chosen as king, when God’s favor had turned away from King Saul toward David. We also heard how David played the lyre for Saul to soothe his terrible torment and excruciating headaches. Most of you probably do not know that David would eventually marry Saul’s daughter, Michel, and David would also become best friends with Jonathan, Saul’s son. David became a great warrior, and the people acclaimed him, shouting, “Saul has killed thousands, but David has killed tens of thousands.” And though David did love Saul and Saul had indeed loved David, jealousy intervened to the point where Saul wanted David dead. And so David ran for his life, at one point even hiring himself out as a mercenary to the Philistines, who were enemies of Israel. So this is quite a drama.
In our story for today Saul and Jonathan are dead, people whom David had deeply loved, and here all enmity is gone or at least hidden, and David pours out his grief in heartfelt lament. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” David cries. Saul, the great king, who had tried to kill David and Jonathan, Saul’s son, and David’s beloved friend, are now dead. And David unashamedly mourns for both, putting behind him any enmity he might have felt for Saul’s betrayal. Though we do not know David’s true motivations, we do know that grief can sometimes drive people to do desperate and even bold things, including forgiving people, who do things that at the time seem unforgivable.
Some years ago, in the late 80’s, when I was a hospital chaplain, I had this case of a three year old, stricken with Aids. Katie had been sick from the time she was six months; yet all the tests showed nothing. Finally in exasperation, the doctor said he was going to test for HIV, and it turned up positive, a full blown case of AIDS. It was a complete shock---at least to the mother. But the father, a brilliant and successful Wall Street lawyer, was an IV drug user, and apparently he had used a dirty needle. So, he passed the virus on to his wife and she onto the fetus, though neither parents were showing any symptoms of the disease. As you might imagine, she immediately divorced him, while blaming herself for being so blind. Why did I never see the needle marks, she lamented over and over again? The truth was he had hidden them all too well.
Well, finally Katie died, and I can tell Katie’s death was a horror show and so was the desperate mother’s grief. There was simply no consolation at all, and grief intertwined with guilt sometimes issues in pain that transcends the bearable. I left the hospital a few months later, but three years after that, I heard the completion of the story from another chaplain, who had become close to the mother, who although HIV positive still had no active disease. But when her ex-husband was dying, against all reason, she took him into her home and cared for him until he died.
She did not have to do this. She too was a lawyer with plenty of money, and her ex-husband was also quite wealthy with enough money to pay for the best private care available. But these were two desperate people, pulled together by grief and guilt. By caring for her ex-husband, the alchemy of grief and guilt no longer had its way with her. And he died, forgiven by the one whose heart he had broken apart.
Sometimes desperation drives people to do things that we would never expect—like the people in Jesus’ day would not have expected a woman to leave her home unaccompanied to seek healing from a man she did not know but had only heard about. How many of David’s peers would have expected him to publicly praise Saul, when this same man had tried to kill him? At one time Saul had been like a father to David, and perhaps because Saul was also his father in law and the father of his dear friend, he put his hurt behind him and offered a lament for all the ages.
Sometimes desperation does drive people to do bold things, and thank God that it does, for we can learn from their examples. And learning is sometimes exactly what God intends us to do.
June 29, 2021
Dear Friends,
People often wring their hands in consternation when the Church gets mixed up with politics. Obviously, politics has a moral dimension to it, so yes, it is no surprise that there are times when the Church has something significant to say about a particular issue. We can all understand that. But lately there has been quite a mix up, which has caused uproar in the Roman Catholic Church and beyond.
The Roman Catholic Church has been declaring its anti-abortion stand for as long as abortion has existed, which is a great deal longer than Roe v Wade. But over the past few weeks American Catholic bishops have raised the bar on controversy. The latest fight has been over the Sacrament of Holy Communion and who is worthy to receive it. Since President Joe Biden, a devout Roman Catholic, and the most overtly religious President since Jimmy Carter, is pro-choice, the American College of Bishops met to consider denying him the Sacrament---along with other Roman Catholic politicians, who are also pro-choice. Never mind that President Biden has made it clear that although he personally does not believe in abortion, he does not think he has the right to decide for others whose religious or non-religious convictions and consciences lead them to different conclusions.
Seventy five percent of the American bishops wanted to write a pastoral letter, which would not only be directed against President Biden and other Roman Catholic politicians like him, but also against Pope Francis, who does not want the American bishops to move in this direction. The Pope sees such a stand as divisive, pushing away people, who disagree on abortion, while also weaponizing the Sacrament, using it to punish people who hold a different view. Furthermore, the Pope wants the Church to be seen as a beacon of light in a world that is often dark, cruel and unjust. He wants the Church to defend the poor, the sick, the vulnerable, those who are already alive, needing help and support. Why the obsessive concern about the unborn when the living are not being properly cared for?
Make no mistake about it: Pope Francis is not pro-choice, but he understands that the Church has limited resources and limited time, and he wants commitments spent on those issues, which strengthen rather than weaken and divide the Church. Like President Biden, Pope Francis also understands that the abortion issue is a very complicated one as he is faced with the reality that a strong majority of American Catholics support the right of a woman to choose. Though many Catholics will not choose abortion for themselves, they do not want to make the choice for others. Many Americans of all religious and non-religious persuasions feel the same way.
However, the issue before the American Bishops was not a discussion about the ethics of abortion. On that subject their minds have been made up. The issue was about the Sacrament of Holy Communion and whether a person who persists in holding to an ethical position which the Church names as evil and sinful can receive. In this case it is not only what one does, it is also what one believes. A person can be deemed worthy or unworthy to receive the Sacrament based on thoughts and beliefs. This is why we Protestants are not welcome at their table. Some of us do hold different beliefs about the Sacrament.
But the Roman Church has been quite selective about what it chooses to deem unacceptable beliefs. It did not deny the Sacrament to those who professed Nazi beliefs during the Second World War. It did not withhold the Sacrament from those Roman Catholics who herded Jews into cattle cars headed for Auschwitz. The Church did not deny Communion to persons who fought for the South during the Civil War and defended the right of people to own slaves. And more recently the Church did not utter one word, let along advocate the withdrawal of Communion from the former Attorney General, William Barr, when he decided to begin federal executions once again, which is against Roman Catholic ethics and teaching. Nor did it do a thing about Holy Communion when children were separated from their parents at the Southern Border, aided by some people, professing to be faithful Catholics. Why did the bishops choose to make abortion the single most important issue?
Pope Francis made clear that the Sacrament is not a rite for the perfect, but a gift for the sinful, which to his mind includes all Roman Catholics, and to my mind includes all who would choose to come to Christ’s table. It is not our table, but it is Christ’s, and who are we to decide who is worthy to receive?
It seems that The American College of Bishops realized they were creating a mess, and so they pulled back, saying they would make no recommendations about withholding the Sacrament from anyone. Perhaps they did not want to be on the side against Pope Francis, though many of them are already opposed to his more open views. Furthermore, the bishops in Washington, DC and Delaware, where President Biden's worships, had already declared they would not withhold the Sacrament from the President, so perhaps the rest of the bishops realized it would not look good to take a stand that would be ignored by other bishops.
Withholding the Sacrament is not new. In centuries past our own tradition—the Congregational Church in New England---did sometimes refuse the Sacrament to the sinful. You can read church minutes from centuries ago and learn that persons were denied Communion for the sin of public inebriation or the sin of adultery as well as a host of other sins. Mercifully, we no longer try to decide who is worthy or unworthy. That decision is left to individual consciences. Though an imperfect guide, conscience is often the best we have. And the rest we leave to God in Jesus Christ.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
People often wring their hands in consternation when the Church gets mixed up with politics. Obviously, politics has a moral dimension to it, so yes, it is no surprise that there are times when the Church has something significant to say about a particular issue. We can all understand that. But lately there has been quite a mix up, which has caused uproar in the Roman Catholic Church and beyond.
The Roman Catholic Church has been declaring its anti-abortion stand for as long as abortion has existed, which is a great deal longer than Roe v Wade. But over the past few weeks American Catholic bishops have raised the bar on controversy. The latest fight has been over the Sacrament of Holy Communion and who is worthy to receive it. Since President Joe Biden, a devout Roman Catholic, and the most overtly religious President since Jimmy Carter, is pro-choice, the American College of Bishops met to consider denying him the Sacrament---along with other Roman Catholic politicians, who are also pro-choice. Never mind that President Biden has made it clear that although he personally does not believe in abortion, he does not think he has the right to decide for others whose religious or non-religious convictions and consciences lead them to different conclusions.
Seventy five percent of the American bishops wanted to write a pastoral letter, which would not only be directed against President Biden and other Roman Catholic politicians like him, but also against Pope Francis, who does not want the American bishops to move in this direction. The Pope sees such a stand as divisive, pushing away people, who disagree on abortion, while also weaponizing the Sacrament, using it to punish people who hold a different view. Furthermore, the Pope wants the Church to be seen as a beacon of light in a world that is often dark, cruel and unjust. He wants the Church to defend the poor, the sick, the vulnerable, those who are already alive, needing help and support. Why the obsessive concern about the unborn when the living are not being properly cared for?
Make no mistake about it: Pope Francis is not pro-choice, but he understands that the Church has limited resources and limited time, and he wants commitments spent on those issues, which strengthen rather than weaken and divide the Church. Like President Biden, Pope Francis also understands that the abortion issue is a very complicated one as he is faced with the reality that a strong majority of American Catholics support the right of a woman to choose. Though many Catholics will not choose abortion for themselves, they do not want to make the choice for others. Many Americans of all religious and non-religious persuasions feel the same way.
However, the issue before the American Bishops was not a discussion about the ethics of abortion. On that subject their minds have been made up. The issue was about the Sacrament of Holy Communion and whether a person who persists in holding to an ethical position which the Church names as evil and sinful can receive. In this case it is not only what one does, it is also what one believes. A person can be deemed worthy or unworthy to receive the Sacrament based on thoughts and beliefs. This is why we Protestants are not welcome at their table. Some of us do hold different beliefs about the Sacrament.
But the Roman Church has been quite selective about what it chooses to deem unacceptable beliefs. It did not deny the Sacrament to those who professed Nazi beliefs during the Second World War. It did not withhold the Sacrament from those Roman Catholics who herded Jews into cattle cars headed for Auschwitz. The Church did not deny Communion to persons who fought for the South during the Civil War and defended the right of people to own slaves. And more recently the Church did not utter one word, let along advocate the withdrawal of Communion from the former Attorney General, William Barr, when he decided to begin federal executions once again, which is against Roman Catholic ethics and teaching. Nor did it do a thing about Holy Communion when children were separated from their parents at the Southern Border, aided by some people, professing to be faithful Catholics. Why did the bishops choose to make abortion the single most important issue?
Pope Francis made clear that the Sacrament is not a rite for the perfect, but a gift for the sinful, which to his mind includes all Roman Catholics, and to my mind includes all who would choose to come to Christ’s table. It is not our table, but it is Christ’s, and who are we to decide who is worthy to receive?
It seems that The American College of Bishops realized they were creating a mess, and so they pulled back, saying they would make no recommendations about withholding the Sacrament from anyone. Perhaps they did not want to be on the side against Pope Francis, though many of them are already opposed to his more open views. Furthermore, the bishops in Washington, DC and Delaware, where President Biden's worships, had already declared they would not withhold the Sacrament from the President, so perhaps the rest of the bishops realized it would not look good to take a stand that would be ignored by other bishops.
Withholding the Sacrament is not new. In centuries past our own tradition—the Congregational Church in New England---did sometimes refuse the Sacrament to the sinful. You can read church minutes from centuries ago and learn that persons were denied Communion for the sin of public inebriation or the sin of adultery as well as a host of other sins. Mercifully, we no longer try to decide who is worthy or unworthy. That decision is left to individual consciences. Though an imperfect guide, conscience is often the best we have. And the rest we leave to God in Jesus Christ.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
SALVATION, NOW? by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 7/4/2021
2 Corinthians 6: 1-13
David Brooks, a columnist for the New York Times, had some interesting reflections on addresses given at college graduations. So many of them, he said, encourage the graduates to look within themselves. Find your deepest heart’s desire and then follow your bliss, heed your passion, for that road is the one most likely to lead to success and happiness. But Brooks has a different take on the matter. “You don’t first look inside yourself”, he said, “and then go ahead and plan your life. You must see what is out there, what problems need solving; what questions call forth your energy and passion; what out there summons your life? In other words, Brooks wants to say, “It’s not all about you and what you want to do. It’s about what needs doing, what needs solving, what needs answering and how your skills and passions can go about doing, solving and answering.
When Paul wrote this letter to the Christian Church in Corinth, one of the questions or problems people were facing was the question of death and infinitude. Let’s face it, death poses a major question and problem for human beings. While all created life is limited, it seems that we humans are the creatures who reflect on this, who wonder what it means that we live and die. And with that question in mind, we run into this word, salvation, a word, which in our everyday spoken language is not commonly used. What does it mean to be saved? What are we saved from and what are we saved for?
Now I suspect that for many of you the word salvation might suggest something about going to heaven after you die, where you will be with God and perhaps with friends and family, at least those you can stand. For many people salvation is tantamount to heaven, being saved from the torments of hell, or as modern theology is prone to say, saved from non-being. But the truth is Jesus spent almost no time at all speaking about life after death and heaven. After Jesus’ resurrection, when he appeared to his disciples, he did not teach them about heaven; he did not tell them anything at all about what it was like after he died, or where he went and what happened there. No, he told them to do something; get busy; heal the sick, cast out the demons, feed the hungry, show mercy, forgive sins and announce the new creation, which in him and through him was and is already dawning. This is the kingdom of God, or at least the kingdom’s beginning. It is not yet final; it has not yet completely come. But in and through Jesus Christ and the community that has grown up around him, the kingdom is both already and not yet. And this kingdom is salvation---salvation now and salvation then.
When Paul wrote to the Christian Church in the Greek city of Corinth, he did not describe heaven. Instead he wrote, “See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation.” He was actually quoting here a line from the Prophet Isaiah, where God pronounced forgiveness on the people for all their sins against him. Paul not only meant to announce God’s forgiveness, he also meant to remind the Corinthian Church that the new creation was now upon them, and so they were invited to live in that newness now. “Be reconciled to God,” he said. Allow God’s grace to flow into your life and change it”.
Now Paul was not suggesting here that the new creation, which was already dawning, would mean an easy life, free from struggle and woes. In fact, he listed the struggles he and other disciples had borne for the sake of the gospel---probably in effort to gain credibility. See what we have gone through---hardships, beatings, imprisonments, riots, sleepless nights, hunger. And we have faced all this, he said, using the weapons of righteousness God has given us. It does sound a bit like bragging. But the Corinthian Church was not always receptive to Paul; they were not sure they could trust him. After all, he was not one of the original disciples of Jesus. He had never even met Jesus, and he had also been a persecutor of Christians, a zealous Jew, faithful to the Law, who had seen himself as an enemy of the Christians. So why should they trust him? Paul had a great deal of work to do to gain their trust. And work he did. No matter what anyone of us might think or say about Paul, no one can accuse him of being a slacker.
Now many Christians blame Paul for spiritualizing the message of Jesus---that is, proclaiming the central message of Jesus to be about the forgiveness of sin and the future life, the resurrected life after death. They blame Paul for denigrating the body and ignoring the actual call of Jesus to help repair the brokenness of the world. Admittedly, Paul does not point to Jesus’ life as an example of a life to be followed and imitated. He never once used Jesus’ parables and teachings to lay down the ethical standards by which we are called to live. When we read, for example, the stories of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son, or the Sermon on the Mount or the great judgment in Matthew 25, we understand that we are being told how to treat others. None of this was ever mentioned by Paul, and so it is very easy for people to get the impression that for Paul what we do does not matter nearly as much as what we believe about Jesus Christ.
But neither deeds nor belief earn salvation. The salvation that is now; the time that is the acceptable time---all this is a gift, something God in Jesus Christ has done and is doing. What Paul is trying to say here is ---Open your eyes; see what is before you, and in response to what you see, in response to what is being done for you, live a new way; live into the new creation. Open wide your hearts. That is the last sentence from Paul in our text for today.
Something new does indeed happen when we choose to open wide our hearts. We begin to notice what and whom we did not notice before. A wide heart makes room for others; it notices what is out there and is not preoccupied with self. One of my sons, who is a PhD student at Albert Einstein College of Medicine, told me about a friend of his, who has just finished his third year of medical school there, and understandably was very preoccupied with what kind of residency he will apply for in the fall. And so he was thinking about the rotations he had so far done and what ones he would do next year, worrying about how he would or even could make a choice, since he would have to apply for his residency even before he finished all his rotations. As he was quickly walking down the street, on the way to the hospital, where he was already late for some instruction in radiology, a specialty in which he was quite interested, he went by an apartment building, where a little boy of no more than 4 or 5 was sitting and crying on the steps. Josh continued to hurry by, and then he suddenly stopped and turned around. “What’s wrong?” he asked the child. “My Mommy’s sick; she’s on the floor,” and in a flash the young man ran upstairs with the child and found the woman barely breathing. It turned out she had a serious heart defect, which could be corrected through surgery and medication.
By the end of the week, Josh had made his choice for residency---family medicine among the poor. What made your friend turn around and go back? I asked. I don’t know, Aaron said. All he could say was that suddenly he noticed someone there he could not ignore. Notice what is out there, David Brooks wanted to say to the new college graduates. It is not all about you but what you can do in relationship to a world that needs something you can help do or solve. See what is before you and respond. Now is the acceptable time. Now is the day of salvation. Salvation is not only about life after death, but is also about the life we choose to live now and the heart we are called to open wide today and the new person we are challenged to become.
2 Corinthians 6: 1-13
David Brooks, a columnist for the New York Times, had some interesting reflections on addresses given at college graduations. So many of them, he said, encourage the graduates to look within themselves. Find your deepest heart’s desire and then follow your bliss, heed your passion, for that road is the one most likely to lead to success and happiness. But Brooks has a different take on the matter. “You don’t first look inside yourself”, he said, “and then go ahead and plan your life. You must see what is out there, what problems need solving; what questions call forth your energy and passion; what out there summons your life? In other words, Brooks wants to say, “It’s not all about you and what you want to do. It’s about what needs doing, what needs solving, what needs answering and how your skills and passions can go about doing, solving and answering.
When Paul wrote this letter to the Christian Church in Corinth, one of the questions or problems people were facing was the question of death and infinitude. Let’s face it, death poses a major question and problem for human beings. While all created life is limited, it seems that we humans are the creatures who reflect on this, who wonder what it means that we live and die. And with that question in mind, we run into this word, salvation, a word, which in our everyday spoken language is not commonly used. What does it mean to be saved? What are we saved from and what are we saved for?
Now I suspect that for many of you the word salvation might suggest something about going to heaven after you die, where you will be with God and perhaps with friends and family, at least those you can stand. For many people salvation is tantamount to heaven, being saved from the torments of hell, or as modern theology is prone to say, saved from non-being. But the truth is Jesus spent almost no time at all speaking about life after death and heaven. After Jesus’ resurrection, when he appeared to his disciples, he did not teach them about heaven; he did not tell them anything at all about what it was like after he died, or where he went and what happened there. No, he told them to do something; get busy; heal the sick, cast out the demons, feed the hungry, show mercy, forgive sins and announce the new creation, which in him and through him was and is already dawning. This is the kingdom of God, or at least the kingdom’s beginning. It is not yet final; it has not yet completely come. But in and through Jesus Christ and the community that has grown up around him, the kingdom is both already and not yet. And this kingdom is salvation---salvation now and salvation then.
When Paul wrote to the Christian Church in the Greek city of Corinth, he did not describe heaven. Instead he wrote, “See, now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation.” He was actually quoting here a line from the Prophet Isaiah, where God pronounced forgiveness on the people for all their sins against him. Paul not only meant to announce God’s forgiveness, he also meant to remind the Corinthian Church that the new creation was now upon them, and so they were invited to live in that newness now. “Be reconciled to God,” he said. Allow God’s grace to flow into your life and change it”.
Now Paul was not suggesting here that the new creation, which was already dawning, would mean an easy life, free from struggle and woes. In fact, he listed the struggles he and other disciples had borne for the sake of the gospel---probably in effort to gain credibility. See what we have gone through---hardships, beatings, imprisonments, riots, sleepless nights, hunger. And we have faced all this, he said, using the weapons of righteousness God has given us. It does sound a bit like bragging. But the Corinthian Church was not always receptive to Paul; they were not sure they could trust him. After all, he was not one of the original disciples of Jesus. He had never even met Jesus, and he had also been a persecutor of Christians, a zealous Jew, faithful to the Law, who had seen himself as an enemy of the Christians. So why should they trust him? Paul had a great deal of work to do to gain their trust. And work he did. No matter what anyone of us might think or say about Paul, no one can accuse him of being a slacker.
Now many Christians blame Paul for spiritualizing the message of Jesus---that is, proclaiming the central message of Jesus to be about the forgiveness of sin and the future life, the resurrected life after death. They blame Paul for denigrating the body and ignoring the actual call of Jesus to help repair the brokenness of the world. Admittedly, Paul does not point to Jesus’ life as an example of a life to be followed and imitated. He never once used Jesus’ parables and teachings to lay down the ethical standards by which we are called to live. When we read, for example, the stories of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son, or the Sermon on the Mount or the great judgment in Matthew 25, we understand that we are being told how to treat others. None of this was ever mentioned by Paul, and so it is very easy for people to get the impression that for Paul what we do does not matter nearly as much as what we believe about Jesus Christ.
But neither deeds nor belief earn salvation. The salvation that is now; the time that is the acceptable time---all this is a gift, something God in Jesus Christ has done and is doing. What Paul is trying to say here is ---Open your eyes; see what is before you, and in response to what you see, in response to what is being done for you, live a new way; live into the new creation. Open wide your hearts. That is the last sentence from Paul in our text for today.
Something new does indeed happen when we choose to open wide our hearts. We begin to notice what and whom we did not notice before. A wide heart makes room for others; it notices what is out there and is not preoccupied with self. One of my sons, who is a PhD student at Albert Einstein College of Medicine, told me about a friend of his, who has just finished his third year of medical school there, and understandably was very preoccupied with what kind of residency he will apply for in the fall. And so he was thinking about the rotations he had so far done and what ones he would do next year, worrying about how he would or even could make a choice, since he would have to apply for his residency even before he finished all his rotations. As he was quickly walking down the street, on the way to the hospital, where he was already late for some instruction in radiology, a specialty in which he was quite interested, he went by an apartment building, where a little boy of no more than 4 or 5 was sitting and crying on the steps. Josh continued to hurry by, and then he suddenly stopped and turned around. “What’s wrong?” he asked the child. “My Mommy’s sick; she’s on the floor,” and in a flash the young man ran upstairs with the child and found the woman barely breathing. It turned out she had a serious heart defect, which could be corrected through surgery and medication.
By the end of the week, Josh had made his choice for residency---family medicine among the poor. What made your friend turn around and go back? I asked. I don’t know, Aaron said. All he could say was that suddenly he noticed someone there he could not ignore. Notice what is out there, David Brooks wanted to say to the new college graduates. It is not all about you but what you can do in relationship to a world that needs something you can help do or solve. See what is before you and respond. Now is the acceptable time. Now is the day of salvation. Salvation is not only about life after death, but is also about the life we choose to live now and the heart we are called to open wide today and the new person we are challenged to become.
June 24, 2021
Dear Friends,
Isaac Bashevis Singer was a writer and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1978. He is a masterful storyteller, and the first time I heard of him was when I was in seminary and was assigned a few of his short stories to read. He was born in 1902 near Warsaw, Poland, and he died in 1991 in Miami, Florida. He immigrated to the United States in 1935 as anti-Semitism was growing in Europe.
Singer grew up in a very religious family with a father who was a rabbi. As a child he recalled that his parents referred to “people of letters” as godless and liars, so it is ironic that he and all his siblings, except the youngest, became writers. On the other hand, his siblings and he had no toys to play with, so books became their great companions. He was fascinated by Sherlock Holmes and at the age of ten would read Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. Though he admitted he could not understand Dostoevsky’s novel at such a tender age, he realized that its characters were dealing with some of life’s most engaging questions. And indeed, that is what his characters do---they deal with life’s big questions. Singer portrays both saints and sinners because life is full of both.
I do not recall what short stories I was assigned in seminary, but I do remember the professor saying that Singer approved of Abraham as the first real agnostic, because he was unafraid to argue with God. In Singer’s mind, agnostic implied the willingness to keep options open, the capacity to wonder about truth, to weigh the various details without being totally confident of the outcome. Singer greatly admired Abraham’s willingness to bargain with God.
I had not thought about Singer in years, but last week I came across a prayer he had written in 1952. I think it is beautiful and well worth our reflection:
Master of the Universe, fill my heart with love for my people, and rest for the soul.
Let me see the Creator in each and every creature, its mercy for each thing it creates.
There’s not a single drop of water or particle of dust in which your light is lacking, or that is outside your domain.
There is no creature without its creator.
Those who know this live always in joy.
Their parents are but bodies that are here today, and are tomorrow in their graves.
All their friends, all their possessions and honors, are like a passing shadow.
They are themselves like passing clouds, like Jonah’s tree.
But you – you have always existed and will always exist.
You are the only true being, the essence of all things.
Only for you are all problems solved, all challenges effortless.
There is nothing devious in you – no retribution, injustice, or fault.
Evil lives in all things temporary, not in what exists eternally.
You know why you created evil – and who are we to question your integrity?
We have only one comfort in this world – that you are our maker and that we have the power to serve you with joy, awe, and love, all our lives – and that you have given us the ability to understand such things.
Though we may not know the purpose of life, or why you sent us into this world to suffer, we understand that it is our duty to build and not to destroy, to comfort and not to torment, to bring joy rather than sorrow to your creatures.
There is only one joy: to increase and not to lessen the world’s joy.
Seek happiness, but not on account of your neighbors or family, for you are they and they are you, you are bonded, children of God.
God, guard my tongue from evil, my lips from deceit, my mind from sin.
Open my heart to your commands, let my heart seek your teaching, and let all my actions serve a higher purpose.
Those who fear God are the only ones who do not hurt each other, neither in fact nor in principle.
They will never wage war against each other, and for this reason they are the symbol of peace, as it is written: “and your children’s peace shall grow.”
Blessings always,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Isaac Bashevis Singer was a writer and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1978. He is a masterful storyteller, and the first time I heard of him was when I was in seminary and was assigned a few of his short stories to read. He was born in 1902 near Warsaw, Poland, and he died in 1991 in Miami, Florida. He immigrated to the United States in 1935 as anti-Semitism was growing in Europe.
Singer grew up in a very religious family with a father who was a rabbi. As a child he recalled that his parents referred to “people of letters” as godless and liars, so it is ironic that he and all his siblings, except the youngest, became writers. On the other hand, his siblings and he had no toys to play with, so books became their great companions. He was fascinated by Sherlock Holmes and at the age of ten would read Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky. Though he admitted he could not understand Dostoevsky’s novel at such a tender age, he realized that its characters were dealing with some of life’s most engaging questions. And indeed, that is what his characters do---they deal with life’s big questions. Singer portrays both saints and sinners because life is full of both.
I do not recall what short stories I was assigned in seminary, but I do remember the professor saying that Singer approved of Abraham as the first real agnostic, because he was unafraid to argue with God. In Singer’s mind, agnostic implied the willingness to keep options open, the capacity to wonder about truth, to weigh the various details without being totally confident of the outcome. Singer greatly admired Abraham’s willingness to bargain with God.
I had not thought about Singer in years, but last week I came across a prayer he had written in 1952. I think it is beautiful and well worth our reflection:
Master of the Universe, fill my heart with love for my people, and rest for the soul.
Let me see the Creator in each and every creature, its mercy for each thing it creates.
There’s not a single drop of water or particle of dust in which your light is lacking, or that is outside your domain.
There is no creature without its creator.
Those who know this live always in joy.
Their parents are but bodies that are here today, and are tomorrow in their graves.
All their friends, all their possessions and honors, are like a passing shadow.
They are themselves like passing clouds, like Jonah’s tree.
But you – you have always existed and will always exist.
You are the only true being, the essence of all things.
Only for you are all problems solved, all challenges effortless.
There is nothing devious in you – no retribution, injustice, or fault.
Evil lives in all things temporary, not in what exists eternally.
You know why you created evil – and who are we to question your integrity?
We have only one comfort in this world – that you are our maker and that we have the power to serve you with joy, awe, and love, all our lives – and that you have given us the ability to understand such things.
Though we may not know the purpose of life, or why you sent us into this world to suffer, we understand that it is our duty to build and not to destroy, to comfort and not to torment, to bring joy rather than sorrow to your creatures.
There is only one joy: to increase and not to lessen the world’s joy.
Seek happiness, but not on account of your neighbors or family, for you are they and they are you, you are bonded, children of God.
God, guard my tongue from evil, my lips from deceit, my mind from sin.
Open my heart to your commands, let my heart seek your teaching, and let all my actions serve a higher purpose.
Those who fear God are the only ones who do not hurt each other, neither in fact nor in principle.
They will never wage war against each other, and for this reason they are the symbol of peace, as it is written: “and your children’s peace shall grow.”
Blessings always,
Sandra
FATHERS: WORKING TO SAVE THEIR CHILDREN by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 6/13/2021
Mark 5: 23-24, 35-43
Luke 15: 11-32
About a month ago a small group of clergy women, including me, were discussing images of mothers and fathers in scripture. Someone noted how violent many of the Old Testament stories were about fathers and their children---the near sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham comes immediately to mind, and then there is the story of the father who would prefer to have his daughter raped by a brood of licentious men rather than give them his male guests, which, he said, would be a horrendous breach of the rule of hospitality. Better to take the daughter than the guests. And then the conversation turned to the New Testament--- the story of the Jewish leader, who was seeking healing for his daughter, and of course, the beloved story of the Prodigal Son and his forgiving father. In these last two stories we have examples of fathers working to save their children---one from physical death and the second from a life of dissipation and hunger, which, if unchecked, could lead to physical death.
The conversation then evolved to stories about our own fathers. Were there any examples among us of fathers saving us from serious blunders or life threatening actions? There were a few, but one in particular stands out. The woman who told it was in her latter 50’s, and she began by saying, “I have never told anyone this story. On many levels it is so embarrassing for me as well as my parents. But my father saved me.
I was 22 years old, self-consumed and utterly insensitive to the man I was about to marry. It was my wedding day, and there I was all dressed in my finery, at the church in the room designated for brides only. Suddenly, there stood my father. Looking at me as only he could do with that knowing stare of his, boring deep into my heart and soul, “Pumpkin,” he asked, “how are you?” “OK,” I muttered, and then two big tears began to roll down my cheeks. What’s this for? he wanted to know. “Are you having second thoughts?”
Oh, Daddy, I sobbed. I do not love this man. Sometimes I even think I hate him. But I don’t know why. He is good, really, but I don’t love him, and maybe I don’t even like him.
“OK,” he said, looking a bit relieved himself. I don’t think he liked the man I was about to marry. “I’ll tell you what we are going to do. My car is right out front, you know the Impala red convertible, the one you always wanted to drive, but I wouldn’t let you, because I am very protective of it. We are going to go out this back door and get in the car and drive away---the Mexican border isn’t too far, and we will have a great time for a week or so. We will leave your mother to clean up the mess. She is very good at that, much better than you or I could ever dream of being.
“Daddy,” I said. “We can’t do such a thing. It would be so, so embarrassing.”
“Right you are,” he said, “but not as embarrassing as marrying someone you do not love and then living through the mess of that grave miscalculation and being miserable for who knows how long before you have the guts to correct the mistake you can correct right this minute. Come on, let’s go now.”
“I just can’t do it,” I protested. “I can’t. The music is already playing, the second time. People must be wondering where we are.”
And so, I walked out of the room to the end of the aisle and waited for my father. He did not come at first, but I knew he would not leave me there to stand alone, and soon there he was. We began the wedding march, which felt like a death march, until I reached the middle of the aisle, and turning to my Father, I said, “Let’s go now”. And he and I just ran as fast as we could out of the church. We jumped into the car and off he sped. We drove for hours and hours without saying one world to each other. I mean what could we say? Finally, I began to laugh. I laughed out loud. Daddy, I said, I should be crying, but I can’t cry. All I can do is laugh.
We didn’t go to Mexico, but we had a great time in southern California. My father and I talked about things we had never talked about before. He told me all about his time in the South Pacific during the Second World War, how utterly horrible it was, how he had lost not one, not two, but three of his best buddies.
“I don’t know why I was spared,” he said to his daughter. “I think it was just dumb luck. Some people would try to tell me God had a special plan for me, but why wouldn’t God have a special plan for my best buddies. One of them, Gene, was a brilliant surgeon, a father of two. He should not have died, but war doesn’t care about how brilliant or gifted you are. After surviving that horror, I pledged that I would make each day count, that I would not take life for granted, that I would try to find happiness for me and for others. That’s why I teach history. I don’t want the follies of the past repeated.
And then my father listened to me talk about Peter, my high school boyfriend, who went to Cornell and then later got drafted when his number came up. Peter talked about going to Canada, but he didn’t, because he knew his father would never approve. And Peter died, shot down in a helicopter.
You never mentioned this to your mother and me. We never knew you lost someone in Viet Nam.
He wasn’t the only one, Daddy, I said. There were two others. I just could never bear to talk about it.
And so, it was for one week. We talked, and then we returned home.
My father was right. My mother had taken care of everything. Oh, people were upset, but they got over it. And my jilted groom: the truth is he was as relieved as I was. He knew we did not love each other. My mother said she knew it too. And she was just as relieved as my father and I were.
I don’t know why, but in my family, we never used to talk about things. Everything was always under the rug, under the table. But after this, well, the whole family began to open up. We talked about everything. It was like a dam broke, and the flood came pouring in. So, my father literally saved me—saved me from a marriage that never would have survived and saved me from the fear of opening up, the fear of talking about what really matters. And it all began with my father talking about the horrors of his experience in the war. If he had not dared to do that, I think I would have kept myself all shut down and shut in---at least for a long time. He saved me from that, and I am so grateful.” As well she should be.
The fathers in our two biblical stories also saved their children from some very negative experiences. One father, a leader in the Jewish synagogue, decided to trust Jesus to heal his daughter. Here this Jesus character was, someone who lived outside the normal boundaries of Jewish law, someone who was already showing himself to be an enemy of convention, and yet this father decided to take a chance on Jesus. After all, the father was a leader in the synagogue, and he would be expected to follow the rules. We can imagine the tongues wagging. Why is he inviting this renegade into his house? Doesn’t he know all the trouble this man has caused? And yet this troublemaker would heal his daughter---even though the daughter appeared to be already dead.
And what about the father, who ran to meet that wastrel of a son, forgiving and embracing the one who had insulted and betrayed him. First of all, when the son asked for his share of the inheritance, it was like saying, “I wish you were dead.” It was a completely inappropriate thing to do. And talk about inappropriate the father running out to meet his wayward son was also improper, again according to the conventions of the day. No father should run to the son first; the son should come to the father. People must have scratched their heads in confusion and wonderment: What the heck is going on here? What was going on was that this father had made a decision to let God’s grace flow in, allowing him to forgive and embrace the son, who had betrayed him.
Sometimes fathers do save their children, even adult children, from terrible errors. Perhaps there are those who would say, “Let the children live with the consequences of their actions. That is the only way they will learn.” But fathers (like mothers sometimes) and even like God, who really is symbolized by the forgiving father, sometime intervene at exactly the right time for the right lesson.
Mark 5: 23-24, 35-43
Luke 15: 11-32
About a month ago a small group of clergy women, including me, were discussing images of mothers and fathers in scripture. Someone noted how violent many of the Old Testament stories were about fathers and their children---the near sacrifice of Isaac by Abraham comes immediately to mind, and then there is the story of the father who would prefer to have his daughter raped by a brood of licentious men rather than give them his male guests, which, he said, would be a horrendous breach of the rule of hospitality. Better to take the daughter than the guests. And then the conversation turned to the New Testament--- the story of the Jewish leader, who was seeking healing for his daughter, and of course, the beloved story of the Prodigal Son and his forgiving father. In these last two stories we have examples of fathers working to save their children---one from physical death and the second from a life of dissipation and hunger, which, if unchecked, could lead to physical death.
The conversation then evolved to stories about our own fathers. Were there any examples among us of fathers saving us from serious blunders or life threatening actions? There were a few, but one in particular stands out. The woman who told it was in her latter 50’s, and she began by saying, “I have never told anyone this story. On many levels it is so embarrassing for me as well as my parents. But my father saved me.
I was 22 years old, self-consumed and utterly insensitive to the man I was about to marry. It was my wedding day, and there I was all dressed in my finery, at the church in the room designated for brides only. Suddenly, there stood my father. Looking at me as only he could do with that knowing stare of his, boring deep into my heart and soul, “Pumpkin,” he asked, “how are you?” “OK,” I muttered, and then two big tears began to roll down my cheeks. What’s this for? he wanted to know. “Are you having second thoughts?”
Oh, Daddy, I sobbed. I do not love this man. Sometimes I even think I hate him. But I don’t know why. He is good, really, but I don’t love him, and maybe I don’t even like him.
“OK,” he said, looking a bit relieved himself. I don’t think he liked the man I was about to marry. “I’ll tell you what we are going to do. My car is right out front, you know the Impala red convertible, the one you always wanted to drive, but I wouldn’t let you, because I am very protective of it. We are going to go out this back door and get in the car and drive away---the Mexican border isn’t too far, and we will have a great time for a week or so. We will leave your mother to clean up the mess. She is very good at that, much better than you or I could ever dream of being.
“Daddy,” I said. “We can’t do such a thing. It would be so, so embarrassing.”
“Right you are,” he said, “but not as embarrassing as marrying someone you do not love and then living through the mess of that grave miscalculation and being miserable for who knows how long before you have the guts to correct the mistake you can correct right this minute. Come on, let’s go now.”
“I just can’t do it,” I protested. “I can’t. The music is already playing, the second time. People must be wondering where we are.”
And so, I walked out of the room to the end of the aisle and waited for my father. He did not come at first, but I knew he would not leave me there to stand alone, and soon there he was. We began the wedding march, which felt like a death march, until I reached the middle of the aisle, and turning to my Father, I said, “Let’s go now”. And he and I just ran as fast as we could out of the church. We jumped into the car and off he sped. We drove for hours and hours without saying one world to each other. I mean what could we say? Finally, I began to laugh. I laughed out loud. Daddy, I said, I should be crying, but I can’t cry. All I can do is laugh.
We didn’t go to Mexico, but we had a great time in southern California. My father and I talked about things we had never talked about before. He told me all about his time in the South Pacific during the Second World War, how utterly horrible it was, how he had lost not one, not two, but three of his best buddies.
“I don’t know why I was spared,” he said to his daughter. “I think it was just dumb luck. Some people would try to tell me God had a special plan for me, but why wouldn’t God have a special plan for my best buddies. One of them, Gene, was a brilliant surgeon, a father of two. He should not have died, but war doesn’t care about how brilliant or gifted you are. After surviving that horror, I pledged that I would make each day count, that I would not take life for granted, that I would try to find happiness for me and for others. That’s why I teach history. I don’t want the follies of the past repeated.
And then my father listened to me talk about Peter, my high school boyfriend, who went to Cornell and then later got drafted when his number came up. Peter talked about going to Canada, but he didn’t, because he knew his father would never approve. And Peter died, shot down in a helicopter.
You never mentioned this to your mother and me. We never knew you lost someone in Viet Nam.
He wasn’t the only one, Daddy, I said. There were two others. I just could never bear to talk about it.
And so, it was for one week. We talked, and then we returned home.
My father was right. My mother had taken care of everything. Oh, people were upset, but they got over it. And my jilted groom: the truth is he was as relieved as I was. He knew we did not love each other. My mother said she knew it too. And she was just as relieved as my father and I were.
I don’t know why, but in my family, we never used to talk about things. Everything was always under the rug, under the table. But after this, well, the whole family began to open up. We talked about everything. It was like a dam broke, and the flood came pouring in. So, my father literally saved me—saved me from a marriage that never would have survived and saved me from the fear of opening up, the fear of talking about what really matters. And it all began with my father talking about the horrors of his experience in the war. If he had not dared to do that, I think I would have kept myself all shut down and shut in---at least for a long time. He saved me from that, and I am so grateful.” As well she should be.
The fathers in our two biblical stories also saved their children from some very negative experiences. One father, a leader in the Jewish synagogue, decided to trust Jesus to heal his daughter. Here this Jesus character was, someone who lived outside the normal boundaries of Jewish law, someone who was already showing himself to be an enemy of convention, and yet this father decided to take a chance on Jesus. After all, the father was a leader in the synagogue, and he would be expected to follow the rules. We can imagine the tongues wagging. Why is he inviting this renegade into his house? Doesn’t he know all the trouble this man has caused? And yet this troublemaker would heal his daughter---even though the daughter appeared to be already dead.
And what about the father, who ran to meet that wastrel of a son, forgiving and embracing the one who had insulted and betrayed him. First of all, when the son asked for his share of the inheritance, it was like saying, “I wish you were dead.” It was a completely inappropriate thing to do. And talk about inappropriate the father running out to meet his wayward son was also improper, again according to the conventions of the day. No father should run to the son first; the son should come to the father. People must have scratched their heads in confusion and wonderment: What the heck is going on here? What was going on was that this father had made a decision to let God’s grace flow in, allowing him to forgive and embrace the son, who had betrayed him.
Sometimes fathers do save their children, even adult children, from terrible errors. Perhaps there are those who would say, “Let the children live with the consequences of their actions. That is the only way they will learn.” But fathers (like mothers sometimes) and even like God, who really is symbolized by the forgiving father, sometime intervene at exactly the right time for the right lesson.
June 15, 2021
Dear Friends,
A few weeks ago I was in CVS, when I happened to walk by the card section with a display of Father’s Day cards staring me in the face. It has been a long time since I have purchased cards for my own father as well as my father- in- law. (My husband would never remember to buy cards.). My father- in- law died in June, 2002, and my father died in January, 2003. I decided to read some of the cards, imagining which ones I would have purchased for my father- in -law and my father. For my father I usually would purchase something humorous, but my father- in- law was more of a challenge. The relationship between my husband and his father was somewhat strained due to a second marriage and a step mother, whom my husband (and his brother) never liked. They were well into their 20’s, when he remarried, so they were never mothered by this woman, but that made no difference. They just did not like her at all.
Anyway, as I stood there, reading some of the cards, suddenly I was flooded with all kinds of memories of both men. I remembered sitting at the dinner table, staring at the vegetables I absolutely hated with my mother insisting I had to eat EVERYTHING on my plate. And so there I would sit, long after everyone else had left the table. My father, who like me, was a fussy eater, would sometimes sneak into the kitchen and take the vegetables away. One time he was caught, and she made me eat double the beets, which to this day I despise. And then I remembered all the stories my father would make up. He had a great imagination, and to this day I still think his stories were every bit as good as Winnie the Pooh---maybe even better!
When I was in high school, I would often sit reading in the living room, and my father would enter, saying, “What are you up to, plotting against the government?” Though he and I were often on the same political side, somehow we always ended up arguing about politics. It was more of a personality thing rather than ideology. The two of us just liked to argue!
I picked up a card that had a pile of books on the front, and I immediately remembered being very little and touching the books in my father’s bookcase. I knew his books were precious, and I thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world to be able to read all those books. Sometimes I would dare to take one or two out, but I was always very careful to put them back exactly where he had placed them. He was crazy about his books and very protective of them.
Of course, my father -in- law loved his books as well. He was a professor at Harvard, so reading and thinking were his life, and like my own father, he too loved to argue. My husband to this day claims that his father was the single most important intellectual influence on his life. They were not in the same fields at all, but his father used to take the opposite side, just to get his children to defend their ideas. When I first married into the family, I could never tell what my father- in -law truly believed, because he was always taking a position just for the sake of argument.
Standing there in the store, I suddenly remembered this one time my father -in- law was very upset about his department at Harvard. He was the chairman, and there was this one young secretary, who was just terrible at her job. It was obvious she hated it. My father -in -law claimed she was very smart and being a secretary was simply not what she wanted to do with her life, but she had not yet figured out a path. Well, the rest of the department wanted to fire her, but my father- in-law would not let them. “You can’t fire her,” he insisted. “She is a single woman, and she needs a job. How do you think she will pay her rent and her bills? Besides, do any of us think we would want to do this job?” No one said a word, and so he responded, “I didn’t think so. He protected her until she found another job. Eventually, she returned to school and became a professor of philosophy!
There was this one card with a picture of boat on a lake, which immediately took me back to the modest summer home on a lake my in laws had purchased years ago. When they divorced, my father -in -law got the lake house. The house and property were called Loomer Place in honor of the man, who literally built the house with his bare hands. One day the sign fell down, and as my father- in -law was putting it back up, I asked him why he didn’t change the name of the place to Oliver Place, which was his family name. I will never forget how he glowered at me. “Do you think I would dare to change the name of this place? Why, that would be a sacrilege. I owe it to Mr. Loomer and his wife to keep the name. They loved it, and they built it, and I have no right to take what they built and put my own name on it.” He was practically yelling at me, and I asked him why he was so mad. “I was just asking a simple question,” I said. “No, it’s not simple,” he insisted. “It shows a complete lack of respect.” And then he walked away, leaving me standing there, embarrassed and a little bit ashamed.
So, there I stood in CVS, flooded with these happy-sad memories. As I stood there, I decided to buy two cards, one for my father and one for my father-in -law. The one for my father-in -law had the lake and boat on the cover and read “You Taught Me Things I Didn’t Want to Learn But Needed To. Thanks, Dad.” And for my own father I chose the one that had a pile of books on the front that read, “Thanks for All the Lessons and the Memories” Simple messages, but oh, so profoundly true.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
A few weeks ago I was in CVS, when I happened to walk by the card section with a display of Father’s Day cards staring me in the face. It has been a long time since I have purchased cards for my own father as well as my father- in- law. (My husband would never remember to buy cards.). My father- in- law died in June, 2002, and my father died in January, 2003. I decided to read some of the cards, imagining which ones I would have purchased for my father- in -law and my father. For my father I usually would purchase something humorous, but my father- in- law was more of a challenge. The relationship between my husband and his father was somewhat strained due to a second marriage and a step mother, whom my husband (and his brother) never liked. They were well into their 20’s, when he remarried, so they were never mothered by this woman, but that made no difference. They just did not like her at all.
Anyway, as I stood there, reading some of the cards, suddenly I was flooded with all kinds of memories of both men. I remembered sitting at the dinner table, staring at the vegetables I absolutely hated with my mother insisting I had to eat EVERYTHING on my plate. And so there I would sit, long after everyone else had left the table. My father, who like me, was a fussy eater, would sometimes sneak into the kitchen and take the vegetables away. One time he was caught, and she made me eat double the beets, which to this day I despise. And then I remembered all the stories my father would make up. He had a great imagination, and to this day I still think his stories were every bit as good as Winnie the Pooh---maybe even better!
When I was in high school, I would often sit reading in the living room, and my father would enter, saying, “What are you up to, plotting against the government?” Though he and I were often on the same political side, somehow we always ended up arguing about politics. It was more of a personality thing rather than ideology. The two of us just liked to argue!
I picked up a card that had a pile of books on the front, and I immediately remembered being very little and touching the books in my father’s bookcase. I knew his books were precious, and I thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world to be able to read all those books. Sometimes I would dare to take one or two out, but I was always very careful to put them back exactly where he had placed them. He was crazy about his books and very protective of them.
Of course, my father -in- law loved his books as well. He was a professor at Harvard, so reading and thinking were his life, and like my own father, he too loved to argue. My husband to this day claims that his father was the single most important intellectual influence on his life. They were not in the same fields at all, but his father used to take the opposite side, just to get his children to defend their ideas. When I first married into the family, I could never tell what my father- in -law truly believed, because he was always taking a position just for the sake of argument.
Standing there in the store, I suddenly remembered this one time my father -in- law was very upset about his department at Harvard. He was the chairman, and there was this one young secretary, who was just terrible at her job. It was obvious she hated it. My father -in -law claimed she was very smart and being a secretary was simply not what she wanted to do with her life, but she had not yet figured out a path. Well, the rest of the department wanted to fire her, but my father- in-law would not let them. “You can’t fire her,” he insisted. “She is a single woman, and she needs a job. How do you think she will pay her rent and her bills? Besides, do any of us think we would want to do this job?” No one said a word, and so he responded, “I didn’t think so. He protected her until she found another job. Eventually, she returned to school and became a professor of philosophy!
There was this one card with a picture of boat on a lake, which immediately took me back to the modest summer home on a lake my in laws had purchased years ago. When they divorced, my father -in -law got the lake house. The house and property were called Loomer Place in honor of the man, who literally built the house with his bare hands. One day the sign fell down, and as my father- in -law was putting it back up, I asked him why he didn’t change the name of the place to Oliver Place, which was his family name. I will never forget how he glowered at me. “Do you think I would dare to change the name of this place? Why, that would be a sacrilege. I owe it to Mr. Loomer and his wife to keep the name. They loved it, and they built it, and I have no right to take what they built and put my own name on it.” He was practically yelling at me, and I asked him why he was so mad. “I was just asking a simple question,” I said. “No, it’s not simple,” he insisted. “It shows a complete lack of respect.” And then he walked away, leaving me standing there, embarrassed and a little bit ashamed.
So, there I stood in CVS, flooded with these happy-sad memories. As I stood there, I decided to buy two cards, one for my father and one for my father-in -law. The one for my father-in -law had the lake and boat on the cover and read “You Taught Me Things I Didn’t Want to Learn But Needed To. Thanks, Dad.” And for my own father I chose the one that had a pile of books on the front that read, “Thanks for All the Lessons and the Memories” Simple messages, but oh, so profoundly true.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
WHEN IMAGE ISN’T EVERYTHING by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 6/13/2021
1 Samuel 15: 34-16:13
Mark 4: 26-34
A couple of weeks ago, I was reading an article in the New York Times about the Hamptons---the eastern end of Long Island, where the rich and super-rich live and play. The article was describing some of the stores, filled with designer objects and clothes, most of whose names I did not even recognize. Everything about the Hamptons seems to point to an obsession with image.
We all know about image, but did you also know that there are industries that have arisen to give people the feel and experience of an image that they really cannot afford. One of my sons says there are companies that rent out designer dresses for an evening for $200, or a $25,000 diamond necklace for $350. And should you want to go to the ball in style, you can rent a $430,000 Rolls Royce for $2500 a day. But that’s not all. If you are feeling ignored, for $500 you can rent four paparazzi to follow you around for 30 minutes, taking pictures of your every move. And as absurd as it sounds, these businesses are making piles of money---helping people to pretend that image is everything, even when it is not.
Of course, on some level, concern with image is not completely new. If we turn to the book of Samuel, we have the story of Israel, which began as a loose federation of 12 tribes. The authority structure was decentralized, and Israel was ruled by judges, not kings. But Israel wanted a king because they wanted to be like other nations. Never mind that God had told them they were not to be like others; never mind that they were told kings would bring them trouble. Samuel was a kind of prophet, appointed by God to lead and give advice, and though he tried to dissuade the people from this king idea, he could not convince them. So, God told Samuel to give them what they wanted. Sometimes that is the punishment: getting what you want. And so, Israel got Saul, their first king.
Now back in the book of Deuteronomy God had pretty much told Israel what an ideal ruler should look like. It wasn’t someone whose image projected wealth and power. No, Israel’s ideal ruler was to keep two copies of the Torah so he might read and ponder God’s Word and Law. This leader would be a servant, not a celebrity. But the people wanted Saul because he projected a great image---- tall, dark, and handsome, and from a good family. Saul, like many people who are admired, looked good without really being good. Now there is much about Saul that should elicit our sympathy. He probably never wanted to be king. When lots were drawn and Saul was chosen, he had to be pulled out of hiding. He was a reluctant leader, who feared his own people, and so he was often manipulated into following their inclinations rather than God’s. So, God finally rejected him as king and commanded Samuel to go to Bethlehem to choose another.
Notice the first question the Bethlehem elders put to Samuel: Do you come peaceably? They had every reason to be nervous and afraid, because there was so much instability all around them. Not only was the throne unstable, but there was also this war with the Philistines, so no wonder they wanted to know if Samuel came peaceably. Samuel reassured them that he did come in peace, but that was not exactly true, because at God’s command he had come to stir up trouble. Though Saul was still on the throne, God wanted the people to choose another king, which is really an act of treason. This was a very messy situation, indeed.
Samuel was there to find the new king, hidden among the sons of Jesse. And his eyes laid upon Eliab, the oldest son, a big, strong, good looking guy. Surely, this must be the one, thought Samuel. But no, he was not the one. Remember, Saul too had been big and strong and good looking. So God reminded Samuel that image is not everything. “Do not look on his appearance or the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the onward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” And so, Samuel went through all seven of Jesse’s sons, but still no promise of a king. We can imagine Samuel’s frustration. “Are all your sons here?” he wanted to know. And Jesse told him there was one more, the youngest, who was out in the fields, tending the sheep. Bring him in, came the command. And this was the one---the youngest, the smallest, the one who was doing the dirty job of caring for the sheep---this was the one God had chosen. By the way, you may not know that tending sheep was considered an unclean job, putting such a person way down on the social scale. But God does not see as humans see, so this low status boy, whose promise was hidden from human sight, was God’s choice.
Notice that we do not even learn the name of this youngest son until after Samuel anointed him, until after the spirit of the Lord came upon him. David’s name was hidden in the story, just as David himself was hidden in the pasture, just as the future was hidden from Israel and is hidden from us. The future and the name by which and through the future comes are always hidden from those who see as mortals see. And, of course, how else can we see? We are mortals, and so we see as mortals. We see the images, the outward appearance, and we are often fooled by what we see. There is inevitability to this limitation, but we are reminded: this is not as God sees. Image, the outward appearance, isn’t everything.
The so called historical books of the bible, like Samuel and Kings, interpret history through the lens of faith---faith that God was acting in and through Israel’s story. God would build a new history out of the dying past, even when mortals could not and cannot see what the future holds. Yes, God’s spirit would depart from Saul, and yes, from a mortal point of view that departure is sad, even tragic. No wonder Samuel mourned over Saul. He saw as we see, and when he looked upon this small, young and beautiful boy, Samuel must have wondered what was so promising about this shepherd boy. And Samuel must have also worried about the future---not unlike the way we all worry about the future.
As our reading for today ends, Saul remains king, but God’s spirit has already fallen upon David. A new wind was blowing, and chapter 16 continues by telling us that Saul was a tormented king, who could find no rest, no peace, and no comfort. And yet David will help. He will play his lyre, and the music will soothe, comfort and quiet the tormented king. But only for a moment. The future will prove to be deadly for Saul and for many others, who live fully by and through the power of earthly images. David too will sometimes be impressed by outward appearance—like the beautiful Bathsheba, bathing on the roof. David too will experience God’s judgment. He too will learn that outward appearance is not everything, for God does not see as mortals see. That lesson was not only David’s to learn. In our image obsessed age, we too must learn, painfully at times, the limitation of image. God does not see as mortals do, and no matter how impressive the outward images look to our eyes, they are not the ones God sees and chooses.
1 Samuel 15: 34-16:13
Mark 4: 26-34
A couple of weeks ago, I was reading an article in the New York Times about the Hamptons---the eastern end of Long Island, where the rich and super-rich live and play. The article was describing some of the stores, filled with designer objects and clothes, most of whose names I did not even recognize. Everything about the Hamptons seems to point to an obsession with image.
We all know about image, but did you also know that there are industries that have arisen to give people the feel and experience of an image that they really cannot afford. One of my sons says there are companies that rent out designer dresses for an evening for $200, or a $25,000 diamond necklace for $350. And should you want to go to the ball in style, you can rent a $430,000 Rolls Royce for $2500 a day. But that’s not all. If you are feeling ignored, for $500 you can rent four paparazzi to follow you around for 30 minutes, taking pictures of your every move. And as absurd as it sounds, these businesses are making piles of money---helping people to pretend that image is everything, even when it is not.
Of course, on some level, concern with image is not completely new. If we turn to the book of Samuel, we have the story of Israel, which began as a loose federation of 12 tribes. The authority structure was decentralized, and Israel was ruled by judges, not kings. But Israel wanted a king because they wanted to be like other nations. Never mind that God had told them they were not to be like others; never mind that they were told kings would bring them trouble. Samuel was a kind of prophet, appointed by God to lead and give advice, and though he tried to dissuade the people from this king idea, he could not convince them. So, God told Samuel to give them what they wanted. Sometimes that is the punishment: getting what you want. And so, Israel got Saul, their first king.
Now back in the book of Deuteronomy God had pretty much told Israel what an ideal ruler should look like. It wasn’t someone whose image projected wealth and power. No, Israel’s ideal ruler was to keep two copies of the Torah so he might read and ponder God’s Word and Law. This leader would be a servant, not a celebrity. But the people wanted Saul because he projected a great image---- tall, dark, and handsome, and from a good family. Saul, like many people who are admired, looked good without really being good. Now there is much about Saul that should elicit our sympathy. He probably never wanted to be king. When lots were drawn and Saul was chosen, he had to be pulled out of hiding. He was a reluctant leader, who feared his own people, and so he was often manipulated into following their inclinations rather than God’s. So, God finally rejected him as king and commanded Samuel to go to Bethlehem to choose another.
Notice the first question the Bethlehem elders put to Samuel: Do you come peaceably? They had every reason to be nervous and afraid, because there was so much instability all around them. Not only was the throne unstable, but there was also this war with the Philistines, so no wonder they wanted to know if Samuel came peaceably. Samuel reassured them that he did come in peace, but that was not exactly true, because at God’s command he had come to stir up trouble. Though Saul was still on the throne, God wanted the people to choose another king, which is really an act of treason. This was a very messy situation, indeed.
Samuel was there to find the new king, hidden among the sons of Jesse. And his eyes laid upon Eliab, the oldest son, a big, strong, good looking guy. Surely, this must be the one, thought Samuel. But no, he was not the one. Remember, Saul too had been big and strong and good looking. So God reminded Samuel that image is not everything. “Do not look on his appearance or the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the onward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” And so, Samuel went through all seven of Jesse’s sons, but still no promise of a king. We can imagine Samuel’s frustration. “Are all your sons here?” he wanted to know. And Jesse told him there was one more, the youngest, who was out in the fields, tending the sheep. Bring him in, came the command. And this was the one---the youngest, the smallest, the one who was doing the dirty job of caring for the sheep---this was the one God had chosen. By the way, you may not know that tending sheep was considered an unclean job, putting such a person way down on the social scale. But God does not see as humans see, so this low status boy, whose promise was hidden from human sight, was God’s choice.
Notice that we do not even learn the name of this youngest son until after Samuel anointed him, until after the spirit of the Lord came upon him. David’s name was hidden in the story, just as David himself was hidden in the pasture, just as the future was hidden from Israel and is hidden from us. The future and the name by which and through the future comes are always hidden from those who see as mortals see. And, of course, how else can we see? We are mortals, and so we see as mortals. We see the images, the outward appearance, and we are often fooled by what we see. There is inevitability to this limitation, but we are reminded: this is not as God sees. Image, the outward appearance, isn’t everything.
The so called historical books of the bible, like Samuel and Kings, interpret history through the lens of faith---faith that God was acting in and through Israel’s story. God would build a new history out of the dying past, even when mortals could not and cannot see what the future holds. Yes, God’s spirit would depart from Saul, and yes, from a mortal point of view that departure is sad, even tragic. No wonder Samuel mourned over Saul. He saw as we see, and when he looked upon this small, young and beautiful boy, Samuel must have wondered what was so promising about this shepherd boy. And Samuel must have also worried about the future---not unlike the way we all worry about the future.
As our reading for today ends, Saul remains king, but God’s spirit has already fallen upon David. A new wind was blowing, and chapter 16 continues by telling us that Saul was a tormented king, who could find no rest, no peace, and no comfort. And yet David will help. He will play his lyre, and the music will soothe, comfort and quiet the tormented king. But only for a moment. The future will prove to be deadly for Saul and for many others, who live fully by and through the power of earthly images. David too will sometimes be impressed by outward appearance—like the beautiful Bathsheba, bathing on the roof. David too will experience God’s judgment. He too will learn that outward appearance is not everything, for God does not see as mortals see. That lesson was not only David’s to learn. In our image obsessed age, we too must learn, painfully at times, the limitation of image. God does not see as mortals do, and no matter how impressive the outward images look to our eyes, they are not the ones God sees and chooses.
OUT OF HIS/YOUR MIND by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 6/6/2021
Mark 3: 20-35
Out of his mind: that’s what people said about Jesus. His enemies said it, because in their mind he was undermining the law, like healing and picking grain on the Sabbath. But his family, his mother, brothers, and sisters, also thought he was not quite right in the head. Some scholars think that was such an embarrassing judgment on his family that Luke and Matthew, who borrow so much from Mark, did not include this judgment of Jesus’ family. Mark is the one gospel, which is very hard on the people closest to Jesus---including the disciples, whom Mark presents as bumbling idiots.
Now let’s consider for a moment this term, out of his mind. We have used the term ourselves, sometimes to indicate nothing more than a very strong or even excessive emotion, like “She is out of her mind with anger or grief.” I knew this couple from one of my former churches, who had a summer home in the Berkshires, and loved to attend the Tanglewood concerts, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. They had a summer home in the Berkshires, and they faithfully attended the concerts. But after the husband suddenly died, the wife not only refused to go to their summer home and the concerts, but she also could not bear to listen to the music they both had loved. She was out of her mind with grief, which destroyed for a while her love of music since the music reminded her of whom she had lost. It took almost five years for her love of music to return, and she would later say, “Beauty has a way of overcoming even the depths of grief.”
There are terrifying aspects of being out of one’s mind. My father in law, a professor at Harvard for nearly 48 years, died from gleocell blastoma, a raging form of brain cancer. He died “out of his mind”, or should I say with no mind, because the radiation killed his brain cells. Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia, which destroy the mind, can leave behind a shell of a human being whom no one recognizes as the person they knew and loved. It is a terrible path to travel upon.
And we can imagine that Jesus was traveling on a path of others did not approve. His family expected him to live his life within certain boundaries.
A 30 year old man in first century Palestine, who was apparently unmarried and content to stay that way; a man, who went around not only healing but also forgiving sins--- the latter something people believed only God could do--- a man so concentrated on the coming of God’s kingdom that he was willing to die for it----well to some people that did look like madness.
Oh, we like to sanitize and rationalize Jesus by pointing to him as a great moral teacher and leader, and yet he told stories that insult our morality. He told a parable about workers who were all paid the same amount of money, whether they worked for an hour or the whole day. And then there was this story about a man who found a treasure in a field, covered it up, sold everything he had and bought the field without saying a word to the owner about the treasure on the property. This is great morality? If you and I tried to live by such a code, we would find ourselves in trouble with the law in no time at all.
The truth is Jesus was not harmless, and those who truly take or took his teachings seriously often find themselves in harm’s way as well. Saint Francis walked away from his father’s wealth after coming out of a serous depression, a result of trauma he suffered in a war. He came out the other side as a follower of Jesus, talking to the birds and trees and begging for his living. A saint or a madman?
Julian of Norwich, a 14th century English mystic, suffered blinding headaches and visions and then wrote what she claimed were revelations from Jesus in a book named Showings of Divine Love. Living in the Age of the Black Death, when so many pointed to God’s wrath and punishment of sin, Julian wrote of God’s compassion and desire to save all. “Jesus is our Mother”, she said, “who nurses us at her breast”. Some thought her mad, while others called her a mystic, deserving of sainthood. In modern time, we have Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, who lived and worked among the poorest of the poor in New York City and took quite literally Jesus’ teaching that whatever we do to the least of these, we do to him. All out of their minds? Well, maybe, at least out of the normal mind of the society in which they lived.
So, what do you think? Was Jesus out of his mind? After all, he did not value what so many others put at the top of the list—like family. In today’s text we hear Jesus define family outside the bloodline. Who are my mother and my brothers? Whoever does the will of God are my brother and sister and mother. This is simply not what most families want to hear in Jesus’ day or in our own. And as for churches, let’s be honest. Churches spend their money on staff and on their buildings, but Jesus didn’t care about such things. He spoke about the Temple’s destruction with such assurance that the religious leadership became even more determined to get rid of him.
Out of his mind: I think he was, out of his mind with a burning love for God, and yes, that does make him different. Flannery O’Connor, a faithful Roman Catholic and masterful short story writer, once said: Know the truth, and the truth shall make you odd. Odd, yes, and even out of your mind.
Mark 3: 20-35
Out of his mind: that’s what people said about Jesus. His enemies said it, because in their mind he was undermining the law, like healing and picking grain on the Sabbath. But his family, his mother, brothers, and sisters, also thought he was not quite right in the head. Some scholars think that was such an embarrassing judgment on his family that Luke and Matthew, who borrow so much from Mark, did not include this judgment of Jesus’ family. Mark is the one gospel, which is very hard on the people closest to Jesus---including the disciples, whom Mark presents as bumbling idiots.
Now let’s consider for a moment this term, out of his mind. We have used the term ourselves, sometimes to indicate nothing more than a very strong or even excessive emotion, like “She is out of her mind with anger or grief.” I knew this couple from one of my former churches, who had a summer home in the Berkshires, and loved to attend the Tanglewood concerts, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. They had a summer home in the Berkshires, and they faithfully attended the concerts. But after the husband suddenly died, the wife not only refused to go to their summer home and the concerts, but she also could not bear to listen to the music they both had loved. She was out of her mind with grief, which destroyed for a while her love of music since the music reminded her of whom she had lost. It took almost five years for her love of music to return, and she would later say, “Beauty has a way of overcoming even the depths of grief.”
There are terrifying aspects of being out of one’s mind. My father in law, a professor at Harvard for nearly 48 years, died from gleocell blastoma, a raging form of brain cancer. He died “out of his mind”, or should I say with no mind, because the radiation killed his brain cells. Alzheimer’s and other forms of dementia, which destroy the mind, can leave behind a shell of a human being whom no one recognizes as the person they knew and loved. It is a terrible path to travel upon.
And we can imagine that Jesus was traveling on a path of others did not approve. His family expected him to live his life within certain boundaries.
A 30 year old man in first century Palestine, who was apparently unmarried and content to stay that way; a man, who went around not only healing but also forgiving sins--- the latter something people believed only God could do--- a man so concentrated on the coming of God’s kingdom that he was willing to die for it----well to some people that did look like madness.
Oh, we like to sanitize and rationalize Jesus by pointing to him as a great moral teacher and leader, and yet he told stories that insult our morality. He told a parable about workers who were all paid the same amount of money, whether they worked for an hour or the whole day. And then there was this story about a man who found a treasure in a field, covered it up, sold everything he had and bought the field without saying a word to the owner about the treasure on the property. This is great morality? If you and I tried to live by such a code, we would find ourselves in trouble with the law in no time at all.
The truth is Jesus was not harmless, and those who truly take or took his teachings seriously often find themselves in harm’s way as well. Saint Francis walked away from his father’s wealth after coming out of a serous depression, a result of trauma he suffered in a war. He came out the other side as a follower of Jesus, talking to the birds and trees and begging for his living. A saint or a madman?
Julian of Norwich, a 14th century English mystic, suffered blinding headaches and visions and then wrote what she claimed were revelations from Jesus in a book named Showings of Divine Love. Living in the Age of the Black Death, when so many pointed to God’s wrath and punishment of sin, Julian wrote of God’s compassion and desire to save all. “Jesus is our Mother”, she said, “who nurses us at her breast”. Some thought her mad, while others called her a mystic, deserving of sainthood. In modern time, we have Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, who lived and worked among the poorest of the poor in New York City and took quite literally Jesus’ teaching that whatever we do to the least of these, we do to him. All out of their minds? Well, maybe, at least out of the normal mind of the society in which they lived.
So, what do you think? Was Jesus out of his mind? After all, he did not value what so many others put at the top of the list—like family. In today’s text we hear Jesus define family outside the bloodline. Who are my mother and my brothers? Whoever does the will of God are my brother and sister and mother. This is simply not what most families want to hear in Jesus’ day or in our own. And as for churches, let’s be honest. Churches spend their money on staff and on their buildings, but Jesus didn’t care about such things. He spoke about the Temple’s destruction with such assurance that the religious leadership became even more determined to get rid of him.
Out of his mind: I think he was, out of his mind with a burning love for God, and yes, that does make him different. Flannery O’Connor, a faithful Roman Catholic and masterful short story writer, once said: Know the truth, and the truth shall make you odd. Odd, yes, and even out of your mind.
June 4, 2021
Dear Friends,
A few weeks ago, I wrote that sometimes I am amazed by what makes it onto the front pages of a newspaper. I was specifically referring to an article on the front page of the New York Times about a nun whose message is, “Remember, you will die.” Well, just this past Sunday, I came across another article, this time not on the front page, but still it surprised me a bit, because again it was about death, and as I said in my earlier reflection, death in our culture is often an ignored or denied topic.
While I suppose there are some who would find this article sad or depressing, I actually found it quite inspiring, while also acknowledging its sadness. Written by a woman, Genevieve Kingston, it tells the story of her mother, who died of cancer at the age of 49, when Genevieve was ten days away from her 12th birthday, a day she shared with her mother. When Genevieve was three, her mother was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and over the next nine years, she fought hard to stay alive while researching all kinds of different treatments, everything from the conventional chemotherapy to drinking carrot juice.
What impressed me about this mother was how she decided to prepare her two children, a son and a daughter, for her eventual death. By the time Genevieve was seven, her mother must have realized that the battle would finally be lost, and so she prepared gift boxes for her two children. Into the boxes went letters and gifts to mark each milestone---birthdays---every year up to age 30, the passing of the test for a driver’s license, graduations, engagement, marriage, first baby.
Ten days after her mother’s death, Genevieve sat at the foot of her bed and opened the box. She opened the package marked, 12th birthday, and there it was: an amethyst birthstone ring with a note card: I always wanted a birthstone ring when I was a little girl. Your Granny finally brought me one, and I loved it more than I can say. I hope you like it, too. Happy birthday, darling girl. Love, Your Mommy. I must admit I had to wipe away a few tears as I read it, but I went one, nonetheless, because I was impressed that this woman was able to get outside herself enough to do this project. One of the great temptations of illness is that it can become all-consuming so that everything becomes about oneself, one’s sick body. Self-obsession when sick is certainly understandable. Illness makes us hyper aware of how our body feels. When we physically hurt, when our bodies seem to betray us, it is so easy to withdraw into the self and block everything and everyone else out. But over the years of this mother’s illness, she thought a great deal about what she wanted her children to know and to learn.
On the morning of Genevieve’s graduation from high school, a string of pearls appeared. Her mother wrote that this was a tradition in her family, so Genevieve wore those pearls as she walked across the field that day to receive her high school diploma. All the presents were wrapped with a pink ribbon and a while note card: Happy 15th, Happy 16th, Happy Graduation, You’re a College Girl Now, Happy 21st.
Genevieve wrote that when she was young, opening the packages was like being on a treasure hunt, but as she grew older, she recognized there was something foundational in the experience. Her mother was coming to meet her where she was, and Genevieve appreci ated how hard her mother tried to guide her forward. “Her messages met me like guideposts in a dark forest; if her words couldn’t point the way, at least they offered the comfort of knowing someone had been there before.” That word comfort really struck me, because so often that is what we are looking for in life---the assurance of comfort. As we mature, we realize that no one can live our lives for us; no one can solve our problems or give us the definitive answer to life’s big questions. We pray that God will lead us forward, but we also acknowledge that at times God remains elusive. Especially when it comes to supplying direct answers and aid, and so we come to rely upon the COMFORT of God’s presence, even when we do not know exactly what God is intending. I remember years ago someone telling me after she lost her eight year old daughter to a bicycle accident, “God is not giving me any specific directions, but I do believe God is with me, even when I cannot feel God’s presence.” I remember thinking at the time that this was an example of great faith---belief over feeling.
Ten years after Genevieve lost her mother, her father suddenly died. There was no warning, no preparation, no messages, and perhaps hardest of all, there was no letter from her mother on how to navigate through this loss. Her mother never thought to prepare her for this. She remembers thinking that now the only parenting she would have would come from a box.
When she hit the age of thirty, besides the birthday wish and present, there were only three packages remaining: engagement, marriage, and first baby. Genevieve did not know if she would ever be engaged, married, or have a baby. Though she was in a loving, committed relationship, she did not know where that would lead, and so she decided she wanted to hear her mother’s wisdom NOW. Feeling rebellious, she opened the box, not confident her mother would approve. She read: “My dearest little girl, of course you aren’t so little anymore as you read this, but you are little as I wrote. You are only seven, and I am facing the terrible sadness that you will be growing up without me.” Her mother wrote about the capacity to give, receive, and forgive. She wrote about the striving for balance that is not dependent on the balance of the other, “a kind of loving detachment.” Genevieve pondered that word detachment as she realized there was no detachment in the love that made the box or the love that drove her to open it. And then she read: “I’m so sorry to be leaving you. Please forgive me. I know a box of letters and tokens can’t begin to take my place, but I wanted so badly to do something to ease your way through the future. Love, Your Mommy”.
Carefully, Genevieve put everything back in the box. She did not open the package that went along with the engagement letter. She remains unsure if or even when she will open the other letters and packages. What if she never marries or has a child? But she does not have to decide now what she will do. Time will tell, as it does with all of us. For now, Genevieve realizes how blessed she is. She has been “fiercely, extravagantly, wildly loved”. And she is grateful.
As Christians we do believe God loves us fiercely, extravagantly, and wildly, but very often, people do not know, believe, or feel it. It may well be that people who are greatly loved by others have an easier time believing that God loves them with a love even beyond human love.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
A few weeks ago, I wrote that sometimes I am amazed by what makes it onto the front pages of a newspaper. I was specifically referring to an article on the front page of the New York Times about a nun whose message is, “Remember, you will die.” Well, just this past Sunday, I came across another article, this time not on the front page, but still it surprised me a bit, because again it was about death, and as I said in my earlier reflection, death in our culture is often an ignored or denied topic.
While I suppose there are some who would find this article sad or depressing, I actually found it quite inspiring, while also acknowledging its sadness. Written by a woman, Genevieve Kingston, it tells the story of her mother, who died of cancer at the age of 49, when Genevieve was ten days away from her 12th birthday, a day she shared with her mother. When Genevieve was three, her mother was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer, and over the next nine years, she fought hard to stay alive while researching all kinds of different treatments, everything from the conventional chemotherapy to drinking carrot juice.
What impressed me about this mother was how she decided to prepare her two children, a son and a daughter, for her eventual death. By the time Genevieve was seven, her mother must have realized that the battle would finally be lost, and so she prepared gift boxes for her two children. Into the boxes went letters and gifts to mark each milestone---birthdays---every year up to age 30, the passing of the test for a driver’s license, graduations, engagement, marriage, first baby.
Ten days after her mother’s death, Genevieve sat at the foot of her bed and opened the box. She opened the package marked, 12th birthday, and there it was: an amethyst birthstone ring with a note card: I always wanted a birthstone ring when I was a little girl. Your Granny finally brought me one, and I loved it more than I can say. I hope you like it, too. Happy birthday, darling girl. Love, Your Mommy. I must admit I had to wipe away a few tears as I read it, but I went one, nonetheless, because I was impressed that this woman was able to get outside herself enough to do this project. One of the great temptations of illness is that it can become all-consuming so that everything becomes about oneself, one’s sick body. Self-obsession when sick is certainly understandable. Illness makes us hyper aware of how our body feels. When we physically hurt, when our bodies seem to betray us, it is so easy to withdraw into the self and block everything and everyone else out. But over the years of this mother’s illness, she thought a great deal about what she wanted her children to know and to learn.
On the morning of Genevieve’s graduation from high school, a string of pearls appeared. Her mother wrote that this was a tradition in her family, so Genevieve wore those pearls as she walked across the field that day to receive her high school diploma. All the presents were wrapped with a pink ribbon and a while note card: Happy 15th, Happy 16th, Happy Graduation, You’re a College Girl Now, Happy 21st.
Genevieve wrote that when she was young, opening the packages was like being on a treasure hunt, but as she grew older, she recognized there was something foundational in the experience. Her mother was coming to meet her where she was, and Genevieve appreci ated how hard her mother tried to guide her forward. “Her messages met me like guideposts in a dark forest; if her words couldn’t point the way, at least they offered the comfort of knowing someone had been there before.” That word comfort really struck me, because so often that is what we are looking for in life---the assurance of comfort. As we mature, we realize that no one can live our lives for us; no one can solve our problems or give us the definitive answer to life’s big questions. We pray that God will lead us forward, but we also acknowledge that at times God remains elusive. Especially when it comes to supplying direct answers and aid, and so we come to rely upon the COMFORT of God’s presence, even when we do not know exactly what God is intending. I remember years ago someone telling me after she lost her eight year old daughter to a bicycle accident, “God is not giving me any specific directions, but I do believe God is with me, even when I cannot feel God’s presence.” I remember thinking at the time that this was an example of great faith---belief over feeling.
Ten years after Genevieve lost her mother, her father suddenly died. There was no warning, no preparation, no messages, and perhaps hardest of all, there was no letter from her mother on how to navigate through this loss. Her mother never thought to prepare her for this. She remembers thinking that now the only parenting she would have would come from a box.
When she hit the age of thirty, besides the birthday wish and present, there were only three packages remaining: engagement, marriage, and first baby. Genevieve did not know if she would ever be engaged, married, or have a baby. Though she was in a loving, committed relationship, she did not know where that would lead, and so she decided she wanted to hear her mother’s wisdom NOW. Feeling rebellious, she opened the box, not confident her mother would approve. She read: “My dearest little girl, of course you aren’t so little anymore as you read this, but you are little as I wrote. You are only seven, and I am facing the terrible sadness that you will be growing up without me.” Her mother wrote about the capacity to give, receive, and forgive. She wrote about the striving for balance that is not dependent on the balance of the other, “a kind of loving detachment.” Genevieve pondered that word detachment as she realized there was no detachment in the love that made the box or the love that drove her to open it. And then she read: “I’m so sorry to be leaving you. Please forgive me. I know a box of letters and tokens can’t begin to take my place, but I wanted so badly to do something to ease your way through the future. Love, Your Mommy”.
Carefully, Genevieve put everything back in the box. She did not open the package that went along with the engagement letter. She remains unsure if or even when she will open the other letters and packages. What if she never marries or has a child? But she does not have to decide now what she will do. Time will tell, as it does with all of us. For now, Genevieve realizes how blessed she is. She has been “fiercely, extravagantly, wildly loved”. And she is grateful.
As Christians we do believe God loves us fiercely, extravagantly, and wildly, but very often, people do not know, believe, or feel it. It may well be that people who are greatly loved by others have an easier time believing that God loves them with a love even beyond human love.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
May 26, 2021
Dear Friends,
When I was growing up, I always would get a red poppy on Memorial Day week-end. They were sold in front of grocery stores, banks, even the post office had veterans standing in front, accepting modest donations for the red flowers with green stems. I asked my mother the significance of the red flower, and she said something about war being bloody, and so we remember the people who died in these terrible wars. My mother did not mince words, and the bloodiness of war made a deep impression on me.
Years later, however, I did learn the story of the red poppy and the woman and teacher, Moina Belle Michael, whose idea it was to memorialize World War l with a red poppy. On November 9, 1918, Moina was on duty for a Conference being held at Columbia University in a room where soldiers and other military people had come for gatherings before leaving for war overseas. This was just a few days before the November 11 Armistice, and the hopeful feelings about the end of the war were jubilant. A soldier gave Moina a copy of the November issue of The Ladies Home Journal in which the poem by Colonel John McCrae, We Shall Not Sleep, later known as In Flanders Fields was printed and vividly illustrated in color. Moina had read the poem before, but on this particular day, the last verse hit her hard: To you from failing hands we throw the Torch: be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders Fields. Moina made a pledge that she would never break faith with those who died, and she decided that she must find poppies. And so she searched the stores of New York to find the flowers.
It was not an easy thing to find (artificial) poppies in November, but at the store, Wanamker’s, she found a large red poppy and two dozen small silk four petaled poppies. When Moina told the saleswoman why she wanted the poppies, the young woman was deeply touched, tearfully telling Moina that she had a brother who was sleeping in the poppy fields of Flanders. Moina returned to Columbia University later that day to continue her work while giving out the poppies she had purchased to veterans who were asking for them.
After the conclusion of World War l Veterans groups began to adopt the poppy as a symbol of remembrance for those who had lost their lives in the Great War, and the funds from the sale of the poppies were used to help the survivors of the war.
Moina had pledged to keep the faith to the soldiers who fought and died in that terrible war, and in response to the poem, In Flanders Field, she wrote a poem, We Shall Keep the Faith. The Ladies Home Journal would print her poem along with In Flanders Fields.
Sadly, we now have more wars and veterans to remember than the First World War and those who fought and died in it. The poppies are still sold, and war is still terrible and bloody. The question before us is: How do we keep faith with those who died and made the bloody sacrifice? Jesus is called The Prince of Peace, and early Christians, until the fourth century, were forbidden to be soldiers or participate in any wars. It was the great Augustine, (354-430), a brilliant thinker and theologian as well as bishop of Hippo, who gave us the theory of Just War. And ever since that time Christians have been trying to figure out when and if certain wars are just.
Now read the two poems:
In Flanders Fields, written by Colonel John McCrae, who was a physician, serving in World War l. The day before he wrote this poem, his closest friend was killed and then buried in a makeshift grave with a simple wooden cross, surrounded by poppies.
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
The poem, We Shall Keep the Faith, by Moina Belle Michael, was written in response to In Flanders Fields.
Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.
And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.
Dear Friends,
When I was growing up, I always would get a red poppy on Memorial Day week-end. They were sold in front of grocery stores, banks, even the post office had veterans standing in front, accepting modest donations for the red flowers with green stems. I asked my mother the significance of the red flower, and she said something about war being bloody, and so we remember the people who died in these terrible wars. My mother did not mince words, and the bloodiness of war made a deep impression on me.
Years later, however, I did learn the story of the red poppy and the woman and teacher, Moina Belle Michael, whose idea it was to memorialize World War l with a red poppy. On November 9, 1918, Moina was on duty for a Conference being held at Columbia University in a room where soldiers and other military people had come for gatherings before leaving for war overseas. This was just a few days before the November 11 Armistice, and the hopeful feelings about the end of the war were jubilant. A soldier gave Moina a copy of the November issue of The Ladies Home Journal in which the poem by Colonel John McCrae, We Shall Not Sleep, later known as In Flanders Fields was printed and vividly illustrated in color. Moina had read the poem before, but on this particular day, the last verse hit her hard: To you from failing hands we throw the Torch: be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders Fields. Moina made a pledge that she would never break faith with those who died, and she decided that she must find poppies. And so she searched the stores of New York to find the flowers.
It was not an easy thing to find (artificial) poppies in November, but at the store, Wanamker’s, she found a large red poppy and two dozen small silk four petaled poppies. When Moina told the saleswoman why she wanted the poppies, the young woman was deeply touched, tearfully telling Moina that she had a brother who was sleeping in the poppy fields of Flanders. Moina returned to Columbia University later that day to continue her work while giving out the poppies she had purchased to veterans who were asking for them.
After the conclusion of World War l Veterans groups began to adopt the poppy as a symbol of remembrance for those who had lost their lives in the Great War, and the funds from the sale of the poppies were used to help the survivors of the war.
Moina had pledged to keep the faith to the soldiers who fought and died in that terrible war, and in response to the poem, In Flanders Field, she wrote a poem, We Shall Keep the Faith. The Ladies Home Journal would print her poem along with In Flanders Fields.
Sadly, we now have more wars and veterans to remember than the First World War and those who fought and died in it. The poppies are still sold, and war is still terrible and bloody. The question before us is: How do we keep faith with those who died and made the bloody sacrifice? Jesus is called The Prince of Peace, and early Christians, until the fourth century, were forbidden to be soldiers or participate in any wars. It was the great Augustine, (354-430), a brilliant thinker and theologian as well as bishop of Hippo, who gave us the theory of Just War. And ever since that time Christians have been trying to figure out when and if certain wars are just.
Now read the two poems:
In Flanders Fields, written by Colonel John McCrae, who was a physician, serving in World War l. The day before he wrote this poem, his closest friend was killed and then buried in a makeshift grave with a simple wooden cross, surrounded by poppies.
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
The poem, We Shall Keep the Faith, by Moina Belle Michael, was written in response to In Flanders Fields.
Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.
And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.
When the Spirit Overcomes by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 5/23/2021
In all my 38 years of ordination I have had only one REALLY serious question about hell, and it came from an eight year old girl, whose 37 year old mother, Elizabeth, had just died of a brain tumor. Such deaths are always crushing, but this one was beyond crushing. Some of you have heard me talk about Elizabeth before. She was a surgeon, and so was her husband, but when Elizabeth became ill, and the prognosis looked grim, her husband lost courage and ran, leaving his wife and kids. He sent money, a lot of it, and through his lawyer communicated that he simply could not bear to watch his wife, the love of his life, die. “God forgive me,” he said, “I just cannot do it.” Elizabeth was a remarkable woman, someone I came to know quite well as a patient in the hospital, where I worked. “My husband could never accept death,” she told me; “he couldn’t bear to lose a patient; he fought against death the way Luke Skywalker fought against Darth Vader. Death was his greatest enemy and his greatest fear. “Yes, I am heart broken, but I do understand. And understanding removes my bitterness and anger.” And that is how Elizabeth died: with a broken heart but an understanding spirit. I had no doubt that she had Christ’s spirit within her.
At the end of Elizabeth’s memorial service, her eight year old daughter, Katie, asked me, “Is my Daddy going to hell? That’s what I heard my Nana say, but I don’t want my Daddy to go to hell. God already has my Mommy in heaven, so why would God put my Daddy in hell?”
I would have given anything not to have been there at that moment, but I had to say something, so I said in so many words what I truly believe. God does not send anyone to hell, and if people get themselves there, it’s God’s job to get them out.” I also told her that I knew how much her Daddy had hurt her and her brother and mother, but sometimes people are weak and afraid. “I know you love your Daddy,” I said, “and so does God. And love never put people in hell. It works hard to get them out.”
Imagine if you had been in my situation. What would you have said to Katie? It is true that many of us simply do not believe in hell as a place of eternal, torturous punishment. I have read that over 60% of mainline Protestants reject the idea of an eternal hell, though they do believe in some kind of heaven. Some people say, “Hell is here on earth,” pointing to situations of extreme suffering like war and illness, and the abandonment suffered by Elizabeth and her children. Theologically, hell is defined as separation from God, something that people do when they commit evil acts or turn in on themselves so completely, they see nothing beyond themselves. So, hell or separation from God is not something God does to us as punishment for sin; it is what we do to God and ourselves when we reject the command to love and serve God by also loving and serving others.
While the idea of hell has been around for a very long time, so too has the idea of universal salvation, the belief that all shall finally be saved by a loving God. By the second century there were strong defenders of this idea, though until quite recently it has been a minority view. In our own nation after the Civil War the Universalists became one of the fastest growing denominations. The nation had been traumatized by a bloody and terrible war, and the Good News preached by the Universalists declared that God’s love is the supreme reality, the ultimate truth and force, which will in the end overcome evil by the sheer power of its attraction. Nothing is more powerful than God’s love, they preached, and so love cannot ultimately be defeated by evil. God’s love cannot be thwarted.
The strict Calvinists, who stood in many pulpits across New England, were appalled by the universalist claim. They countered by saying that God never intended the salvation of all. God, they said, from the very beginning willed a select few, the elected, for salvation and the rest for damnation. This decision lay in God’s inscrutable will, and God’s will, they said, cannot be fully grasped by human reason. While that satisfied the rigorous Calvinists, there were others, who although not Universalists, found that idea repugnant, and so they argued for heaven or hell on the basis of human free will. Human beings can choose rightly or wrongly, and they reap the results of their choices. If all are finally saved, they argued, human freedom has no meaning or consequence, and this, they claimed, trivializes human life and choice. But does it really?
Is human life made ultimately meaningful because of God’s love or because of human freedom? What do we hold up as the most important thing? God’s love gives us our freedom, but this does not mean that our freedom replaces God or that it is more important than God. Remember what idolatry is---to treat something finite and limited as if it were infinite and unlimited, that is, as if it were God. If we make our human ability to choose to be the most important ingredient of our salvation or damnation---then why do we need God? God then would simply affirm what we have already chosen to do. In the end then it is God’s love, which is made trivial, because it would be impotent against human choice.
Now you may be thinking to yourself---why is she talking about this on Pentecost Sunday, the Church’s birthday, a day we remember and celebrate the sending of the spirit---the spirit of Christ. As we celebrate this spirit, we are called to remember who Christ was and is. He is the one who shows us what God is like, when God shows up in a human life. And what we see in Jesus is a life of radical inclusion, reaching out to the least of these, persons, who were on the margins of society, because they were sick, like lepers, or morally compromised, like tax collectors and prostitutes, or social failures, like the poor, or simply the hated Other---like the Samaritan. Jesus did not cast any people away; he did not use any of those categories as an excuse for exclusion and rejection. And we too are not to use such categories to exclude, whatever those categories happen to be: race, class, gender, sexual orientation---you name it. When we consider the story of Pentecost, the crowd who gathered to hear Peter preach, we see that they were from all over the place---a vastly diverse group of people, symbolizing Christ’s gracious welcome to all who desire to hear and understand, each in their own languages.
So, if Jesus was radically inclusive in this life, cannot that inclusion also apply to what lies beyond? Cannot God’s love, which today we celebrate in the coming of Christ’s Spirit, work so that finally all resistance is overcome in the new creation, overcome by the attractive power of God’s love. Now perhaps this sounds like too much theological speculation, but consider again Katie, who overheard her Nana wish hell for Katie’s father, the man, who had broken her mother’s heart and abandoned the children, because he was too fearful to face the pain. He did not have the strength to do it. Hell was the grandmother’s consolation, and though we can well understand her feelings, we should ask ourselves, is this truly what we human beings are made to be consoled by---hell for others.
The Spirit we celebrate today tells us why we need God. We need God because our freedom, which sometimes is more like slavery, when we choose wrongly, when we are consoled by the wrong things, is not the ultimate truth in our lives. One of the early church fathers, Tertullian, who lived around 200, wrote that the blessed in heaven will feel even greater blessedness and joy as they look down at the condemned, writhing in hell. How wrong he was. To exalt in anyone’s suffering is a sin; to wish hell for anyone is sinful. And that is why we need God and why we celebrate today the coming of Christ’s Spirit, because on our own we so often desire the wrong things and are consoled by the wrong things. But when the Spirit comes, it can heal us of our disordered desires and consolations, pointing us toward the truth that finally all manner of things shall be made well. God does not put anyone in hell but works to overcome the separation that human beings so tragically often choose. In our separation we do say NO to God, but God says No to our No, and heals what we on our own cannot heal. And today we thank God for the coming of the healing spirit.
In all my 38 years of ordination I have had only one REALLY serious question about hell, and it came from an eight year old girl, whose 37 year old mother, Elizabeth, had just died of a brain tumor. Such deaths are always crushing, but this one was beyond crushing. Some of you have heard me talk about Elizabeth before. She was a surgeon, and so was her husband, but when Elizabeth became ill, and the prognosis looked grim, her husband lost courage and ran, leaving his wife and kids. He sent money, a lot of it, and through his lawyer communicated that he simply could not bear to watch his wife, the love of his life, die. “God forgive me,” he said, “I just cannot do it.” Elizabeth was a remarkable woman, someone I came to know quite well as a patient in the hospital, where I worked. “My husband could never accept death,” she told me; “he couldn’t bear to lose a patient; he fought against death the way Luke Skywalker fought against Darth Vader. Death was his greatest enemy and his greatest fear. “Yes, I am heart broken, but I do understand. And understanding removes my bitterness and anger.” And that is how Elizabeth died: with a broken heart but an understanding spirit. I had no doubt that she had Christ’s spirit within her.
At the end of Elizabeth’s memorial service, her eight year old daughter, Katie, asked me, “Is my Daddy going to hell? That’s what I heard my Nana say, but I don’t want my Daddy to go to hell. God already has my Mommy in heaven, so why would God put my Daddy in hell?”
I would have given anything not to have been there at that moment, but I had to say something, so I said in so many words what I truly believe. God does not send anyone to hell, and if people get themselves there, it’s God’s job to get them out.” I also told her that I knew how much her Daddy had hurt her and her brother and mother, but sometimes people are weak and afraid. “I know you love your Daddy,” I said, “and so does God. And love never put people in hell. It works hard to get them out.”
Imagine if you had been in my situation. What would you have said to Katie? It is true that many of us simply do not believe in hell as a place of eternal, torturous punishment. I have read that over 60% of mainline Protestants reject the idea of an eternal hell, though they do believe in some kind of heaven. Some people say, “Hell is here on earth,” pointing to situations of extreme suffering like war and illness, and the abandonment suffered by Elizabeth and her children. Theologically, hell is defined as separation from God, something that people do when they commit evil acts or turn in on themselves so completely, they see nothing beyond themselves. So, hell or separation from God is not something God does to us as punishment for sin; it is what we do to God and ourselves when we reject the command to love and serve God by also loving and serving others.
While the idea of hell has been around for a very long time, so too has the idea of universal salvation, the belief that all shall finally be saved by a loving God. By the second century there were strong defenders of this idea, though until quite recently it has been a minority view. In our own nation after the Civil War the Universalists became one of the fastest growing denominations. The nation had been traumatized by a bloody and terrible war, and the Good News preached by the Universalists declared that God’s love is the supreme reality, the ultimate truth and force, which will in the end overcome evil by the sheer power of its attraction. Nothing is more powerful than God’s love, they preached, and so love cannot ultimately be defeated by evil. God’s love cannot be thwarted.
The strict Calvinists, who stood in many pulpits across New England, were appalled by the universalist claim. They countered by saying that God never intended the salvation of all. God, they said, from the very beginning willed a select few, the elected, for salvation and the rest for damnation. This decision lay in God’s inscrutable will, and God’s will, they said, cannot be fully grasped by human reason. While that satisfied the rigorous Calvinists, there were others, who although not Universalists, found that idea repugnant, and so they argued for heaven or hell on the basis of human free will. Human beings can choose rightly or wrongly, and they reap the results of their choices. If all are finally saved, they argued, human freedom has no meaning or consequence, and this, they claimed, trivializes human life and choice. But does it really?
Is human life made ultimately meaningful because of God’s love or because of human freedom? What do we hold up as the most important thing? God’s love gives us our freedom, but this does not mean that our freedom replaces God or that it is more important than God. Remember what idolatry is---to treat something finite and limited as if it were infinite and unlimited, that is, as if it were God. If we make our human ability to choose to be the most important ingredient of our salvation or damnation---then why do we need God? God then would simply affirm what we have already chosen to do. In the end then it is God’s love, which is made trivial, because it would be impotent against human choice.
Now you may be thinking to yourself---why is she talking about this on Pentecost Sunday, the Church’s birthday, a day we remember and celebrate the sending of the spirit---the spirit of Christ. As we celebrate this spirit, we are called to remember who Christ was and is. He is the one who shows us what God is like, when God shows up in a human life. And what we see in Jesus is a life of radical inclusion, reaching out to the least of these, persons, who were on the margins of society, because they were sick, like lepers, or morally compromised, like tax collectors and prostitutes, or social failures, like the poor, or simply the hated Other---like the Samaritan. Jesus did not cast any people away; he did not use any of those categories as an excuse for exclusion and rejection. And we too are not to use such categories to exclude, whatever those categories happen to be: race, class, gender, sexual orientation---you name it. When we consider the story of Pentecost, the crowd who gathered to hear Peter preach, we see that they were from all over the place---a vastly diverse group of people, symbolizing Christ’s gracious welcome to all who desire to hear and understand, each in their own languages.
So, if Jesus was radically inclusive in this life, cannot that inclusion also apply to what lies beyond? Cannot God’s love, which today we celebrate in the coming of Christ’s Spirit, work so that finally all resistance is overcome in the new creation, overcome by the attractive power of God’s love. Now perhaps this sounds like too much theological speculation, but consider again Katie, who overheard her Nana wish hell for Katie’s father, the man, who had broken her mother’s heart and abandoned the children, because he was too fearful to face the pain. He did not have the strength to do it. Hell was the grandmother’s consolation, and though we can well understand her feelings, we should ask ourselves, is this truly what we human beings are made to be consoled by---hell for others.
The Spirit we celebrate today tells us why we need God. We need God because our freedom, which sometimes is more like slavery, when we choose wrongly, when we are consoled by the wrong things, is not the ultimate truth in our lives. One of the early church fathers, Tertullian, who lived around 200, wrote that the blessed in heaven will feel even greater blessedness and joy as they look down at the condemned, writhing in hell. How wrong he was. To exalt in anyone’s suffering is a sin; to wish hell for anyone is sinful. And that is why we need God and why we celebrate today the coming of Christ’s Spirit, because on our own we so often desire the wrong things and are consoled by the wrong things. But when the Spirit comes, it can heal us of our disordered desires and consolations, pointing us toward the truth that finally all manner of things shall be made well. God does not put anyone in hell but works to overcome the separation that human beings so tragically often choose. In our separation we do say NO to God, but God says No to our No, and heals what we on our own cannot heal. And today we thank God for the coming of the healing spirit.
May 20, 2021
Dear Friends,
Sometimes I am amazed by what makes it onto the front page of a newspaper, like last Saturday, May 15, when The New York Times had a front page article, titled, A Nun’s Words of Comfort: “You Are Going to Die.” I would guess that I was not the only person who read the article with a sense of surprise and curiosity. Most newspapers don’t write about nuns, and the subject of death, at least until the pandemic, which has claimed nearly 600,000 American lives, is covered only when it is dramatic and horrific, like mass shootings or plane crashes. The ordinary reality of death that comes to everyone is hardly a subject newspapers tackle. And yet on a particular Saturday on May 15, 2021, it made the front page.
Sister Theresa Aletheia Noble is pictured (again on the front page) in her black, traditional habit with words underneath her picture saying that she wants you to think about death. She entered the Daughters of St. Paul Convent in 2010, where she now surrounds herself with images of skulls. She has a ceramic one on her desk, and people send her skull mugs and skull rosaries. However, she is not morbid, but is lively and joyful, while practicing the spiritual discipline of memento mori, a Latin phrase meaning, “Remember your death,” so that you might live each day fully and gratefully. “Suffering and death,” she says, are “facts of life,” and to concentrate only on the bright and happy “is superficial and inauthentic.” And yet there is no denying we live in a culture that denies death as Ernest Becker claimed in his brilliant book, The Denial of Death from 1973. It is not difficult to deny death, when it is shut away nursing homes or in hospitals. There are many people, who simply refuse to visit someone who is dying, even if the person happens to be a close friend or relative, and it is not uncommon these days to reach adulthood without having lost a significant person to death. With medicine’s advancement, we have been able to keep death away for a longer period of time than our great grandparents ever thought possible. Sister Theresa claims that we mistakenly think that keeping death away from our consciousness is the road to happiness, but she says that only by facing the “darkest realities of life do we find light in them.”
She is not someone who was naturally religious. Though her parents were active in the Roman Catholic Church, and her father had a PhD in theology, she was a skeptic and as a teenager she declared herself an atheist. She went to Bryn Mawr College as an undergraduate, where she became involved in animal rights, but that experience left her with a sense that there was something distinctive about the human being. Though she could not explain it or define the reason, she had this intuitive sense that human beings alone have a soul. After graduating from college, she worked for Teach for America, and then she headed to an organic farm in Costa Rica. Her plan was to go to law school, but she had a sudden and dramatic conversion, which left her with the conviction that God is real. She dumped her boyfriend, and four years later joined the convent.
Twitter became the means she used to communicate her ideas about death. At first, she had no goal beyond her own spiritual discipline, but because her tweets were such a hit, her project expanded. Her order now sells decals and sweatshirts, decorated with images of skulls, and she has also published a prayer journal and devotional. She is currently writing another prayer book to be used during the Advent season.
Sister Theresa believes that facing the reality of our own death helps us live with a greater sense of joy and peace. Yet we live in a culture that has trained us to fight death as the great enemy, the great intruder that has no business making its appearance known. But, she claims, “remembering death keeps us awake, focused, and ready for whatever might happen---both the excruciatingly difficult and the breathtakingly beautiful.” That perspective is not hers alone, but is part of a whole religious tradition, which in our post-modern world has been silenced and hidden away. And sadly, most of us do not even realize the depth of meaning we have lost.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Sometimes I am amazed by what makes it onto the front page of a newspaper, like last Saturday, May 15, when The New York Times had a front page article, titled, A Nun’s Words of Comfort: “You Are Going to Die.” I would guess that I was not the only person who read the article with a sense of surprise and curiosity. Most newspapers don’t write about nuns, and the subject of death, at least until the pandemic, which has claimed nearly 600,000 American lives, is covered only when it is dramatic and horrific, like mass shootings or plane crashes. The ordinary reality of death that comes to everyone is hardly a subject newspapers tackle. And yet on a particular Saturday on May 15, 2021, it made the front page.
Sister Theresa Aletheia Noble is pictured (again on the front page) in her black, traditional habit with words underneath her picture saying that she wants you to think about death. She entered the Daughters of St. Paul Convent in 2010, where she now surrounds herself with images of skulls. She has a ceramic one on her desk, and people send her skull mugs and skull rosaries. However, she is not morbid, but is lively and joyful, while practicing the spiritual discipline of memento mori, a Latin phrase meaning, “Remember your death,” so that you might live each day fully and gratefully. “Suffering and death,” she says, are “facts of life,” and to concentrate only on the bright and happy “is superficial and inauthentic.” And yet there is no denying we live in a culture that denies death as Ernest Becker claimed in his brilliant book, The Denial of Death from 1973. It is not difficult to deny death, when it is shut away nursing homes or in hospitals. There are many people, who simply refuse to visit someone who is dying, even if the person happens to be a close friend or relative, and it is not uncommon these days to reach adulthood without having lost a significant person to death. With medicine’s advancement, we have been able to keep death away for a longer period of time than our great grandparents ever thought possible. Sister Theresa claims that we mistakenly think that keeping death away from our consciousness is the road to happiness, but she says that only by facing the “darkest realities of life do we find light in them.”
She is not someone who was naturally religious. Though her parents were active in the Roman Catholic Church, and her father had a PhD in theology, she was a skeptic and as a teenager she declared herself an atheist. She went to Bryn Mawr College as an undergraduate, where she became involved in animal rights, but that experience left her with a sense that there was something distinctive about the human being. Though she could not explain it or define the reason, she had this intuitive sense that human beings alone have a soul. After graduating from college, she worked for Teach for America, and then she headed to an organic farm in Costa Rica. Her plan was to go to law school, but she had a sudden and dramatic conversion, which left her with the conviction that God is real. She dumped her boyfriend, and four years later joined the convent.
Twitter became the means she used to communicate her ideas about death. At first, she had no goal beyond her own spiritual discipline, but because her tweets were such a hit, her project expanded. Her order now sells decals and sweatshirts, decorated with images of skulls, and she has also published a prayer journal and devotional. She is currently writing another prayer book to be used during the Advent season.
Sister Theresa believes that facing the reality of our own death helps us live with a greater sense of joy and peace. Yet we live in a culture that has trained us to fight death as the great enemy, the great intruder that has no business making its appearance known. But, she claims, “remembering death keeps us awake, focused, and ready for whatever might happen---both the excruciatingly difficult and the breathtakingly beautiful.” That perspective is not hers alone, but is part of a whole religious tradition, which in our post-modern world has been silenced and hidden away. And sadly, most of us do not even realize the depth of meaning we have lost.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
The Virtue of Happiness by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 5/16/2021
Psalm 1
Acts 1: 15-17; 21-26
Willa Cather, an American writer, famous for such works as O Pioneers, Death Comes for the Archbishop, and My Antonia, once said that we human beings stumble on happiness, because outward circumstances remain beyond our control and so our earthly happiness can easily be interfered with when things go very badly. It is interesting that for her tombstone she chose these words: This is happiness: to be dissolved into something complete and great.
The words happy or happiness are not common words in the bible; in fact, they do not even appear at all in the New Testament, and so it is no trivial matter that Psalm 1 begins with the word happy. Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked or take the path that sinners tread or sit in the seat of scoffers; but their delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law, they meditate day and night. Happiness for this psalmist is not the goal; following God’s law is, and to follow the law rightly, requires deep and persistent thought and meditation, because as Jesus himself taught, it is not always the letter of the law that should be followed, but rather the spirit of the law. But does following the spirit of the law necessarily guarantee human happiness?
It is fascinating that the 6th and 5th centuries BC saw a vast explosion of ponderings on the subject of happiness. We have Confucius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Lao-Tse and Socrates, and by the first century CE, we have the growth of Christianity and a profusion of eastern cults and mystery religions, as well as the thought of Greek and Roman philosophers. It seems that happiness was on everyone’s mind. Why?
Perhaps, because it is in times of great danger and turmoil that concerns about happiness are most strongly voiced. The Roman stoic, Seneca, wrote his most moving letters on the subject while he was being hunted by the Emperor Nero’s henchmen, who finally found him and forced him to commit suicide. Boethius wrote The Consolation of Philosophy, one of the most influential books in Western literature from the time it was written in 524 until the end of the Renaissance, when he was facing execution under the Emperor Theodoric. And our own Thomas Jefferson, who included in the American Declaration of Independence the inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, wrote in a time of great insecurity and approaching war. Now we do not know exactly when the first Psalm was written, but it is certainly possible it was composed during the reign of King David, when empire building was causing many stresses and strains.
And so in the last few about happiness, we can well wonder why the obsession. Since 2012 we have these yearly lists of the happiest countries, using such measures as GDP, life expectancy, generosity, social support, freedom and levels of corruption. The most recent list has Finland as number 1, followed by Iceland, Denmark, Switzerland and the Netherlands. The United States has moved up to 14 from 18 while the United Kingdom has moved from 13 to 18! Does this interest in the subject of happiness come from the anxiety and insecurity that so many people experience these days?
Now most of us probably consider happiness a feeling, but many thinkers throughout history have understood happiness as a virtue, that is, something, which is good and right. The philosopher Robert Nozick has pointed out that when he asks people if they would choose to be hooked up to a machine that would give them the sensation or the feeling of happiness, almost everyone says “No,” because the happiness would not be real happiness. So, that suggests that happiness is more than a feeling.
In the first century the Roman Cicero, who considered that true happiness is a virtue that comes from loving and serving the good, the true, the beautiful, wrote, “Happiness will not tremble, however much it is tortured.” This does not mean that a virtuously happy person who is being tortured is happy about his torture, and indeed, he or she may scream out in pain. But what Cicero meant, and I think this perspective would be shared by the Psalmist as well as Jesus—the true and deepest happiness that comes from loving God as the good, the true and the beautiful, is not necessarily destroyed by torture. Now in no way should we ever minimize the horrific experience of a body in extreme pain, but the point is that the mind and the soul can be rightly oriented toward God, which is happiness, even when the body is under extreme duress.
There is this extraordinarily beautiful passage in Victor Frankl’s famous book, Man’s Search for Meaning, in which Frankl, imprisoned in a concentration camp during World War ll, describes how happy he was one morning contemplating his beloved wife, whom he did not even know was dead or alive. Though he was cold and hungry and forced to work under extreme conditions, just the thought, the memory of his beloved brought him happiness in the midst of extreme suffering. His point is that love is a virtue, and the happiness loves gives is also a virtue.
It is a fascinating to me that the lectionary readings for this morning pair Psalm 1, which begins with happiness with the story in Acts about Judas being replaced. Notice how boldly the awful truth is faced: Judas, one of the original twelve, became a betrayer. He turned his back on what Jesus had taught, and with a kiss, he betrayed Jesus to the enemy. Why did he do this? We don’t know, though some have offered the conjecture that Judas was trying to force Jesus to take a revolutionary stand against Rome. But Peter did not try to explain Judas’ betrayal. He made no excuses; offered no explanations. He neither attempted to deny it nor pervert it. No, the awful truth had to be firmly faced. And that is no small task—when the betrayal comes from within the circle of intimacy and power. To face that kind of truth takes courage, and courage, then as now is often sorely lacking. But Peter, the same man, afraid of what would happen to him, if he were identified as one of Jesus’ followers, denied Jesus not just one time, but three times now shows courage when facing hard truths. He does not flinch, and neither do the other disciples. Mathias is chosen.
What the pairing of these two readings suggests is that happiness can never be achieved at the expense of truth. Truth is a virtue, and if we outgrow the idea that happiness can be reduced to a feeling, and see it as a virtue, we should then understand that no virtue can truly grow from lies and ignorance. Jesus said, Know the truth, and the truth will set you free. And we might add that truth as a virtue can also grow the virtue of happiness, just as the virtue of happiness can also grow from the virtue of truth.
Psalm 1
Acts 1: 15-17; 21-26
Willa Cather, an American writer, famous for such works as O Pioneers, Death Comes for the Archbishop, and My Antonia, once said that we human beings stumble on happiness, because outward circumstances remain beyond our control and so our earthly happiness can easily be interfered with when things go very badly. It is interesting that for her tombstone she chose these words: This is happiness: to be dissolved into something complete and great.
The words happy or happiness are not common words in the bible; in fact, they do not even appear at all in the New Testament, and so it is no trivial matter that Psalm 1 begins with the word happy. Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked or take the path that sinners tread or sit in the seat of scoffers; but their delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his law, they meditate day and night. Happiness for this psalmist is not the goal; following God’s law is, and to follow the law rightly, requires deep and persistent thought and meditation, because as Jesus himself taught, it is not always the letter of the law that should be followed, but rather the spirit of the law. But does following the spirit of the law necessarily guarantee human happiness?
It is fascinating that the 6th and 5th centuries BC saw a vast explosion of ponderings on the subject of happiness. We have Confucius, Buddha, Zoroaster, Lao-Tse and Socrates, and by the first century CE, we have the growth of Christianity and a profusion of eastern cults and mystery religions, as well as the thought of Greek and Roman philosophers. It seems that happiness was on everyone’s mind. Why?
Perhaps, because it is in times of great danger and turmoil that concerns about happiness are most strongly voiced. The Roman stoic, Seneca, wrote his most moving letters on the subject while he was being hunted by the Emperor Nero’s henchmen, who finally found him and forced him to commit suicide. Boethius wrote The Consolation of Philosophy, one of the most influential books in Western literature from the time it was written in 524 until the end of the Renaissance, when he was facing execution under the Emperor Theodoric. And our own Thomas Jefferson, who included in the American Declaration of Independence the inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, wrote in a time of great insecurity and approaching war. Now we do not know exactly when the first Psalm was written, but it is certainly possible it was composed during the reign of King David, when empire building was causing many stresses and strains.
And so in the last few about happiness, we can well wonder why the obsession. Since 2012 we have these yearly lists of the happiest countries, using such measures as GDP, life expectancy, generosity, social support, freedom and levels of corruption. The most recent list has Finland as number 1, followed by Iceland, Denmark, Switzerland and the Netherlands. The United States has moved up to 14 from 18 while the United Kingdom has moved from 13 to 18! Does this interest in the subject of happiness come from the anxiety and insecurity that so many people experience these days?
Now most of us probably consider happiness a feeling, but many thinkers throughout history have understood happiness as a virtue, that is, something, which is good and right. The philosopher Robert Nozick has pointed out that when he asks people if they would choose to be hooked up to a machine that would give them the sensation or the feeling of happiness, almost everyone says “No,” because the happiness would not be real happiness. So, that suggests that happiness is more than a feeling.
In the first century the Roman Cicero, who considered that true happiness is a virtue that comes from loving and serving the good, the true, the beautiful, wrote, “Happiness will not tremble, however much it is tortured.” This does not mean that a virtuously happy person who is being tortured is happy about his torture, and indeed, he or she may scream out in pain. But what Cicero meant, and I think this perspective would be shared by the Psalmist as well as Jesus—the true and deepest happiness that comes from loving God as the good, the true and the beautiful, is not necessarily destroyed by torture. Now in no way should we ever minimize the horrific experience of a body in extreme pain, but the point is that the mind and the soul can be rightly oriented toward God, which is happiness, even when the body is under extreme duress.
There is this extraordinarily beautiful passage in Victor Frankl’s famous book, Man’s Search for Meaning, in which Frankl, imprisoned in a concentration camp during World War ll, describes how happy he was one morning contemplating his beloved wife, whom he did not even know was dead or alive. Though he was cold and hungry and forced to work under extreme conditions, just the thought, the memory of his beloved brought him happiness in the midst of extreme suffering. His point is that love is a virtue, and the happiness loves gives is also a virtue.
It is a fascinating to me that the lectionary readings for this morning pair Psalm 1, which begins with happiness with the story in Acts about Judas being replaced. Notice how boldly the awful truth is faced: Judas, one of the original twelve, became a betrayer. He turned his back on what Jesus had taught, and with a kiss, he betrayed Jesus to the enemy. Why did he do this? We don’t know, though some have offered the conjecture that Judas was trying to force Jesus to take a revolutionary stand against Rome. But Peter did not try to explain Judas’ betrayal. He made no excuses; offered no explanations. He neither attempted to deny it nor pervert it. No, the awful truth had to be firmly faced. And that is no small task—when the betrayal comes from within the circle of intimacy and power. To face that kind of truth takes courage, and courage, then as now is often sorely lacking. But Peter, the same man, afraid of what would happen to him, if he were identified as one of Jesus’ followers, denied Jesus not just one time, but three times now shows courage when facing hard truths. He does not flinch, and neither do the other disciples. Mathias is chosen.
What the pairing of these two readings suggests is that happiness can never be achieved at the expense of truth. Truth is a virtue, and if we outgrow the idea that happiness can be reduced to a feeling, and see it as a virtue, we should then understand that no virtue can truly grow from lies and ignorance. Jesus said, Know the truth, and the truth will set you free. And we might add that truth as a virtue can also grow the virtue of happiness, just as the virtue of happiness can also grow from the virtue of truth.
May 13, 2021
Dear Friends,
A few months ago, I came across an article in the Christian Science Monitor, written by an art and museum lover, who had been living with the painful closure of museums and galleries in Los Angeles, where she lived. While Boston, New York and Chicago were allowing small numbers of pre-registered people into their museum galleries, Los Angeles’ collections remained shut down. Though Los Angeles cannot compete with the great western art collections of the East Coast or the Chicago Institute, it is a vibrant center of contemporary art. Right before the onset of the pandemic, Los Angeles was brimming with new artistic life, and then suddenly it was closed. For some people art is a means of nurturing joy, so what happens when that avenue of joy is no longer available?
What is it about art that nurtures joy? I used to think it was all about the experience of beauty. After all, the Church throughout its 2000 year history has invested heavily in beauty---beautiful music as well as beautiful paintings, sculpture, and drawings. There is this sense that beauty nurtures the human spirit and soul, uplifting us out of the ordinary plane of human experience into a different realm and onto a different plane. Many people will say that God speaks to us in and through the experience of the beautiful, and surely this must be one reason the Church has not been shy about investing in art. But not all art is beautiful, and yet, even the unlovely, can still communicate something of the divine.
Consider, for example Pablo Picasso’s most famous painting, Guernica, painted in 1937 during the Spanish Civil War. It is probably the world’s most famous anti-war painting, showing dismembered humans, a gored horse and a bull. The painting is about a real event on April 27, 1937, when the German Air Force bombed the Basque village of Guernica in an effort to help the fascist dictator, Franco. The painting is clearly upsetting, and yet, according to people who study art and its impact upon the human brain and psyche, taking the time to gaze at and study the painting actually reduces the level of cortisol, a stress hormone. Looking at art can invigorate thinking, and thought can reduce stress, since stress often arises, when we feel we have little control over what is happening to us. And when we see art, which we find beautiful, recent research has shown that the “feel good” chemical, dopamine, is released, giving us a feeling not unlike being in love. So, all this is a way of saying that art is good for you---both creating it and viewing it.
When the Los Angeles resident learned that a gallery in Beverly Hills, CA was going to show six contemporary paintings by the German painter, Gerhard Richter, she immediately registered to go. None of these paintings to me looked the least bit beautiful, and I was not really sure what I was seeing. Wide swaths of color, moving up, down and across in an inexact and lopsided grid did not say much to me---though looking at copies in a magazine is not at all the same as being in a room where the paintings are displayed. But for this Los Angeles resident, hungry for art, she saw each of the six works as a rich display of nature. She felt, as she stood before each painting, that she was on a walk. The green that stretched across one painting, reminded her of moss. In another painting the fiery red exploded like a volcano and another painting invited her to immerse herself in shimmering, silver water for a swim. She wrote that art speaks uniquely and subjectively to each person, and indeed, that is obvious, since we do not all see the same thing when we look at art.
Gerhard Richter, by the way, is 90 years old, still active, still mentally vibrant, still engaged in creating art. In fact, creating art is supposed to be good for humans, maybe even more inducing of good health than merely looking at it. Some people have called God the great artist, and indeed, when we gaze at the wonders of the natural world, awash with beauty and sometimes even terror, we can surely appreciate the handiwork of God. While we have no reference to Jesus making art, he was certainly a masterful storyteller, and who is to say that stories are not every bit as life enhancing and promoting of good health as the visual arts?
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
A few months ago, I came across an article in the Christian Science Monitor, written by an art and museum lover, who had been living with the painful closure of museums and galleries in Los Angeles, where she lived. While Boston, New York and Chicago were allowing small numbers of pre-registered people into their museum galleries, Los Angeles’ collections remained shut down. Though Los Angeles cannot compete with the great western art collections of the East Coast or the Chicago Institute, it is a vibrant center of contemporary art. Right before the onset of the pandemic, Los Angeles was brimming with new artistic life, and then suddenly it was closed. For some people art is a means of nurturing joy, so what happens when that avenue of joy is no longer available?
What is it about art that nurtures joy? I used to think it was all about the experience of beauty. After all, the Church throughout its 2000 year history has invested heavily in beauty---beautiful music as well as beautiful paintings, sculpture, and drawings. There is this sense that beauty nurtures the human spirit and soul, uplifting us out of the ordinary plane of human experience into a different realm and onto a different plane. Many people will say that God speaks to us in and through the experience of the beautiful, and surely this must be one reason the Church has not been shy about investing in art. But not all art is beautiful, and yet, even the unlovely, can still communicate something of the divine.
Consider, for example Pablo Picasso’s most famous painting, Guernica, painted in 1937 during the Spanish Civil War. It is probably the world’s most famous anti-war painting, showing dismembered humans, a gored horse and a bull. The painting is about a real event on April 27, 1937, when the German Air Force bombed the Basque village of Guernica in an effort to help the fascist dictator, Franco. The painting is clearly upsetting, and yet, according to people who study art and its impact upon the human brain and psyche, taking the time to gaze at and study the painting actually reduces the level of cortisol, a stress hormone. Looking at art can invigorate thinking, and thought can reduce stress, since stress often arises, when we feel we have little control over what is happening to us. And when we see art, which we find beautiful, recent research has shown that the “feel good” chemical, dopamine, is released, giving us a feeling not unlike being in love. So, all this is a way of saying that art is good for you---both creating it and viewing it.
When the Los Angeles resident learned that a gallery in Beverly Hills, CA was going to show six contemporary paintings by the German painter, Gerhard Richter, she immediately registered to go. None of these paintings to me looked the least bit beautiful, and I was not really sure what I was seeing. Wide swaths of color, moving up, down and across in an inexact and lopsided grid did not say much to me---though looking at copies in a magazine is not at all the same as being in a room where the paintings are displayed. But for this Los Angeles resident, hungry for art, she saw each of the six works as a rich display of nature. She felt, as she stood before each painting, that she was on a walk. The green that stretched across one painting, reminded her of moss. In another painting the fiery red exploded like a volcano and another painting invited her to immerse herself in shimmering, silver water for a swim. She wrote that art speaks uniquely and subjectively to each person, and indeed, that is obvious, since we do not all see the same thing when we look at art.
Gerhard Richter, by the way, is 90 years old, still active, still mentally vibrant, still engaged in creating art. In fact, creating art is supposed to be good for humans, maybe even more inducing of good health than merely looking at it. Some people have called God the great artist, and indeed, when we gaze at the wonders of the natural world, awash with beauty and sometimes even terror, we can surely appreciate the handiwork of God. While we have no reference to Jesus making art, he was certainly a masterful storyteller, and who is to say that stories are not every bit as life enhancing and promoting of good health as the visual arts?
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
I Have Called You Friends by: Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 5/9/2021
JOB 42: 1-9
JOHN 15: 12-17
Some years ago, when I was a chaplain one of my colleagues, Suella, a Roman Catholic laywoman and chaplain, asked me to visit with her one of her patients, a 32 year old Catholic mother of three young children, dying of a brain tumor. Suella told me that the woman was furious with God, and then she said, “Sandra, you do anger at God better than anyone I know, so would you come with me and speak with her? And so I did. At the end of the conversation, Suella asked the woman if she wanted us to pray. “No,” the woman replied . “I am too angry to pray. I don’t even believe in prayer; I don’t even think I believe in God.” And Suella very calmly replied, “That’s alright; you don’t have to believe. That is what the communion of saints is for. It carries us and even believes for us, when we are too angry or hurt or defeated to do it ourselves.”
Suddenly the light went on for me. In spite of what Martin Luther said about having to do our own believing as well as our own dying, we Protestants would do well to grow beyond our excessive spiritual individualism. The Communion of Saints means that we are carried by more than our own little spirutual selves. When we are friends in Jesus Christ, we are upheld not only by our immediate community of faith, but also by a long and deep tradition, stretching back into the past and moving forward into the future. As friends in Christ individuals and churches can all learn from each other.
The word friend does not often appear in the Bible, but in the Book of Job we have a portrayal of friendship. Recall Job’s sufferings, when in a bet with God The Satan as the challenger with God’s permission afflicted Job with the loss of his wealth, his family and his health. Job protested his innocence, while his friends in so many words tried to tell him that he must have done something to deserve his punishment. Now It is very easy for us to be hard on Job’s friends, but at least they came, which is more than some will do. When his three friends saw how great Job’s sufferings were, they wept, they tore their clothes, and they sat in silence with Job for seven days and nights. And when they finally did speak, they were trying to be helpful, offering to Job what they believed was the best of their religious tradition. But what they said was grossly inadequate and even untrue, and so God, after making an appearance to Job out of the whirlwind, told Job’s friends to make proper sacrifice, because they are not spoken truthfully. And God also told them that Job would pray for them, and Job’s prayer would be accepted.
So yes, Job’s friends had disappointed and failed him, but they were yet his friends, and so he would pray for them. And that is what we are called to do. Friends may indeed disappoint and fail us, but in Christ we remain friends, not because we always agree or believe the same things, but because together we are the Church, the Body of Christ in the world. We are part of the Communion of Saints, with both a past and a future.
Now there is very little about friendship in the New Testament. Matthew’s gospel has only one reference; in Luke there are ten and in John the word friend only appears in the reading you heard this morning, when Jesus called his disciples his friends. And the friendship they were called to was tough and demanding. Christianity grew in a world familiar with ideas of friendship developed by both the Greeks and the Romans, who understood that true, deep and abiding friendship develops character, because it leads to higher ground, to places we may not want to go, but need to go. And our friends can help move us there by speaking the truth to us---not necessarily what we want to hear, but what we need to hear.
In the fall of 2016, I took a trip to Viet Nam, of the most moving trips I have ever taken. I was with a small group of 15 people through Overseas Adventure Travel, a fabulous tour group, I might add. Our extraordinary leader, Tom, told us we were the first group he had ever led with no former Viet Nam vets. Many of us, Baby Boomers all, were Viet Nam War protesters, but no veterans. We met so many different people, including former Viet Cong, who bore no ill will at all toward the United States. “You were never colonizers,” they said, “unlike the French”, whom even today are hated by many Vietnamese.
In Saigon, which is now called Ho Chi Ming City, we visited this museum, which used to be called, The Museum of American War Crimes, now changed to The War Remnants Museum, since currently there is a good relationship between the States and Viet Nam. It is not an easy museum to visit, and I remember standing before this huge picture of Bob Kerry, former senator from Nebraska, who was standing over a pile of bodies, women and children. A man from my tour group was with me, and he told me he remembered Kerry addressing this incident, admitting the horrors that soldiers committed, because all too often they did not really know who the enemy was.
After leaving the museum and getting on the bus, Tom told us a story from one of his former tour groups. One of the men on that tour told the group he had fought in Viet Nam and along with others had done some regrettable things. He told the story about how he was in the jungle with a group of other Marines, and suddenly came across people he was sure were the enemy---though they were all women and children. I hated them all, he said. And as he picked up his M-16 rifle to begin the slaughter, one of his friends, his best buddy, pushed him to the ground. “You are not going to do this. I will not let you do this.” So, he said, I was prevented from committing the deed, but that action on my friend’s part ended our friendship. I would never have anything to do with him again. He was killed a few months later, and I never had the chance to thank him for what he did and to tell him I was wrong. We were friends, best friends, and he did for me what best friends are supposed to do---help us step up to a higher plane, help us to do what is right and good. Best friends tell us not what we want to hear, but what we need to hear---the truth.
Sometimes friendship grows because we come from similar background sand share the same interests, but there are other times friendship grows because we are on a journey together toward something bigger than ourselves. I think the disciples and Jesus were bound together in this way. They were friends, because they were engaged in a way of life that was bigger than any one of them. They were in service to a God who, though beyond knowing and understanding, was not beyond loving. They were friends, and though Jesus would suffer their denial and desertion, still they were his disciples, still his friends, because they were bound together in something that God was doing in their midst.
This is what Christian friendship is. It is being bound together by something transcending our own little lives and opinions. It is being helped to struggle with the discomfort of being human, because we are people who want to be better than we actually are. It is knowing, really knowing, that together we can become more than we can ever be alone and separate.
JOB 42: 1-9
JOHN 15: 12-17
Some years ago, when I was a chaplain one of my colleagues, Suella, a Roman Catholic laywoman and chaplain, asked me to visit with her one of her patients, a 32 year old Catholic mother of three young children, dying of a brain tumor. Suella told me that the woman was furious with God, and then she said, “Sandra, you do anger at God better than anyone I know, so would you come with me and speak with her? And so I did. At the end of the conversation, Suella asked the woman if she wanted us to pray. “No,” the woman replied . “I am too angry to pray. I don’t even believe in prayer; I don’t even think I believe in God.” And Suella very calmly replied, “That’s alright; you don’t have to believe. That is what the communion of saints is for. It carries us and even believes for us, when we are too angry or hurt or defeated to do it ourselves.”
Suddenly the light went on for me. In spite of what Martin Luther said about having to do our own believing as well as our own dying, we Protestants would do well to grow beyond our excessive spiritual individualism. The Communion of Saints means that we are carried by more than our own little spirutual selves. When we are friends in Jesus Christ, we are upheld not only by our immediate community of faith, but also by a long and deep tradition, stretching back into the past and moving forward into the future. As friends in Christ individuals and churches can all learn from each other.
The word friend does not often appear in the Bible, but in the Book of Job we have a portrayal of friendship. Recall Job’s sufferings, when in a bet with God The Satan as the challenger with God’s permission afflicted Job with the loss of his wealth, his family and his health. Job protested his innocence, while his friends in so many words tried to tell him that he must have done something to deserve his punishment. Now It is very easy for us to be hard on Job’s friends, but at least they came, which is more than some will do. When his three friends saw how great Job’s sufferings were, they wept, they tore their clothes, and they sat in silence with Job for seven days and nights. And when they finally did speak, they were trying to be helpful, offering to Job what they believed was the best of their religious tradition. But what they said was grossly inadequate and even untrue, and so God, after making an appearance to Job out of the whirlwind, told Job’s friends to make proper sacrifice, because they are not spoken truthfully. And God also told them that Job would pray for them, and Job’s prayer would be accepted.
So yes, Job’s friends had disappointed and failed him, but they were yet his friends, and so he would pray for them. And that is what we are called to do. Friends may indeed disappoint and fail us, but in Christ we remain friends, not because we always agree or believe the same things, but because together we are the Church, the Body of Christ in the world. We are part of the Communion of Saints, with both a past and a future.
Now there is very little about friendship in the New Testament. Matthew’s gospel has only one reference; in Luke there are ten and in John the word friend only appears in the reading you heard this morning, when Jesus called his disciples his friends. And the friendship they were called to was tough and demanding. Christianity grew in a world familiar with ideas of friendship developed by both the Greeks and the Romans, who understood that true, deep and abiding friendship develops character, because it leads to higher ground, to places we may not want to go, but need to go. And our friends can help move us there by speaking the truth to us---not necessarily what we want to hear, but what we need to hear.
In the fall of 2016, I took a trip to Viet Nam, of the most moving trips I have ever taken. I was with a small group of 15 people through Overseas Adventure Travel, a fabulous tour group, I might add. Our extraordinary leader, Tom, told us we were the first group he had ever led with no former Viet Nam vets. Many of us, Baby Boomers all, were Viet Nam War protesters, but no veterans. We met so many different people, including former Viet Cong, who bore no ill will at all toward the United States. “You were never colonizers,” they said, “unlike the French”, whom even today are hated by many Vietnamese.
In Saigon, which is now called Ho Chi Ming City, we visited this museum, which used to be called, The Museum of American War Crimes, now changed to The War Remnants Museum, since currently there is a good relationship between the States and Viet Nam. It is not an easy museum to visit, and I remember standing before this huge picture of Bob Kerry, former senator from Nebraska, who was standing over a pile of bodies, women and children. A man from my tour group was with me, and he told me he remembered Kerry addressing this incident, admitting the horrors that soldiers committed, because all too often they did not really know who the enemy was.
After leaving the museum and getting on the bus, Tom told us a story from one of his former tour groups. One of the men on that tour told the group he had fought in Viet Nam and along with others had done some regrettable things. He told the story about how he was in the jungle with a group of other Marines, and suddenly came across people he was sure were the enemy---though they were all women and children. I hated them all, he said. And as he picked up his M-16 rifle to begin the slaughter, one of his friends, his best buddy, pushed him to the ground. “You are not going to do this. I will not let you do this.” So, he said, I was prevented from committing the deed, but that action on my friend’s part ended our friendship. I would never have anything to do with him again. He was killed a few months later, and I never had the chance to thank him for what he did and to tell him I was wrong. We were friends, best friends, and he did for me what best friends are supposed to do---help us step up to a higher plane, help us to do what is right and good. Best friends tell us not what we want to hear, but what we need to hear---the truth.
Sometimes friendship grows because we come from similar background sand share the same interests, but there are other times friendship grows because we are on a journey together toward something bigger than ourselves. I think the disciples and Jesus were bound together in this way. They were friends, because they were engaged in a way of life that was bigger than any one of them. They were in service to a God who, though beyond knowing and understanding, was not beyond loving. They were friends, and though Jesus would suffer their denial and desertion, still they were his disciples, still his friends, because they were bound together in something that God was doing in their midst.
This is what Christian friendship is. It is being bound together by something transcending our own little lives and opinions. It is being helped to struggle with the discomfort of being human, because we are people who want to be better than we actually are. It is knowing, really knowing, that together we can become more than we can ever be alone and separate.
"Disenthralled"
April 28, 2021
Dear Friends,
I had a 6th grade teacher, who just loved words and language. I recall how excited she became when teaching us about the power of prefixes and suffixes, how you can take a word and completely change its meaning by simply adding two letters: do becomes undo or redo; lovely becomes unlovely, mix becomes unmix. My best friend, Debbie, very smart and clever, pointed out that this does not always “work.” While we can say unlovely, we do not say unbeautiful. “Why is that?” she wanted to know. The teacher was completely stumped and could offer no reason for this. “Well,” Debbie, mused, “if there is no explanation, our language is not rational!” While most of us had no idea what rationality meant, Debbie’s father was a professor of chemistry at the University in Buffalo, so she must have learned something from him!
The only reason I thought about this is because I read something in The Christian Century, which jogged my memory. We all know the word enthrall or enthralled. Most of us have probably used it now and then. But how many of us have ever used the word disenthrall or disenthralled? Perhaps none of us. But Abraham Lincoln did in a very important speech he gave to Congress on December 1, 1862, exactly one month before he issued his Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln was trying to encourage the country to think about slavery in a new and different way. Remember, when the war began, Lincoln saw the war’s goal as the preservation of the Union, not the abolition of slavery, though he was very much personally opposed to slavery. But things had changed in the country as well as in his own mind and heart. This is what he said toward the very end of his speech:
We can succeed only by concert. It is not, “Can any of us imagine
better?” but, “Can we all do better?” The dogmas of the quiet past are
Inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with
difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so
must we think and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then
we shall save our country. We know how to save the Union. We, even
we here, hold the power and bear the responsibility.
Lincoln was trying to push the country to think about slavery in a new way. He wanted the citizens to disenthrall themselves from their old ways of understanding not only the conflict that was the Civil War, but also how they understood the institution of slavery. He wanted them to face the hard truth that slavery meant that black people were owned by white people, who forced them to work not for their own benefit but for the benefit of the slave owner. He wanted the citizens to pull away from ideas they had embraced, probably without thinking about them very deeply---the same way we all accept notions and ideas that are part of our national consciousness without much thought. So, the question before us now is: Of what do we need to be disenthralled? We probably all have our lists. Peter Marty, the editor of The Christian Century, wrote movingly of our need to disenthrall ourselves of our nation’s love affair with guns. Though I agree with him, I also think the problem goes much deeper than the nation’s enthrallment with weapons. We are enthralled with particular ideas about freedom. Too many people think of freedom as the right to do what he or she wants as long as no one is directly hurt by our actions. While we do not have a right, for example, to commit mass murder, we do, according to some people, have the right to own weapons capable of being used in mass murder.
Consider too the number of people who have resisted the wearing of masks as an abridgment of their freedom. One of the U.S. Congress representatives was downright abusive toward Dr. Fauci, accusing him of taking away the freedom of the American people. “I don’t look at it that way,” the Doctor responded. “This is about safety and public health, not about freedom.” While many of us agree with Dr. Fauci, others do not. And that is a big problem and a huge challenge.
Some of you may recall a few years ago the outbreak of measles in the New York City Public Schools. My son, who has a PhD in infectious disease, works for the New York City Health Department, and he was furious, because the outbreak was due to the refusal of the Orthodox Jewish community to vaccinate their children against measles. They use the public schools, but they tend to be concentrated in particular schools, and Aaron told me that they took over school boards and voted to change all kinds of things---like doing away with before and after school programs, which most of them did not need anyway. They also do not require children to adhere to the state mandate about shots---though New York does allow people to opt out for “religious reasons.” I told my son I would not allow that. If you want to use public schools, you must adhere to certain rules and regulations. When my children were registered for school, I had to show proof of vaccination. There were no exceptions back then----but it is a simple fact that our nation is much more diverse now, and so accommodation has been made---sometime for better, and in some cases (like health and safety) for worse.
There are undoubtedly many things we could stand to be disenthralled from, but perhaps one of the most salient is the idea that everyone can be pleased and made happy and content. There are tough and demanding conversations that call out for attention, but we are too often afraid to engage, because we know how touchy and sensitive people’s feelings are. So, we are silent. We need wisdom, but we are unsure where and how to find it. In Proverbs we read: The Lord gives wisdom. From God’s mouth come knowledge and understanding. And the Book of James counsels us to ask God for wisdom, but how often do we ever ask? And would we even recognize the wisdom, if it came our way?
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
April 28, 2021
Dear Friends,
I had a 6th grade teacher, who just loved words and language. I recall how excited she became when teaching us about the power of prefixes and suffixes, how you can take a word and completely change its meaning by simply adding two letters: do becomes undo or redo; lovely becomes unlovely, mix becomes unmix. My best friend, Debbie, very smart and clever, pointed out that this does not always “work.” While we can say unlovely, we do not say unbeautiful. “Why is that?” she wanted to know. The teacher was completely stumped and could offer no reason for this. “Well,” Debbie, mused, “if there is no explanation, our language is not rational!” While most of us had no idea what rationality meant, Debbie’s father was a professor of chemistry at the University in Buffalo, so she must have learned something from him!
The only reason I thought about this is because I read something in The Christian Century, which jogged my memory. We all know the word enthrall or enthralled. Most of us have probably used it now and then. But how many of us have ever used the word disenthrall or disenthralled? Perhaps none of us. But Abraham Lincoln did in a very important speech he gave to Congress on December 1, 1862, exactly one month before he issued his Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln was trying to encourage the country to think about slavery in a new and different way. Remember, when the war began, Lincoln saw the war’s goal as the preservation of the Union, not the abolition of slavery, though he was very much personally opposed to slavery. But things had changed in the country as well as in his own mind and heart. This is what he said toward the very end of his speech:
We can succeed only by concert. It is not, “Can any of us imagine
better?” but, “Can we all do better?” The dogmas of the quiet past are
Inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with
difficulty, and we must rise with the occasion. As our case is new, so
must we think and act anew. We must disenthrall ourselves, and then
we shall save our country. We know how to save the Union. We, even
we here, hold the power and bear the responsibility.
Lincoln was trying to push the country to think about slavery in a new way. He wanted the citizens to disenthrall themselves from their old ways of understanding not only the conflict that was the Civil War, but also how they understood the institution of slavery. He wanted them to face the hard truth that slavery meant that black people were owned by white people, who forced them to work not for their own benefit but for the benefit of the slave owner. He wanted the citizens to pull away from ideas they had embraced, probably without thinking about them very deeply---the same way we all accept notions and ideas that are part of our national consciousness without much thought. So, the question before us now is: Of what do we need to be disenthralled? We probably all have our lists. Peter Marty, the editor of The Christian Century, wrote movingly of our need to disenthrall ourselves of our nation’s love affair with guns. Though I agree with him, I also think the problem goes much deeper than the nation’s enthrallment with weapons. We are enthralled with particular ideas about freedom. Too many people think of freedom as the right to do what he or she wants as long as no one is directly hurt by our actions. While we do not have a right, for example, to commit mass murder, we do, according to some people, have the right to own weapons capable of being used in mass murder.
Consider too the number of people who have resisted the wearing of masks as an abridgment of their freedom. One of the U.S. Congress representatives was downright abusive toward Dr. Fauci, accusing him of taking away the freedom of the American people. “I don’t look at it that way,” the Doctor responded. “This is about safety and public health, not about freedom.” While many of us agree with Dr. Fauci, others do not. And that is a big problem and a huge challenge.
Some of you may recall a few years ago the outbreak of measles in the New York City Public Schools. My son, who has a PhD in infectious disease, works for the New York City Health Department, and he was furious, because the outbreak was due to the refusal of the Orthodox Jewish community to vaccinate their children against measles. They use the public schools, but they tend to be concentrated in particular schools, and Aaron told me that they took over school boards and voted to change all kinds of things---like doing away with before and after school programs, which most of them did not need anyway. They also do not require children to adhere to the state mandate about shots---though New York does allow people to opt out for “religious reasons.” I told my son I would not allow that. If you want to use public schools, you must adhere to certain rules and regulations. When my children were registered for school, I had to show proof of vaccination. There were no exceptions back then----but it is a simple fact that our nation is much more diverse now, and so accommodation has been made---sometime for better, and in some cases (like health and safety) for worse.
There are undoubtedly many things we could stand to be disenthralled from, but perhaps one of the most salient is the idea that everyone can be pleased and made happy and content. There are tough and demanding conversations that call out for attention, but we are too often afraid to engage, because we know how touchy and sensitive people’s feelings are. So, we are silent. We need wisdom, but we are unsure where and how to find it. In Proverbs we read: The Lord gives wisdom. From God’s mouth come knowledge and understanding. And the Book of James counsels us to ask God for wisdom, but how often do we ever ask? And would we even recognize the wisdom, if it came our way?
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
When Life on Earth Is Not Enough by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 4/25/2021
1 Corinthians 15: 12-22
My husband rarely has any religious conversations with anyone, but there is one he still remembers to this day, though it happened around 30 years ago. It was a Sunday morning, when I was at church, and a woman came to the door, who was a Jehovah Witness. She was relatively young, probably in her early 30’s, and since she seemed very eager to talk, my husband invited her in. She asked him if he were a believer, and it was quickly established that he was an agnostic. “In my younger days,” he told her, “I was an atheist, but now I recognize I don’t know enough to either affirm or deny God.” The woman told him how a few years before, she had lost a 6 year old son to leukemia, and it was her religion that saved her from not only despair but also from suicide. If I did not believe I would see my son again, I could not have continued to live, she said. And then she asked my husband how he could possibly cope if he lost one of his children. Well, he said, it would be incredibly difficult, and I am sure I would have to deal with depression. But many others have suffered such a loss, without believing in God or an afterlife, so I guess I would have to cope as others have done. She was incredulous that such coping was possible. But it is, Donald insisted. Perhaps you need to step outside the church and expose yourself to others who see reality in a very different way from you.
That woman raised one of life’s most heart searing issues. It is not only death that is the problem here; it is unjust death, death that comes far too early and leaves everyone with the aching heart that protests, “This should not be! This must not be, and yet, sadly and tragically, it is!” Everything that lives dies, but as far as we can tell, human beings are the only creatures who actively consider death and what finitude means. This is not only a religious question, but also deeply philosophical and psychological. I remember when I was an undergraduate and took a social psychology course. One of the psychologists we read was Abraham Maslow, the psychologist of self-actualization, who believed that the human project is to find one’s gifts and passions and use them that life might indeed be full and meaningful. But what I remember most about Maslow was his insistence that If we did not die, we would be unable to love. In his mind there was something about the limitation of time that imposed on human beings a serious quest for meaning. Time means that our choices have consequences, since we cannot choose everything. If we lived forever, our choices would have very little meaning, since we could simply choose at a later time a choice we had once given up. I was only 19 at the time, far too young to understand the wisdom of his words, but now I get what he was driving at.
Just as now I get what Paul is driving at in his famous Letter to the Christian Church in Corinth. I know that are many faithful Christians, who have very little use for Paul. His opinions on women and sex are troubling and even offensive. And he pays no attention at all to the life that Jesus actually lived on this earth. We never hear from him a word about Jesus’ healings and teachings or the stories we love so much, like the Good Samaritan or The Prodigal Son. Yet he is the early Church’s thinker, and without Paul it is doubtful that Christianity ever would have succeeded in making its way into the world.
Paul preached Christ crucified and Christ resurrected. This is the heart of the Christian message, according to Paul. Without the resurrection he claims that our faith is in vain. “If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people to be pitied.” Pretty stark words, are they not? Pitied is the word that strikes hard at me.
So, all these Christian humanists, of which there are many, fervently believing that loving God means loving the good and doing the good on this earth, fighting for justice, supporting the oppressed and the marginalized, placing limits on greed and wealth without any firm belief in an afterlife---all that, Paul would say, is not only NOT enough, it is not the Christian gospel. It may be Christian ethics, but Paul would insist that without the resurrection the ethics, while noble, are pitiable, incomplete. And yet there is no denying that are many committed Christians today, who understand following Jesus Christ to be an ethical commitment---not a commitment to belief in a resurrection.
I do understand that kind of ethical faith, and it does and can work, especially for those who are relatively privileged. I can admit that if this earthly life were the only life I shall ever have, I can still say, “Thank you, God,” because I recognize that I have had more privilege and opportunities than many others have ever had. So, do I personally need eternal life in order to affirm that life is meaningful and God is good? Would I feel cheated if I never see my family and friends in another life beyond this one, including a brother, who died at 2 from leukemia, before I was born? No, I would not feel cheated, but in saying that I realize I am then speaking from a position of privilege, and my privilege cannot speak for the fullness of the human condition. Such a privileged perspective says nothing about the injustice of children dying from leukemia at age 2 or 6. And it certainly does not address the question of evil, which has made of this life a hell for far too many people. If there is nothing for them beyond this life, if there is no resurrection for them, what do we say? Too bad? Tough luck? You are pitied?
We all know that many atheists and agnostics say that belief in the resurrection is a consolation prize for all the injustices and sorrows suffered on this earth, making it easier to cope with the pain. Yes, there is consolation in such a belief, but that does not automatically make the belief false. And belief in the resurrection is never, ever to be used as a substitute for working against injustice and evil. WE do not simply let evil stand, because we hope and have faith that finally God will make all manner of things well. Faith tells us that God calls us to act against evil, just as it tells us that God will not let evil have the final word.
In 2012 my husband and I made a trip to Poland. A very good friend and colleague of mine, Kaz, who is Polish, invited us to stay with him and his parents. So, we went. And while there we made a pilgrimage to the concentration camp, Auschwitz-Birkenau. Pilgrimage is exactly what it felt like. We felt obligated to go, not because we wanted to go, but because we owed it to the victims and to history. And while there we placed on one of the wooden beds in the children and women’s area some words given to me by a teacher, who had written them in memory of his neighbor’s daughter, who died there in 1943 at the age of 8.
God persists in love, even when we are tempted to hate.
God persists in mercy, even when we might rightly choose vengeance.
God persists to call us to new life, even when,
especially when our lives have been pulverized by an evil
so bitterly deep we cannot begin to understand or name it.
Yes, God persists in love, a deep heart wrenching love for the victim
And most appallingly of all, a deep heart wrenching love for the victimizer.
We cannot understand this.
We do not want to understand this: why God persists in this kind of tormented love.
And yet it is this love and mercy of God that moves the universe and make all life new.
And as I placed those words on the bunk, I thought to myself: this persistent God is the God who resurrects. We may not be able to prove it, and we must admit that we could be wrong. But even if we are wrong, God is not.
1 Corinthians 15: 12-22
My husband rarely has any religious conversations with anyone, but there is one he still remembers to this day, though it happened around 30 years ago. It was a Sunday morning, when I was at church, and a woman came to the door, who was a Jehovah Witness. She was relatively young, probably in her early 30’s, and since she seemed very eager to talk, my husband invited her in. She asked him if he were a believer, and it was quickly established that he was an agnostic. “In my younger days,” he told her, “I was an atheist, but now I recognize I don’t know enough to either affirm or deny God.” The woman told him how a few years before, she had lost a 6 year old son to leukemia, and it was her religion that saved her from not only despair but also from suicide. If I did not believe I would see my son again, I could not have continued to live, she said. And then she asked my husband how he could possibly cope if he lost one of his children. Well, he said, it would be incredibly difficult, and I am sure I would have to deal with depression. But many others have suffered such a loss, without believing in God or an afterlife, so I guess I would have to cope as others have done. She was incredulous that such coping was possible. But it is, Donald insisted. Perhaps you need to step outside the church and expose yourself to others who see reality in a very different way from you.
That woman raised one of life’s most heart searing issues. It is not only death that is the problem here; it is unjust death, death that comes far too early and leaves everyone with the aching heart that protests, “This should not be! This must not be, and yet, sadly and tragically, it is!” Everything that lives dies, but as far as we can tell, human beings are the only creatures who actively consider death and what finitude means. This is not only a religious question, but also deeply philosophical and psychological. I remember when I was an undergraduate and took a social psychology course. One of the psychologists we read was Abraham Maslow, the psychologist of self-actualization, who believed that the human project is to find one’s gifts and passions and use them that life might indeed be full and meaningful. But what I remember most about Maslow was his insistence that If we did not die, we would be unable to love. In his mind there was something about the limitation of time that imposed on human beings a serious quest for meaning. Time means that our choices have consequences, since we cannot choose everything. If we lived forever, our choices would have very little meaning, since we could simply choose at a later time a choice we had once given up. I was only 19 at the time, far too young to understand the wisdom of his words, but now I get what he was driving at.
Just as now I get what Paul is driving at in his famous Letter to the Christian Church in Corinth. I know that are many faithful Christians, who have very little use for Paul. His opinions on women and sex are troubling and even offensive. And he pays no attention at all to the life that Jesus actually lived on this earth. We never hear from him a word about Jesus’ healings and teachings or the stories we love so much, like the Good Samaritan or The Prodigal Son. Yet he is the early Church’s thinker, and without Paul it is doubtful that Christianity ever would have succeeded in making its way into the world.
Paul preached Christ crucified and Christ resurrected. This is the heart of the Christian message, according to Paul. Without the resurrection he claims that our faith is in vain. “If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people to be pitied.” Pretty stark words, are they not? Pitied is the word that strikes hard at me.
So, all these Christian humanists, of which there are many, fervently believing that loving God means loving the good and doing the good on this earth, fighting for justice, supporting the oppressed and the marginalized, placing limits on greed and wealth without any firm belief in an afterlife---all that, Paul would say, is not only NOT enough, it is not the Christian gospel. It may be Christian ethics, but Paul would insist that without the resurrection the ethics, while noble, are pitiable, incomplete. And yet there is no denying that are many committed Christians today, who understand following Jesus Christ to be an ethical commitment---not a commitment to belief in a resurrection.
I do understand that kind of ethical faith, and it does and can work, especially for those who are relatively privileged. I can admit that if this earthly life were the only life I shall ever have, I can still say, “Thank you, God,” because I recognize that I have had more privilege and opportunities than many others have ever had. So, do I personally need eternal life in order to affirm that life is meaningful and God is good? Would I feel cheated if I never see my family and friends in another life beyond this one, including a brother, who died at 2 from leukemia, before I was born? No, I would not feel cheated, but in saying that I realize I am then speaking from a position of privilege, and my privilege cannot speak for the fullness of the human condition. Such a privileged perspective says nothing about the injustice of children dying from leukemia at age 2 or 6. And it certainly does not address the question of evil, which has made of this life a hell for far too many people. If there is nothing for them beyond this life, if there is no resurrection for them, what do we say? Too bad? Tough luck? You are pitied?
We all know that many atheists and agnostics say that belief in the resurrection is a consolation prize for all the injustices and sorrows suffered on this earth, making it easier to cope with the pain. Yes, there is consolation in such a belief, but that does not automatically make the belief false. And belief in the resurrection is never, ever to be used as a substitute for working against injustice and evil. WE do not simply let evil stand, because we hope and have faith that finally God will make all manner of things well. Faith tells us that God calls us to act against evil, just as it tells us that God will not let evil have the final word.
In 2012 my husband and I made a trip to Poland. A very good friend and colleague of mine, Kaz, who is Polish, invited us to stay with him and his parents. So, we went. And while there we made a pilgrimage to the concentration camp, Auschwitz-Birkenau. Pilgrimage is exactly what it felt like. We felt obligated to go, not because we wanted to go, but because we owed it to the victims and to history. And while there we placed on one of the wooden beds in the children and women’s area some words given to me by a teacher, who had written them in memory of his neighbor’s daughter, who died there in 1943 at the age of 8.
God persists in love, even when we are tempted to hate.
God persists in mercy, even when we might rightly choose vengeance.
God persists to call us to new life, even when,
especially when our lives have been pulverized by an evil
so bitterly deep we cannot begin to understand or name it.
Yes, God persists in love, a deep heart wrenching love for the victim
And most appallingly of all, a deep heart wrenching love for the victimizer.
We cannot understand this.
We do not want to understand this: why God persists in this kind of tormented love.
And yet it is this love and mercy of God that moves the universe and make all life new.
And as I placed those words on the bunk, I thought to myself: this persistent God is the God who resurrects. We may not be able to prove it, and we must admit that we could be wrong. But even if we are wrong, God is not.
Peace Be with You by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 4/18/2021
Luke 24: 36-49
In February, 2006, I went on a trip to Israel as part of inter-religious group of Jews and Christians. There are two incidents, which stand out in my mind, even after 15 years. The first was on the Golan Heights, where we were looking through telescopes with our guide pointing in the direction from where an invasion of Israel began. It was Yom Kippur 1973, and the Israeli troops at the lookout were all relatively new and young. Many of the more experienced soldiers were given time off to observe the religious holiday. These inexperienced soldiers noticed the movement of what looked like troops, but it took them a while to believe what they saw. Our guide was a teenager at the time, in worship at one of the Jerusalem synagogues, and outside he could hear the sound of truck engines roaring. How strange our guide told us to hear such sounds on this holy night. But before he had time to reflect, soldiers entered, calling on all adult men as well as any members of the military, male or female, to leave for the purpose of defending the country. Two days later, we stood on the Temple Mount, where the Jerusalem Temple was believed to have been built and the Muslim Mosque now sits. This is also the area where Jesus wandered and taught. I remember feeling with great emotion that three great religions claim this space as sacred, and yet this space has not yielded peace.
“Peace be with you.” We heard Jesus say these words to his disciples last week in our reading from John, and in today’s lesson from Luke’s gospel, they are the first words Jesus spoke to his gathered disciples after his resurrection. Peace: Jesus spoke of it, nations hope for it, religious people pray for it, and diplomats work for it. Even popes have traveled to Israel with the hope of building bridges of peace in an area of the world, which has been a tinderbox of tension for quite some time. Paul VI was the first pope to visit Israel on January 4, 1964. The Vatican had not yet recognized Israel as a legitimate nation state, and Jews felt antipathy against Rome for that non-recognition as well as the blame leveled against them for Christ’s death. In 2000 Pope John Paul made a visit, saying he was deeply saddened by displays of anti-Semitism in the Catholic Church. Pope Benedict visited in 2009 and Pope Francis in 2014, taking with him two friends from Argentina, a rabbi and an Islamic scholar. These visits were an effort to mend ruptures between Catholics and Jews, and also in recent years to help the cause of peace between Jews and Palestinians.
Peace: it can be the first word as it is in this morning’s reading, or even the last word. A former parishioner of mine told me that her mother’s last word before she died was the single word, peace. “She looked at me with her eyes wide open, and though she had not spoken in days, she clearly said out loud, “Peace.” And then she closed her eyes and died a few minutes later. “My mother,” the woman told me, “never spoke of peace. She disapproved of all the peace marches I went on,” she said, “and I never once heard her speak of inner peace, but there it was the last word on her dying lips: Peace.” Whatever she meant by that one word her daughter would never know.
Jesus, of course, did speak of peace quite often. Not only did he wish peace on his disciples, but in the Beatitudes as reported in Matthew he called the peacemakers the children of God. Jesus certainly knew how hard peace was to achieve, having lived his life in occupied territory with Rome’s boot on Israel’s neck. He understood all too well that peace was not something achieved by human efforts alone.
He surely would have embraced Micah’s vision of peace, when the Lord would judge between nations, and the people would beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks and nations shall not learn war anymore. But such an achievement did not belong solely to humans. It was God’s work, initiated by God with instruction from on high. Micah firmly believed such a day and time were coming as did Jesus. And it was Israel’s duty to wait for that time.
But in the meantime, even in the time of empire and great disequilibrium of political power, Jesus taught and believed that peace could reign among his followers. It wasn’t political peace; it did not immediately solve all the problems of war and violence. It is a different kind of peace, one passing all human understanding, a divine gift that Jesus would pass on to his followers. It was the peace that came from the assurance that God had already granted victory, because in Jesus’ resurrection evil was put on notice that its defeat was assured. Oh, there were still battles to be fought, and some of those battles might result in defeats, but all that could be faced, because the final battle had already been won. This was the peace that was supposed to make despair impossibility for faithful Christians. In fact, the medieval church considered despair a deadly sin, understanding it as an affront against God, who gives the assurance that all manner of things shall finally be made well. In the midst of great trials and tribulations, when defeats come upon us, it is hard to believe that, and when we see people embrace that belief and live the peace of Christ, we are rightly moved and inspired.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer believed in that peace with his whole heart, mind, soul and body. Theologian, ordained minister in the State Lutheran Church of Germany, resistor to Hitler’s evil empire, Bonhoeffer was hanged for his participation in the plot against Hitler’s life on April 9, 1945---just two weeks before Americans liberated the Flossenburg Camp. On the final morning of his life, he preached his final sermon to a group of prisoners. His final words were, “This is the end, for me the beginning of life.” He displayed no fear, and the camp doctor said, he had never seen someone die with such quiet dignity, courage and peace. Surely, the doctor said, “The peace of Christ was with him.”
For two years Bonhoeffer had been imprisoned, and during those years he wrote and pondered what Christian faith in such a time meant. And for Bonhoeffer it meant that God in Jesus Christ could be trusted and finally there was nothing that could ever destroy the assurance of Christ’s peace. Some months before his death, he had written to one of his friends, who would later become his biographer: How should one become arrogant over successes or shaken by one’s failures when one shares in God’s suffering in the life of this world? You understand what I mean even when I put it so briefly. I am grateful that I have been allowed this insight, and I know that it is only on the path that I have finally taken that I was able to learn this. So I am thinking gratefully and with peace of mind about past as well as present things. May God lead us kindly through these times, but above all, may God lead us to himself.
Luke 24: 36-49
In February, 2006, I went on a trip to Israel as part of inter-religious group of Jews and Christians. There are two incidents, which stand out in my mind, even after 15 years. The first was on the Golan Heights, where we were looking through telescopes with our guide pointing in the direction from where an invasion of Israel began. It was Yom Kippur 1973, and the Israeli troops at the lookout were all relatively new and young. Many of the more experienced soldiers were given time off to observe the religious holiday. These inexperienced soldiers noticed the movement of what looked like troops, but it took them a while to believe what they saw. Our guide was a teenager at the time, in worship at one of the Jerusalem synagogues, and outside he could hear the sound of truck engines roaring. How strange our guide told us to hear such sounds on this holy night. But before he had time to reflect, soldiers entered, calling on all adult men as well as any members of the military, male or female, to leave for the purpose of defending the country. Two days later, we stood on the Temple Mount, where the Jerusalem Temple was believed to have been built and the Muslim Mosque now sits. This is also the area where Jesus wandered and taught. I remember feeling with great emotion that three great religions claim this space as sacred, and yet this space has not yielded peace.
“Peace be with you.” We heard Jesus say these words to his disciples last week in our reading from John, and in today’s lesson from Luke’s gospel, they are the first words Jesus spoke to his gathered disciples after his resurrection. Peace: Jesus spoke of it, nations hope for it, religious people pray for it, and diplomats work for it. Even popes have traveled to Israel with the hope of building bridges of peace in an area of the world, which has been a tinderbox of tension for quite some time. Paul VI was the first pope to visit Israel on January 4, 1964. The Vatican had not yet recognized Israel as a legitimate nation state, and Jews felt antipathy against Rome for that non-recognition as well as the blame leveled against them for Christ’s death. In 2000 Pope John Paul made a visit, saying he was deeply saddened by displays of anti-Semitism in the Catholic Church. Pope Benedict visited in 2009 and Pope Francis in 2014, taking with him two friends from Argentina, a rabbi and an Islamic scholar. These visits were an effort to mend ruptures between Catholics and Jews, and also in recent years to help the cause of peace between Jews and Palestinians.
Peace: it can be the first word as it is in this morning’s reading, or even the last word. A former parishioner of mine told me that her mother’s last word before she died was the single word, peace. “She looked at me with her eyes wide open, and though she had not spoken in days, she clearly said out loud, “Peace.” And then she closed her eyes and died a few minutes later. “My mother,” the woman told me, “never spoke of peace. She disapproved of all the peace marches I went on,” she said, “and I never once heard her speak of inner peace, but there it was the last word on her dying lips: Peace.” Whatever she meant by that one word her daughter would never know.
Jesus, of course, did speak of peace quite often. Not only did he wish peace on his disciples, but in the Beatitudes as reported in Matthew he called the peacemakers the children of God. Jesus certainly knew how hard peace was to achieve, having lived his life in occupied territory with Rome’s boot on Israel’s neck. He understood all too well that peace was not something achieved by human efforts alone.
He surely would have embraced Micah’s vision of peace, when the Lord would judge between nations, and the people would beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks and nations shall not learn war anymore. But such an achievement did not belong solely to humans. It was God’s work, initiated by God with instruction from on high. Micah firmly believed such a day and time were coming as did Jesus. And it was Israel’s duty to wait for that time.
But in the meantime, even in the time of empire and great disequilibrium of political power, Jesus taught and believed that peace could reign among his followers. It wasn’t political peace; it did not immediately solve all the problems of war and violence. It is a different kind of peace, one passing all human understanding, a divine gift that Jesus would pass on to his followers. It was the peace that came from the assurance that God had already granted victory, because in Jesus’ resurrection evil was put on notice that its defeat was assured. Oh, there were still battles to be fought, and some of those battles might result in defeats, but all that could be faced, because the final battle had already been won. This was the peace that was supposed to make despair impossibility for faithful Christians. In fact, the medieval church considered despair a deadly sin, understanding it as an affront against God, who gives the assurance that all manner of things shall finally be made well. In the midst of great trials and tribulations, when defeats come upon us, it is hard to believe that, and when we see people embrace that belief and live the peace of Christ, we are rightly moved and inspired.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer believed in that peace with his whole heart, mind, soul and body. Theologian, ordained minister in the State Lutheran Church of Germany, resistor to Hitler’s evil empire, Bonhoeffer was hanged for his participation in the plot against Hitler’s life on April 9, 1945---just two weeks before Americans liberated the Flossenburg Camp. On the final morning of his life, he preached his final sermon to a group of prisoners. His final words were, “This is the end, for me the beginning of life.” He displayed no fear, and the camp doctor said, he had never seen someone die with such quiet dignity, courage and peace. Surely, the doctor said, “The peace of Christ was with him.”
For two years Bonhoeffer had been imprisoned, and during those years he wrote and pondered what Christian faith in such a time meant. And for Bonhoeffer it meant that God in Jesus Christ could be trusted and finally there was nothing that could ever destroy the assurance of Christ’s peace. Some months before his death, he had written to one of his friends, who would later become his biographer: How should one become arrogant over successes or shaken by one’s failures when one shares in God’s suffering in the life of this world? You understand what I mean even when I put it so briefly. I am grateful that I have been allowed this insight, and I know that it is only on the path that I have finally taken that I was able to learn this. So I am thinking gratefully and with peace of mind about past as well as present things. May God lead us kindly through these times, but above all, may God lead us to himself.
April 13, 2021
Dear Friends,
I love books. When I moved into my present home in the spring of 2003, I had 165 boxes of books. They were all piled up in the dining room while work was being done in the rest of the house. Every room in the house has bookcases, except the kitchen, dining room and bathrooms. After 18 years in this house I now have even more books, so I would guess if I had to pack them all into boxes there would be well over 200. My children have begun to complain that I should begin to clean them out NOW, but I told them, “No way, I am leaving it for you to do after I am gone. I do not plan to make it easy for you. Consider it payback time.” Besides my books, I have t-shirts and mugs about books. One t-shirt reads, “It’s Not Hoarding, If It’s Books.” Another one says: Books Are My Superpower. What’s Yours? And then I have a mug, which has a quote from Louisa May Alcott: She Is Too Fond of Books and It Has Turned Her Brain. And last night I ordered a t-shirt with the same quote.
So, given my love of books it was with great interest I read an article in the Christian Science Monitor about an unusual library in Kashmir. Dal Lake, with his sparkling waters and 360 degree views of the Himalayas, is one of the most picturesque places in Kashmir, attracting tourists, photographers and filmmakers. But it also has a Traveler’s Library---only 600 books, which is not much, but it is the labor of love of a man named Mr. Muhammad Latief Oata. Born in Kashmir, the oldest son of a plumber and a housewife, he left home at 16 to support himself by selling arts and crafts to tourists. He had a stall from which he sold his crafts, and now and then, he would get books, mainly from tourists, to sell from various people. Mr. Oata could not read, but he asked people to summarize the books for him, which they happily did.
For years Mr. Oata had sold his crafts in India, but his desire was to return to Kashmir, which he finally was able to do. He built a small craft store and opened a travel agency. Then the idea for a library was born. At first, he had piles of books all around his home and his store, but he realized they needed a permanent home, and so made part of his store into a library. Though he still cannot read, he does remember the books: their themes, authors and the countries from which the authors came. He remembers the very first book he received: The God of Small Things by the Indian writer, Arundhati Roy. It’s the story of a family, a very messy one, whose dysfunction goes on for many decades. And then there is Asking for Trouble by Donald Woods, a banned journalist from South Africa, who was in trouble for criticizing the government that supported apartheid.
Tourists are fascinated by Mr. Oata’s love of books, which he claims are his “most prized possession.” Some have even helped him organize his library while talking to him about the books they have read and left for his library. When the Valley was flooded in 2014, the waters washed over his library shelves. He cried like a child, he admitted, and the family as well as kind tourists helped him to clean the books and move them to the second floor.
In 2019 the Indian government imposed direct rule on Kashmir, which was resisted, so India then imposed a media blackout. For a while Kashmir was cut off from the world with no tourists, no visitors, and no work. Then Covid-19 struck, and another set of restrictions was imposed. To survive Mr. Oata began to work as a day laborer, and his wife has done the same. They are committed to giving their children an education. Their daughter is a first year medical student, and their son is a senior in high school. Of course, their son and daughter know how to read, which especially delights Mr. Oata. Work often takes Mr. Oata away from home, but his wife, he insists, takes good care of the library. And whenever he gets the chance, he climbs the steps to the second floor and touches, feels and smells his beloved books. He is waiting and hoping for normal to return, when once again his library will be filled with people, who delight in his books as much as he does.
Some years ago, my husband and I took a trip to Egypt, where we visited the city of Alexandria, site of one of the world’s great libraries, founded sometime around 295 BC. At one time it might have had as many as 400,000 scrolls. There is a modern library there now, and I remember being overwhelmed with emotion thinking about the perseverance of knowledge through time. Consider the labor of love involved in writing 400,000 scrolls, many of them later copied as an insurance against the loss of knowledge.
But knowledge can be lost, and it has been lost. We have no idea how much was lost at Alexandria in a fire said to be the result of Julius Caesar’s civil war. And then there was the German burning of the Louvain Library in Belgium during World War I, when 300,000 books, 1000 manuscripts and 800 ancient pieces of art went up in flames---most of it irreplaceable. Louvain’s librarians wept, and I think Mr. Oata would have understood why. God has made us knowledge loving creatures.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
I love books. When I moved into my present home in the spring of 2003, I had 165 boxes of books. They were all piled up in the dining room while work was being done in the rest of the house. Every room in the house has bookcases, except the kitchen, dining room and bathrooms. After 18 years in this house I now have even more books, so I would guess if I had to pack them all into boxes there would be well over 200. My children have begun to complain that I should begin to clean them out NOW, but I told them, “No way, I am leaving it for you to do after I am gone. I do not plan to make it easy for you. Consider it payback time.” Besides my books, I have t-shirts and mugs about books. One t-shirt reads, “It’s Not Hoarding, If It’s Books.” Another one says: Books Are My Superpower. What’s Yours? And then I have a mug, which has a quote from Louisa May Alcott: She Is Too Fond of Books and It Has Turned Her Brain. And last night I ordered a t-shirt with the same quote.
So, given my love of books it was with great interest I read an article in the Christian Science Monitor about an unusual library in Kashmir. Dal Lake, with his sparkling waters and 360 degree views of the Himalayas, is one of the most picturesque places in Kashmir, attracting tourists, photographers and filmmakers. But it also has a Traveler’s Library---only 600 books, which is not much, but it is the labor of love of a man named Mr. Muhammad Latief Oata. Born in Kashmir, the oldest son of a plumber and a housewife, he left home at 16 to support himself by selling arts and crafts to tourists. He had a stall from which he sold his crafts, and now and then, he would get books, mainly from tourists, to sell from various people. Mr. Oata could not read, but he asked people to summarize the books for him, which they happily did.
For years Mr. Oata had sold his crafts in India, but his desire was to return to Kashmir, which he finally was able to do. He built a small craft store and opened a travel agency. Then the idea for a library was born. At first, he had piles of books all around his home and his store, but he realized they needed a permanent home, and so made part of his store into a library. Though he still cannot read, he does remember the books: their themes, authors and the countries from which the authors came. He remembers the very first book he received: The God of Small Things by the Indian writer, Arundhati Roy. It’s the story of a family, a very messy one, whose dysfunction goes on for many decades. And then there is Asking for Trouble by Donald Woods, a banned journalist from South Africa, who was in trouble for criticizing the government that supported apartheid.
Tourists are fascinated by Mr. Oata’s love of books, which he claims are his “most prized possession.” Some have even helped him organize his library while talking to him about the books they have read and left for his library. When the Valley was flooded in 2014, the waters washed over his library shelves. He cried like a child, he admitted, and the family as well as kind tourists helped him to clean the books and move them to the second floor.
In 2019 the Indian government imposed direct rule on Kashmir, which was resisted, so India then imposed a media blackout. For a while Kashmir was cut off from the world with no tourists, no visitors, and no work. Then Covid-19 struck, and another set of restrictions was imposed. To survive Mr. Oata began to work as a day laborer, and his wife has done the same. They are committed to giving their children an education. Their daughter is a first year medical student, and their son is a senior in high school. Of course, their son and daughter know how to read, which especially delights Mr. Oata. Work often takes Mr. Oata away from home, but his wife, he insists, takes good care of the library. And whenever he gets the chance, he climbs the steps to the second floor and touches, feels and smells his beloved books. He is waiting and hoping for normal to return, when once again his library will be filled with people, who delight in his books as much as he does.
Some years ago, my husband and I took a trip to Egypt, where we visited the city of Alexandria, site of one of the world’s great libraries, founded sometime around 295 BC. At one time it might have had as many as 400,000 scrolls. There is a modern library there now, and I remember being overwhelmed with emotion thinking about the perseverance of knowledge through time. Consider the labor of love involved in writing 400,000 scrolls, many of them later copied as an insurance against the loss of knowledge.
But knowledge can be lost, and it has been lost. We have no idea how much was lost at Alexandria in a fire said to be the result of Julius Caesar’s civil war. And then there was the German burning of the Louvain Library in Belgium during World War I, when 300,000 books, 1000 manuscripts and 800 ancient pieces of art went up in flames---most of it irreplaceable. Louvain’s librarians wept, and I think Mr. Oata would have understood why. God has made us knowledge loving creatures.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
BACK IN GALILEE by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 4/11/2021
John 20: 19-31
Now let’s get one thing straight: No one can believe what he or she cannot believe. If you do not believe something---like dead bodies coming back to life---- trying to force yourself to believe is futile. Oh, you can play all kinds of clever mind games, convincing yourself something must be true, because you want it to be true, but to my way of thinking, wanting to believe something is not the same thing as actually believing. Sometimes you need your own reason to believe. Other peoples’ reasons may not be good enough!
And that was all I was asking for---my own reason to believe. You have probably guessed by now who I am--- Thomas, the so called Doubter, though why I have been so designated remains mystery to me. After all, I only wanted to see what the other disciples had already seen---the risen Christ. They believed because they had seen. And I told them I would not believe until I saw, until I could see the nail prints on his hands and the wound in his side. And so, Jesus came, but not only to me, to all of us, who were gathered together.
I recognized him immediately by his wounds. Does that strike you as strange---the resurrected Christ still bearing his wounds? They were not causing him any pain; they were more like a mark of identity, something that could not be taken away without denying and trivializing who he was and is. And when you really think about it that is probably true for all of us. The wounds we bear do help to make us who we are. Yes, we are our wounds, but of course, also more than wounds. Isn’t that what Jesus’ resurrection revealed--- God’s victory over the wounds of the human condition!
So, I recognized Jesus by his wounds. That is my first point. And my second point is that I recognized him in an ordinary place, a room in Galilee. Galilee was the place most of his ministry had occurred. You may not realize this, but the Gospel writers pay a great deal of attention to where things happen. Place matters. It matters to you too, doesn’t it? We are, after all, people of a place. Place marks us, leaves an imprint on us. Place helps to make us who we are---like the first line in one of your modern novels, The Prince of Tides: My wound is my geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call. And that is what Galilee was for all of us, both our wound and our anchorage. Jesus’ ministry was made in Galilee. Oh, he was crucified in Jerusalem, but John tells you that Jesus headed back to Galilee. Galilee---that no count backwater of a region; not much to expect from there, except for the fact that this was our home. This was where Jesus taught and healed and lived. We all came from the region of Galilee.
Jerusalem, on the other hand, was the seat of temple power and the place of an occupying Roman army. And yes, it was the place where Jesus died and was probably resurrected---though no one saw exactly where and how he rose. But make no mistake, Jerusalem was not where he remained. Did you ever wonder why Jesus didn’t directly go to Pilate and rub his ruddy Roman face in God’s victory? I mean isn’t power always impressed by power? Rome had the power of the sword, and anyone who had power over the sword that is, over death was a formidable foe.
You would have thought that Jesus would have wanted to teach Rome and Jerusalem the limits of empire. But that is not what we did. Instead, he returned to Galilee---back to the site of his teaching and healing. Why? Well, the way I figure it is this: When power meets power, especially when power confronts a new kind of power, all the old power knows how to do is feverishly work to increase itself---like nations aspiring to make more impressive bombs, a more sophisticated military. But Jesus wasn’t going to waste his time fighting that old kind of power. He knew it was already finished, done with. He had already fought the battle, and the victory was won---even if Pilate and Herod did not yet know it. I guess he figured that in time they would learn---in God’s time, not theirs.
And so, Jesus did not waste any time in Jerusalem. He came back, back to Galilee, back to us. He came looking for us. And that is my third point. He was the one doing the looking. He was the one doing the finding. He found us; we did not find him. But you---you all live in a different kind of age, a different kind of world. You are seekers, travelers on a journey. I even heard there are congregations today calling themselves seeker churches, welcoming people, who are searching, searching for meaning, I guess, searching for God.
Well, all I can say is: Good luck! I have never been impressed that anyone finds God by searching. God finds us. God comes to us. That is how it was with Jesus. From the very beginning he came looking for us. He came to us, called us to be his disciples. It wasn’t our idea; it was his. And after it was all over, after he died, and we were terrified of what would happen next, there we were, huddled together in a room, behind locked doors. We were too afraid to look for anyone or anything. And if the truth were told, I think some of us even hoped that this whole Jesus thing would stay away. I said that I wanted to see Jesus like the other disciples had seen him, but I can tell you there was a side to all of us that hoped he would not come back. “Just leave us alone, so we can get back to our normal lives.” You know what that feels like---just wanting to get back to your normal lives.
And then he came. He appeared to us and said, “Peace be with you.” Can you imagine that? Peace—after all he and we had been through! How could any of us have peace? We weren’t even looking for it, and we certainly were not expecting it. We were trying to stay alive, terrified as we were of the Romans as well as the Jewish leaders. Getting our old lives back would have been enough! And that is when he came: in the midst of our fear and anxiety, he came. He came back. We did not have to search or find. Instead, we were the ones found, found by Jesus back in Galilee. You know the text tells you we were afraid of the Jews, but I can also tell you we were more afraid of what might happen if Jesus came back. I mean if Jesus really were alive, then we could not go back home and pretend that nothing had changed. The truth was: everything had changed. And we were as afraid of that change as we were of anything else---though I don’t think we could have put our fear into words.
We had thought the story was over, but oh how wrong we were. The truth was and is that everything had changed. Oh, I know, you don’t see how. I mean you still live with the same old problems, and life, as beautiful as it is, still can be a struggle, and human beings continue their destructive habits. Greed and cruelty still have their say. But the victory is won, and it is history’s job (and yours too) to move along until finally you catch up (or maybe God catches you up) to the victory given in Jesus Christ. And when will that be? In God’s own time, my friends, in God’s own time.
John 20: 19-31
Now let’s get one thing straight: No one can believe what he or she cannot believe. If you do not believe something---like dead bodies coming back to life---- trying to force yourself to believe is futile. Oh, you can play all kinds of clever mind games, convincing yourself something must be true, because you want it to be true, but to my way of thinking, wanting to believe something is not the same thing as actually believing. Sometimes you need your own reason to believe. Other peoples’ reasons may not be good enough!
And that was all I was asking for---my own reason to believe. You have probably guessed by now who I am--- Thomas, the so called Doubter, though why I have been so designated remains mystery to me. After all, I only wanted to see what the other disciples had already seen---the risen Christ. They believed because they had seen. And I told them I would not believe until I saw, until I could see the nail prints on his hands and the wound in his side. And so, Jesus came, but not only to me, to all of us, who were gathered together.
I recognized him immediately by his wounds. Does that strike you as strange---the resurrected Christ still bearing his wounds? They were not causing him any pain; they were more like a mark of identity, something that could not be taken away without denying and trivializing who he was and is. And when you really think about it that is probably true for all of us. The wounds we bear do help to make us who we are. Yes, we are our wounds, but of course, also more than wounds. Isn’t that what Jesus’ resurrection revealed--- God’s victory over the wounds of the human condition!
So, I recognized Jesus by his wounds. That is my first point. And my second point is that I recognized him in an ordinary place, a room in Galilee. Galilee was the place most of his ministry had occurred. You may not realize this, but the Gospel writers pay a great deal of attention to where things happen. Place matters. It matters to you too, doesn’t it? We are, after all, people of a place. Place marks us, leaves an imprint on us. Place helps to make us who we are---like the first line in one of your modern novels, The Prince of Tides: My wound is my geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call. And that is what Galilee was for all of us, both our wound and our anchorage. Jesus’ ministry was made in Galilee. Oh, he was crucified in Jerusalem, but John tells you that Jesus headed back to Galilee. Galilee---that no count backwater of a region; not much to expect from there, except for the fact that this was our home. This was where Jesus taught and healed and lived. We all came from the region of Galilee.
Jerusalem, on the other hand, was the seat of temple power and the place of an occupying Roman army. And yes, it was the place where Jesus died and was probably resurrected---though no one saw exactly where and how he rose. But make no mistake, Jerusalem was not where he remained. Did you ever wonder why Jesus didn’t directly go to Pilate and rub his ruddy Roman face in God’s victory? I mean isn’t power always impressed by power? Rome had the power of the sword, and anyone who had power over the sword that is, over death was a formidable foe.
You would have thought that Jesus would have wanted to teach Rome and Jerusalem the limits of empire. But that is not what we did. Instead, he returned to Galilee---back to the site of his teaching and healing. Why? Well, the way I figure it is this: When power meets power, especially when power confronts a new kind of power, all the old power knows how to do is feverishly work to increase itself---like nations aspiring to make more impressive bombs, a more sophisticated military. But Jesus wasn’t going to waste his time fighting that old kind of power. He knew it was already finished, done with. He had already fought the battle, and the victory was won---even if Pilate and Herod did not yet know it. I guess he figured that in time they would learn---in God’s time, not theirs.
And so, Jesus did not waste any time in Jerusalem. He came back, back to Galilee, back to us. He came looking for us. And that is my third point. He was the one doing the looking. He was the one doing the finding. He found us; we did not find him. But you---you all live in a different kind of age, a different kind of world. You are seekers, travelers on a journey. I even heard there are congregations today calling themselves seeker churches, welcoming people, who are searching, searching for meaning, I guess, searching for God.
Well, all I can say is: Good luck! I have never been impressed that anyone finds God by searching. God finds us. God comes to us. That is how it was with Jesus. From the very beginning he came looking for us. He came to us, called us to be his disciples. It wasn’t our idea; it was his. And after it was all over, after he died, and we were terrified of what would happen next, there we were, huddled together in a room, behind locked doors. We were too afraid to look for anyone or anything. And if the truth were told, I think some of us even hoped that this whole Jesus thing would stay away. I said that I wanted to see Jesus like the other disciples had seen him, but I can tell you there was a side to all of us that hoped he would not come back. “Just leave us alone, so we can get back to our normal lives.” You know what that feels like---just wanting to get back to your normal lives.
And then he came. He appeared to us and said, “Peace be with you.” Can you imagine that? Peace—after all he and we had been through! How could any of us have peace? We weren’t even looking for it, and we certainly were not expecting it. We were trying to stay alive, terrified as we were of the Romans as well as the Jewish leaders. Getting our old lives back would have been enough! And that is when he came: in the midst of our fear and anxiety, he came. He came back. We did not have to search or find. Instead, we were the ones found, found by Jesus back in Galilee. You know the text tells you we were afraid of the Jews, but I can also tell you we were more afraid of what might happen if Jesus came back. I mean if Jesus really were alive, then we could not go back home and pretend that nothing had changed. The truth was: everything had changed. And we were as afraid of that change as we were of anything else---though I don’t think we could have put our fear into words.
We had thought the story was over, but oh how wrong we were. The truth was and is that everything had changed. Oh, I know, you don’t see how. I mean you still live with the same old problems, and life, as beautiful as it is, still can be a struggle, and human beings continue their destructive habits. Greed and cruelty still have their say. But the victory is won, and it is history’s job (and yours too) to move along until finally you catch up (or maybe God catches you up) to the victory given in Jesus Christ. And when will that be? In God’s own time, my friends, in God’s own time.
THE SILENCE: RELECTIONS ON GERRIT VAN HONTHORST’S
CHRIST BEFORE THE HIGH PRIEST by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen, Maundy Thursday 4/1/2021
Matthew 26: 37-68
Words: they are important tools of communication, and learning to use words well is one of the hallmarks of a good education. We Protestants have an especially close relationship to words, because we are known as people of the Book, people of the Word. And yet we also know that silence has its place, as a little plaque I have in my office reminds me, “Remember, sometimes silence is the best answer.”
On this night especially, we pay close attention to the words of scripture, which tell the story of Jesus’ final hours. And we also celebrate the sacrament of communion, when we remember particular words spoken over a meal: This is my body, given for you; this is my blood shed for you. And yet we also know the sacrament is more than words. As we take the elements, we can allow ourselves to descend into a deep kind of silence, inviting us into deep truth. So, this evening, with the help of a painting, I want to reflect on a particular moment of silence, when Jesus stood before the high priest Caiaphas. On the cover of your bulletin is a copy of a painting I saw some years ago at London’s National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. I actually purchased a copy of this painting and had it framed for my study at home.
Here Jesus stands before the Jewish high priest, Caiaphas. Look at the placement of the candle---at the center of the painting, as God is at the center. See how it illuminates Jesus, as the light of the world, but notice something else. The candle also illuminates (though not as brightly as Jesus) the law which lies open on the table as well as the high priest’s face and hand with his finger pointing upward. Note that the finger is not pointed at Jesus in stern accusation, but rather is poised upward, symbolic of a movement toward God. So we have here, it seems to me, a sympathetic interpretation of Caiaphas as one who is concerned for God and the truth. If the artist had no sympathy for Caiaphas, he would have cast him in darkness, not in the light. So Caiaphas too is a seeker after truth.
Now look at Jesus. His hands are crossed at his waist; they seem to be bound at the wrists, but not too tightly, and his robe falls off his left shoulder. And his face looks with such compassion upon Caiaphas. The scene from Matthew’s Gospel as we heard this morning is not kind toward Caiaphas or the Jews, for it says they were looking for false testimony to put Jesus to death. At least two witnesses came forward and they said that Jesus claimed he was able to destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days. These are the figures over in the left hand corner of the painting.
Caiaphas demanded an answer, but the text says, Jesus was at first silent. So we have a somewhat agitated Caiaphas, and we have Jesus, standing calmly and silently before his accusers. He knows his life is on the line; he knows where he is headed, but there is not a trace of enmity or hatred on his face, but rather a look of studied compassion offered in silence.
When I first saw the painting, I knew nothing about it or its artist, Gerrit van Honthorst, but I learned that it was very popular and influential, and many copies were made, including one which ended up in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg in the year 1831. Now there is some speculation that the great 19th century Russian writer, Dostoevsky, saw the painting and perhaps mentally used it in the writing of the Grand Inquisitor’s scene from his novel, The Brother’s Karamazov.
In this scene Jesus comes into the city of Seville in Spain, and is immediately recognized by everyone. He gives sight to the blind, health to the sick, the children parade before him, throwing down flowers and singing to him Hosanna. Then the cardinal himself, the Grand Inquisitor, appears, tall and erect, with a withered face and sunken eyes, but with a gleam of light still in his eyes. Now over 90, he is dressed in a course robe, not the fine attire he was wearing the day before while burning the enemies of the church at the stake. The cardinal takes one look at Jesus and holds out his finger and bids the guards, “Arrest that man.” And they do.
Dostoevsky writes: “The guards lead their prisoner to the close, gloomy vaulted prison in the ancient palace of the Holy Inquisition and shut Jesus in it. The day passes and is followed by the dark breathless night of Seville, and in the pitch darkness the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the Grand Inquisitor himself comes in with a light in his hand. He is alone; the door is closed, and finally he goes up to the table and puts his light on it. Is it You? You?, but receiving no answer, he adds at once, “Be silent. What can You say, indeed? I know what you would say.”
And then for the next 20 pages or so, the Cardinal charges Jesus with bringing freedom to human beings, freedom, the one thing the cardinal claims human beings cannot handle or tolerate. They fear freedom more than anything, the cardinal says, and so we, the church, have taken away their freedom, and have given them what they want even more: miracle, mystery and authority. And so the cardinal tells Jesus that he must be burned at the stake as the greatest of heretics. “I cannot let you destroy what it has taken us so many centuries to build up.”
Again Dostoevsky writes: “When the Inquisitor ceased speaking, he waited for Jesus to answer, but the prisoner was silent, and his silence weighed heavily on the old man. He saw that the Prisoner had listened intently all the time, while looking gently into his face and evidently not wishing to reply. The old man longed for Him to say something, however bitter and terrible. But Jesus suddenly approached the old man in silence and softly kissed him on his bloodless, aged lips. That was all his answer. The old man shuddered. His lips moved. He went to the door, opened it, and said to Jesus, Go and come no more, come not at all, never, never! And he let Jesus out into the dark alleys of the town, and the Prisoner went away. And the old man: the kiss still glows in his heart, but he still adheres to his ideas.”
CHRIST BEFORE THE HIGH PRIEST by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen, Maundy Thursday 4/1/2021
Matthew 26: 37-68
Words: they are important tools of communication, and learning to use words well is one of the hallmarks of a good education. We Protestants have an especially close relationship to words, because we are known as people of the Book, people of the Word. And yet we also know that silence has its place, as a little plaque I have in my office reminds me, “Remember, sometimes silence is the best answer.”
On this night especially, we pay close attention to the words of scripture, which tell the story of Jesus’ final hours. And we also celebrate the sacrament of communion, when we remember particular words spoken over a meal: This is my body, given for you; this is my blood shed for you. And yet we also know the sacrament is more than words. As we take the elements, we can allow ourselves to descend into a deep kind of silence, inviting us into deep truth. So, this evening, with the help of a painting, I want to reflect on a particular moment of silence, when Jesus stood before the high priest Caiaphas. On the cover of your bulletin is a copy of a painting I saw some years ago at London’s National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. I actually purchased a copy of this painting and had it framed for my study at home.
Here Jesus stands before the Jewish high priest, Caiaphas. Look at the placement of the candle---at the center of the painting, as God is at the center. See how it illuminates Jesus, as the light of the world, but notice something else. The candle also illuminates (though not as brightly as Jesus) the law which lies open on the table as well as the high priest’s face and hand with his finger pointing upward. Note that the finger is not pointed at Jesus in stern accusation, but rather is poised upward, symbolic of a movement toward God. So we have here, it seems to me, a sympathetic interpretation of Caiaphas as one who is concerned for God and the truth. If the artist had no sympathy for Caiaphas, he would have cast him in darkness, not in the light. So Caiaphas too is a seeker after truth.
Now look at Jesus. His hands are crossed at his waist; they seem to be bound at the wrists, but not too tightly, and his robe falls off his left shoulder. And his face looks with such compassion upon Caiaphas. The scene from Matthew’s Gospel as we heard this morning is not kind toward Caiaphas or the Jews, for it says they were looking for false testimony to put Jesus to death. At least two witnesses came forward and they said that Jesus claimed he was able to destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days. These are the figures over in the left hand corner of the painting.
Caiaphas demanded an answer, but the text says, Jesus was at first silent. So we have a somewhat agitated Caiaphas, and we have Jesus, standing calmly and silently before his accusers. He knows his life is on the line; he knows where he is headed, but there is not a trace of enmity or hatred on his face, but rather a look of studied compassion offered in silence.
When I first saw the painting, I knew nothing about it or its artist, Gerrit van Honthorst, but I learned that it was very popular and influential, and many copies were made, including one which ended up in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg in the year 1831. Now there is some speculation that the great 19th century Russian writer, Dostoevsky, saw the painting and perhaps mentally used it in the writing of the Grand Inquisitor’s scene from his novel, The Brother’s Karamazov.
In this scene Jesus comes into the city of Seville in Spain, and is immediately recognized by everyone. He gives sight to the blind, health to the sick, the children parade before him, throwing down flowers and singing to him Hosanna. Then the cardinal himself, the Grand Inquisitor, appears, tall and erect, with a withered face and sunken eyes, but with a gleam of light still in his eyes. Now over 90, he is dressed in a course robe, not the fine attire he was wearing the day before while burning the enemies of the church at the stake. The cardinal takes one look at Jesus and holds out his finger and bids the guards, “Arrest that man.” And they do.
Dostoevsky writes: “The guards lead their prisoner to the close, gloomy vaulted prison in the ancient palace of the Holy Inquisition and shut Jesus in it. The day passes and is followed by the dark breathless night of Seville, and in the pitch darkness the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the Grand Inquisitor himself comes in with a light in his hand. He is alone; the door is closed, and finally he goes up to the table and puts his light on it. Is it You? You?, but receiving no answer, he adds at once, “Be silent. What can You say, indeed? I know what you would say.”
And then for the next 20 pages or so, the Cardinal charges Jesus with bringing freedom to human beings, freedom, the one thing the cardinal claims human beings cannot handle or tolerate. They fear freedom more than anything, the cardinal says, and so we, the church, have taken away their freedom, and have given them what they want even more: miracle, mystery and authority. And so the cardinal tells Jesus that he must be burned at the stake as the greatest of heretics. “I cannot let you destroy what it has taken us so many centuries to build up.”
Again Dostoevsky writes: “When the Inquisitor ceased speaking, he waited for Jesus to answer, but the prisoner was silent, and his silence weighed heavily on the old man. He saw that the Prisoner had listened intently all the time, while looking gently into his face and evidently not wishing to reply. The old man longed for Him to say something, however bitter and terrible. But Jesus suddenly approached the old man in silence and softly kissed him on his bloodless, aged lips. That was all his answer. The old man shuddered. His lips moved. He went to the door, opened it, and said to Jesus, Go and come no more, come not at all, never, never! And he let Jesus out into the dark alleys of the town, and the Prisoner went away. And the old man: the kiss still glows in his heart, but he still adheres to his ideas.”
The Comedy that is Easter by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 4/4/2021
John 20: 1-18
My father used to love reading, Bartlett’s Book of Quotations, and he would make all these file cards with his favorite quotes, one being: “Life is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.” The Greek philosopher Aristotle pointed out that what draws people to tragedy is emotion, the catharsis of emotion in which feelings of pity and/or fear are excited. People who prefer comedy might say they love to laugh. But it is not simply laughter or tears that define something as comic or tragic. It is the direction of the story’s movement. In tragedy the movement is downward; in comedy it is upward, and this is why Christianity is essentially comedy. Easter gives us the upward movement, a movement we should not expect, given everything that has happened.
Consider where we have been and what we have seen this past week. Last Sunday we saw Jesus ride into Jerusalem on a colt, with his disciples cheering him and crowds welcoming him. He was hailed as a king, ridiculous, because kings don’t ride into town on donkeys. And then shortly after all this praise and adoration, he is betrayed by one of his own, brought before the high priest, who accuses him of perverting Jewish law. Then Jesus is sent to Pilate, who can find in him no wrong, but hands him over to be crucified anyway. In John’s version of the story there is no agony in the garden, no begging for the cup to pass from him, no cry of abandonment from the cross, only three words spoken by Jesus, “It is finished,” and then he gives up his spirit. The writer of John’s Gospel wants to make the point that Jesus gave up his spirit of his own will; his life was given by him, not taken from him---though no one, neither the powerful nor the lowly truly understand what has happened.
And now it is Easter morning, what John calls the first day of the week. Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb while it is still dark and sees that the stone has been removed. We have no idea why she went to the tomb; unlike the other gospels, in John, Jesus’ body has already been anointed by Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimethea. Darkness in John’s gospel is always a symbol for ignorance, or confusion, or even evil. Jesus Christ is the light, and so to be in the dark is to fail to see the light of Christ. So, Mary is in darkness; it is not the darkness of Judas or Pilate, but it is darkness, nonetheless. Not bothering to enter the tomb to see what is there, she assumes the body is gone, and immediately runs to Peter and the beloved disciple.
The Beloved disciple and Peter take off for the tomb with the Beloved disciple outrunning Peter. He looks into the tomb, where he sees the linen wrappings, but he does not enter. Peter arrives and enters immediately, seeing what the Beloved disciple has seen---the grave cloths lying there, which suggest that the body had not been stolen, because grave robbers would never bother to unwrap the body. And the cloth, which covered Jesus’ head and face, is probably a coded reference to the veil, which Moses wore after he had been to the mountain top to receive the law. Moses had to cover his face, because the people could not bear to behold the glory of God which shone on Moses’ face. But now the veil is removed, and the glory of God can be seen and known in Jesus Christ.
And then the text says something very interesting. It tells us that the beloved disciple believed, though we have no idea what he believed, since the very next line says that they did not understand the scriptures—that Jesus must rise from the dead. Then the two disciples go home. After all the drama and excitement, they have nowhere else to go but home? Why didn’t they run to tell the other disciples that something new and wonderful has happened? It’s comic in a poignant sort of way, this return home---home, that place, which is comfort and security and safety. That’s where they go, because that is where human beings often want to go when something big and important and incomprehensible and even frightening happens---home!
But not Mary Magdalene. She does not go home. She returns to the tomb. Standing and weeping outside the tomb, she looks in and sees two angels, one sitting at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. She doesn’t act surprised or disturbed by their presence, as if it were normal to see two angels. She has only one question in mind: where is her Lord? When she turns around and sees Jesus, whom she mistakes for the gardener, she asks him where the body of Jesus is. And when he says her name, Mary, she recognizes him. She sees who he is, and her journey that morning, which began in darkness, ends in light. She sees, she knows and she understands---not everything, of course, because she wants to hold on to him, to cling to him would be a better translation, but he tells her she cannot. There will be no clinging, no hanging on, no going back to what once was. Now the movement will be forward. But she probably did not know that at the time, and so she simply left and informed the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”
To most of us this does not seem like comedy, though I could imagine someone like Woody Allen making the scene in such a way that our sides would ache with laughter. After all, when we human trip over our ignorance and misunderstanding, it can be funny, even as it can also be tragic. Tragedy and comedy use the same material; it is simply a question of how the material moves---upward or downward. If upward, we can laugh; if downward, we can cry.
We don’t laugh on Maundy Thursday, as the story of Jesus’ final days on earth are read. We don’t laugh on Good Friday, when the seven last words Jesus spoke from the cross are traditionally read and preached upon. Laughter on those days would not be appropriate. But today is different, because God played a joke---on evil, on death, on us. Satan thought he had won, but he didn’t. We thought we were lost, but we aren’t. Death did its victory dance, but the dance was premature, because the story was not over.
Some years ago, while taking a course on classics at Wesleyan, one of the students was a retired high school history teacher. It was a week before Easter, and this one evening after class he and I began to talk. I told him that the Easter sermon was the hardest sermon to preach, because it seems so existentially beyond our human experience. Who really returns from the grave? And then---guess what---he told me a story about his own life.
I am a Polish Jew, he said, born during the Second World War in 1942. And do you know where I was born? In a grave in a Catholic cemetery outside of Warsaw. That is where my mother went, thinking the Germans would not be looking for Jews in a Catholic cemetery. A gravedigger assisted at my birth. My mother died the night I was born. Exhausted, starving, she brought me into the world and then died. And that gravedigger buried her, and then, a devout Roman Catholic, he hid me, took care of me and when I was six, sent me to Israel, where I grew up, with another Jewish family.
When I was 17, I made my way to this country, was educated at Columbia in New York, and became a history high school teacher. I am Jewish, but I believe in resurrection. When I was 40, I returned to Poland, where I met the gravedigger. And do you know what he told me? He said that on the night I was born, the night my mother died, he actually laughed out loud. “I had not been able to laugh for a very long time,” he told me. “I had dug so many graves during those war years, but on that night, when I delivered you, I knew that God was up to something. God had played a trick on the enemies of love.” And indeed, that is what Easter is all about: the upward movement that is the essence of comedy, for those who bother to think and realize that God has indeed played a trick on the enemies of love.
John 20: 1-18
My father used to love reading, Bartlett’s Book of Quotations, and he would make all these file cards with his favorite quotes, one being: “Life is a tragedy to those who feel, but a comedy to those who think.” The Greek philosopher Aristotle pointed out that what draws people to tragedy is emotion, the catharsis of emotion in which feelings of pity and/or fear are excited. People who prefer comedy might say they love to laugh. But it is not simply laughter or tears that define something as comic or tragic. It is the direction of the story’s movement. In tragedy the movement is downward; in comedy it is upward, and this is why Christianity is essentially comedy. Easter gives us the upward movement, a movement we should not expect, given everything that has happened.
Consider where we have been and what we have seen this past week. Last Sunday we saw Jesus ride into Jerusalem on a colt, with his disciples cheering him and crowds welcoming him. He was hailed as a king, ridiculous, because kings don’t ride into town on donkeys. And then shortly after all this praise and adoration, he is betrayed by one of his own, brought before the high priest, who accuses him of perverting Jewish law. Then Jesus is sent to Pilate, who can find in him no wrong, but hands him over to be crucified anyway. In John’s version of the story there is no agony in the garden, no begging for the cup to pass from him, no cry of abandonment from the cross, only three words spoken by Jesus, “It is finished,” and then he gives up his spirit. The writer of John’s Gospel wants to make the point that Jesus gave up his spirit of his own will; his life was given by him, not taken from him---though no one, neither the powerful nor the lowly truly understand what has happened.
And now it is Easter morning, what John calls the first day of the week. Mary Magdalene goes to the tomb while it is still dark and sees that the stone has been removed. We have no idea why she went to the tomb; unlike the other gospels, in John, Jesus’ body has already been anointed by Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimethea. Darkness in John’s gospel is always a symbol for ignorance, or confusion, or even evil. Jesus Christ is the light, and so to be in the dark is to fail to see the light of Christ. So, Mary is in darkness; it is not the darkness of Judas or Pilate, but it is darkness, nonetheless. Not bothering to enter the tomb to see what is there, she assumes the body is gone, and immediately runs to Peter and the beloved disciple.
The Beloved disciple and Peter take off for the tomb with the Beloved disciple outrunning Peter. He looks into the tomb, where he sees the linen wrappings, but he does not enter. Peter arrives and enters immediately, seeing what the Beloved disciple has seen---the grave cloths lying there, which suggest that the body had not been stolen, because grave robbers would never bother to unwrap the body. And the cloth, which covered Jesus’ head and face, is probably a coded reference to the veil, which Moses wore after he had been to the mountain top to receive the law. Moses had to cover his face, because the people could not bear to behold the glory of God which shone on Moses’ face. But now the veil is removed, and the glory of God can be seen and known in Jesus Christ.
And then the text says something very interesting. It tells us that the beloved disciple believed, though we have no idea what he believed, since the very next line says that they did not understand the scriptures—that Jesus must rise from the dead. Then the two disciples go home. After all the drama and excitement, they have nowhere else to go but home? Why didn’t they run to tell the other disciples that something new and wonderful has happened? It’s comic in a poignant sort of way, this return home---home, that place, which is comfort and security and safety. That’s where they go, because that is where human beings often want to go when something big and important and incomprehensible and even frightening happens---home!
But not Mary Magdalene. She does not go home. She returns to the tomb. Standing and weeping outside the tomb, she looks in and sees two angels, one sitting at the head and the other at the feet, where the body of Jesus had lain. She doesn’t act surprised or disturbed by their presence, as if it were normal to see two angels. She has only one question in mind: where is her Lord? When she turns around and sees Jesus, whom she mistakes for the gardener, she asks him where the body of Jesus is. And when he says her name, Mary, she recognizes him. She sees who he is, and her journey that morning, which began in darkness, ends in light. She sees, she knows and she understands---not everything, of course, because she wants to hold on to him, to cling to him would be a better translation, but he tells her she cannot. There will be no clinging, no hanging on, no going back to what once was. Now the movement will be forward. But she probably did not know that at the time, and so she simply left and informed the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.”
To most of us this does not seem like comedy, though I could imagine someone like Woody Allen making the scene in such a way that our sides would ache with laughter. After all, when we human trip over our ignorance and misunderstanding, it can be funny, even as it can also be tragic. Tragedy and comedy use the same material; it is simply a question of how the material moves---upward or downward. If upward, we can laugh; if downward, we can cry.
We don’t laugh on Maundy Thursday, as the story of Jesus’ final days on earth are read. We don’t laugh on Good Friday, when the seven last words Jesus spoke from the cross are traditionally read and preached upon. Laughter on those days would not be appropriate. But today is different, because God played a joke---on evil, on death, on us. Satan thought he had won, but he didn’t. We thought we were lost, but we aren’t. Death did its victory dance, but the dance was premature, because the story was not over.
Some years ago, while taking a course on classics at Wesleyan, one of the students was a retired high school history teacher. It was a week before Easter, and this one evening after class he and I began to talk. I told him that the Easter sermon was the hardest sermon to preach, because it seems so existentially beyond our human experience. Who really returns from the grave? And then---guess what---he told me a story about his own life.
I am a Polish Jew, he said, born during the Second World War in 1942. And do you know where I was born? In a grave in a Catholic cemetery outside of Warsaw. That is where my mother went, thinking the Germans would not be looking for Jews in a Catholic cemetery. A gravedigger assisted at my birth. My mother died the night I was born. Exhausted, starving, she brought me into the world and then died. And that gravedigger buried her, and then, a devout Roman Catholic, he hid me, took care of me and when I was six, sent me to Israel, where I grew up, with another Jewish family.
When I was 17, I made my way to this country, was educated at Columbia in New York, and became a history high school teacher. I am Jewish, but I believe in resurrection. When I was 40, I returned to Poland, where I met the gravedigger. And do you know what he told me? He said that on the night I was born, the night my mother died, he actually laughed out loud. “I had not been able to laugh for a very long time,” he told me. “I had dug so many graves during those war years, but on that night, when I delivered you, I knew that God was up to something. God had played a trick on the enemies of love.” And indeed, that is what Easter is all about: the upward movement that is the essence of comedy, for those who bother to think and realize that God has indeed played a trick on the enemies of love.
March 31, 2021
I have two best women friends from college, and we have been best buddies for over 50 years! Since the pandemic, we have promised to Zoom at least once or twice a month, and for a while, we zoomed weekly. Just this past Monday, we spent two hours zooming, which should tell you something about the love I have for my friends, since those of you who know me well, also know that I hate ZOOM! All three of us feel that we have grown up together as we have shared and gone through many of life’s major passages---everything from the politics of the late 60’s and early 70’s to falling in love, finding jobs and establishing professions, raising kids, etc--- and now as we age, losing parents. All three of us have lost our mothers in the past two years, one of us just four months ago. Ann’s mother died at 103.5! Anyway, this past Monday we were talking, and the subject came around to Easter and what it means.
My two friends are both atheists, though one of them is a very active member of the Unitarian-Universalist Church in Princeton, New Jersey. But Unitarian-Universalists have no set doctrine or theology, and a good many of them are atheists or at least agnostics. So, both friends were very interested to hear what I had to say about Easter and resurrection. They directly asked me if I believed that Jesus’ physical body came back to life. I told them I do not believe in a resuscitated corpse. Whatever Jesus came back to, it was not the same form of life he had before. And I also said I had no idea or understanding of what happened. I don’t so much believe in resurrection as I hope in it. I mean it is very hard to believe what we do not know from experience. And like everyone else, I have had no experience of seeing a dead person come back to life.
For me resurrection is a way to talk about and affirm that the forces of evil and cruelty do not have the final word. As I told my friends, if this life were all we three would ever have, we could accept that, because we realize how very fortunate we have been and are. In so many ways, we have been lottery winners. Most people simply have not had the kind of opportunities that we take for granted. We have not known hunger, disease, homeless, or war. All three of us received elite educations, have had meaningful professions and even managed to stay married to our original spouses. Two of us have raised children, and so far, we have not lost any of them to accidents or diseases. We have even travelled and seen parts of the world, which only makes us more aware of our privilege. Yes, we have been fortunate, blessed, to use religious language. But our being blessed does not mean that God curses those who are not so fortunate. I have never been one to believe that God has a particular plan for every person. There is so much luck and randomness in life, and that is simply the way the world is. God, to my way of thinking, is not some magician, who has all these tricks and plans, allowing some people to flourish and others to languish or even suffer. God does not completely control the creation, since it has an identity separate from God and proceeds on its own way, according to certain laws and sometimes succumbing to accidents.
So, is there anything final or absolute? If God is not always pulling the strings and repairing the brokenness that we see or hear about on a daily basis, is there anything like a final solution or resting place? Do things just go on and on and on until the creation either explodes or perhaps implodes? Do people simply live and then die, some very fortunate, others the victims of terrible cruelty and bad luck?
Christianity speaks of a new heaven and a new earth, and the Jewish scriptures (Isaiah) speak of a time when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, when destruction and war will be no more.
We may think of such a time and place as “heaven,” the new creation, where all the hurt and sorrow of life have been repaired. Perhaps we hope that more than we believe it, since it transcends our human experience and our capacity to know anything definitely about what lies beyond this life.
When we hear the stories of Jesus’ resurrection----and remember, the Bible is very clear about avoiding any description of how it happened---we only have hints that allow us to hope for more than we can now see or understand. Yes, there is suffering in this life, and sometimes that suffering is terrible and unjust, but the daring hope is that such defeat is not the final word. We hope there is more to come. We hope God is not yet finished with us or the creation.
As I read last week an article in the New York Times about the victims of the mass shooting in the Atlanta region, I could not help but find myself thinking about resurrection. What emerged from that article was a story of people trying to make it in what was for six of them a foreign culture. They had come to this country to make a new life for themselves and their families, and that is what they were trying to do. Sancha Kim had left South Korea in 1980, and over the years she had worked at all kinds of jobs, including dish washing, office cleaning and now at Gold Spa. She was 69 years old and had been married for over 50 years. All she wanted was life to be better for her two children. Soon Chung Park was 74 and was the cook and housekeeper for the Spa. Her husband drove for Lyft and even painted houses. Last year together they made $30,000. She hoped to retire soon and move back to New Jersey to be near family. One victim, Daoyou Feng, who was 44, had no known address, and so far, no one has come forward to say that “she too was loved.” As the article said, “Her life has remained in the shadows.” Hyun Jung Grant, 51, was a single mother, working at multiple jobs to put her two sons through college. Xiaogie Tan owned two spas and worked twelve hour days, accomplishments of which she was very proud. Yong Ae Yue, 68, left Korea in 1979 after marrying an American serviceman she met in Korea. They were eventually divorced in the 1980’s, and she worked hard, raising two sons and sending them to college. One of her sons said, ‘She preached education; she preached hard work and she preached opportunity.” There were two non-Asian victims: Delaina Ashley Yaun, 33, a new mother, recently married to the baby’s father. The two of them went to Delaina is now dead, and her daughter is motherless. Then there was Paul Andre Michels, 54, a handyman for the business and an electrician. His brother said, “Paul was a workaholic. He always wanted to be busy.
Is this how it all ends for these people---in a terrible blood bath, the distorted action of some tortured soul, who thought this was the way to solve his sex addiction? And what of the perpetrator, Robert Aaron Long, who so pathetically asked the police, “Do you think I will spend the rest of my life in jail? How does it all end for him? If resurrection means anything, for me it means that the ends we see are not the ends God sees. God can make a new way, when the old ways have run their course. And though my friends told me they believe this is all delusion, the sorry inability to accept that life is terribly unfair, my response was, “You could be right, but we human beings have within us this longing for something more, and what if there truly is “something more” to satisfy the longing? So as Sunday morning approaches, and Easter morning makes its appearance, and we gather to sing, Christ the Lord Is Risen Today, let us dare to be bold in our hoping that in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, God is showing us the first fruits of the new creation.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
I have two best women friends from college, and we have been best buddies for over 50 years! Since the pandemic, we have promised to Zoom at least once or twice a month, and for a while, we zoomed weekly. Just this past Monday, we spent two hours zooming, which should tell you something about the love I have for my friends, since those of you who know me well, also know that I hate ZOOM! All three of us feel that we have grown up together as we have shared and gone through many of life’s major passages---everything from the politics of the late 60’s and early 70’s to falling in love, finding jobs and establishing professions, raising kids, etc--- and now as we age, losing parents. All three of us have lost our mothers in the past two years, one of us just four months ago. Ann’s mother died at 103.5! Anyway, this past Monday we were talking, and the subject came around to Easter and what it means.
My two friends are both atheists, though one of them is a very active member of the Unitarian-Universalist Church in Princeton, New Jersey. But Unitarian-Universalists have no set doctrine or theology, and a good many of them are atheists or at least agnostics. So, both friends were very interested to hear what I had to say about Easter and resurrection. They directly asked me if I believed that Jesus’ physical body came back to life. I told them I do not believe in a resuscitated corpse. Whatever Jesus came back to, it was not the same form of life he had before. And I also said I had no idea or understanding of what happened. I don’t so much believe in resurrection as I hope in it. I mean it is very hard to believe what we do not know from experience. And like everyone else, I have had no experience of seeing a dead person come back to life.
For me resurrection is a way to talk about and affirm that the forces of evil and cruelty do not have the final word. As I told my friends, if this life were all we three would ever have, we could accept that, because we realize how very fortunate we have been and are. In so many ways, we have been lottery winners. Most people simply have not had the kind of opportunities that we take for granted. We have not known hunger, disease, homeless, or war. All three of us received elite educations, have had meaningful professions and even managed to stay married to our original spouses. Two of us have raised children, and so far, we have not lost any of them to accidents or diseases. We have even travelled and seen parts of the world, which only makes us more aware of our privilege. Yes, we have been fortunate, blessed, to use religious language. But our being blessed does not mean that God curses those who are not so fortunate. I have never been one to believe that God has a particular plan for every person. There is so much luck and randomness in life, and that is simply the way the world is. God, to my way of thinking, is not some magician, who has all these tricks and plans, allowing some people to flourish and others to languish or even suffer. God does not completely control the creation, since it has an identity separate from God and proceeds on its own way, according to certain laws and sometimes succumbing to accidents.
So, is there anything final or absolute? If God is not always pulling the strings and repairing the brokenness that we see or hear about on a daily basis, is there anything like a final solution or resting place? Do things just go on and on and on until the creation either explodes or perhaps implodes? Do people simply live and then die, some very fortunate, others the victims of terrible cruelty and bad luck?
Christianity speaks of a new heaven and a new earth, and the Jewish scriptures (Isaiah) speak of a time when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together, when destruction and war will be no more.
We may think of such a time and place as “heaven,” the new creation, where all the hurt and sorrow of life have been repaired. Perhaps we hope that more than we believe it, since it transcends our human experience and our capacity to know anything definitely about what lies beyond this life.
When we hear the stories of Jesus’ resurrection----and remember, the Bible is very clear about avoiding any description of how it happened---we only have hints that allow us to hope for more than we can now see or understand. Yes, there is suffering in this life, and sometimes that suffering is terrible and unjust, but the daring hope is that such defeat is not the final word. We hope there is more to come. We hope God is not yet finished with us or the creation.
As I read last week an article in the New York Times about the victims of the mass shooting in the Atlanta region, I could not help but find myself thinking about resurrection. What emerged from that article was a story of people trying to make it in what was for six of them a foreign culture. They had come to this country to make a new life for themselves and their families, and that is what they were trying to do. Sancha Kim had left South Korea in 1980, and over the years she had worked at all kinds of jobs, including dish washing, office cleaning and now at Gold Spa. She was 69 years old and had been married for over 50 years. All she wanted was life to be better for her two children. Soon Chung Park was 74 and was the cook and housekeeper for the Spa. Her husband drove for Lyft and even painted houses. Last year together they made $30,000. She hoped to retire soon and move back to New Jersey to be near family. One victim, Daoyou Feng, who was 44, had no known address, and so far, no one has come forward to say that “she too was loved.” As the article said, “Her life has remained in the shadows.” Hyun Jung Grant, 51, was a single mother, working at multiple jobs to put her two sons through college. Xiaogie Tan owned two spas and worked twelve hour days, accomplishments of which she was very proud. Yong Ae Yue, 68, left Korea in 1979 after marrying an American serviceman she met in Korea. They were eventually divorced in the 1980’s, and she worked hard, raising two sons and sending them to college. One of her sons said, ‘She preached education; she preached hard work and she preached opportunity.” There were two non-Asian victims: Delaina Ashley Yaun, 33, a new mother, recently married to the baby’s father. The two of them went to Delaina is now dead, and her daughter is motherless. Then there was Paul Andre Michels, 54, a handyman for the business and an electrician. His brother said, “Paul was a workaholic. He always wanted to be busy.
Is this how it all ends for these people---in a terrible blood bath, the distorted action of some tortured soul, who thought this was the way to solve his sex addiction? And what of the perpetrator, Robert Aaron Long, who so pathetically asked the police, “Do you think I will spend the rest of my life in jail? How does it all end for him? If resurrection means anything, for me it means that the ends we see are not the ends God sees. God can make a new way, when the old ways have run their course. And though my friends told me they believe this is all delusion, the sorry inability to accept that life is terribly unfair, my response was, “You could be right, but we human beings have within us this longing for something more, and what if there truly is “something more” to satisfy the longing? So as Sunday morning approaches, and Easter morning makes its appearance, and we gather to sing, Christ the Lord Is Risen Today, let us dare to be bold in our hoping that in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, God is showing us the first fruits of the new creation.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Two Different Stories by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 3/28/2021
Palm/Passion Sunday
Mark 11: 1-11
This Sunday is one of contrast, because it has within it two very different stories. While many of us refer to this Sunday before Easter as Palm Sunday, its official name is really The Sunday of the Passion. Even if the story of Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem is read, it is liturgically correct to also read the story of Jesus’ passion. Many Protestant churches, however, avoid the passion story this Sunday, which means that their parishioners, who avoid Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services, will move from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the triumph of Easter Sunday without ever confronting the cross. And whether we like it or not, the cross is at the center of the Christian story.
When we consider Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, most of us do not see it as the ridiculous event it really was. Mark claims Jesus was riding on the back of a baby donkey, which would have been very uncomfortable for both the donkey and Jesus. Mark also claims that Jesus entered from the east, that is, the direction of the Mount of Olives, the place, according to the Old Testament, where God will fight the nations and restore Jerusalem to its rightful place of power. This is the same direction from which the liberator Judas Maccabees entered into Jerusalem, when in 160 BC he expelled the Greeks, who had defiled the Temple, so there is no doubt that Mark’s gospel sees Jesus as a liberator. But a strange liberator he was, who rode not on a magnificent war horse as the Romans did but sat upon a baby donkey.
As Jesus entered the city, we read that enthusiastic crowds greeted him with shouts of Hosanna, a cry, which is both a call for mercy and a word of praise. They laid down their cloaks for him as they waved branches of palms. He was greeted as both king and liberator, and the expectation was that he would do something spectacular to restore the Jews to their place of pride and power. In other words, he would make them into a mighty kingdom, not unlike the one Solomon and David ruled.
Jesus then went to the Temple, and perhaps the people thought, “Surely, this is it!” This is the time and place he will act to liberate and make new. The Temple, after all, was the symbol of Jewish religious power and piety, the place where the Ark of the Covenant, believed to be the residence of God, was stored. But all Jesus did was enter, look around and then return to Bethany, the home of his friends, Mary, Martha and Lazarus. We can imagine that the crowds who had just extolled him as king and liberator were disappointed. What was he up to, they must have wondered?
And it would not take them very long to find out. The very next day, according to Mark’s gospel, Jesus threw the money-changers out of the temple, which probably made him a marked man, leading the religious authorities to manipulate his death at the hands of the Romans. Mark gives us a few more chapters of Jesus’ teaching, but by chapter 14, the end game is coming into clear sight. In that chapter we have this extraordinary scene in the Garden of Gethsemane, which we will hear at the end of the service as part of the passion narrative. This is where Jesus begged God to take the cup of suffering from him. At first, he called God, Abba, a familiar, intimate term of address, like papa or daddy, but then as time elapsed, he moved to the more formal, Father. Jesus was straining to hear God’s response, but what he heard was God’s silence. And Jesus, along with his disciples and other followers would quickly learn that there was going to be no dramatic divine intervention to save Jesus from the cross. The course of human depravity will play out, and the forces of power and evil will crucify the Beloved Son.
Why? Not because God required Jesus to die as the perfect sacrifice for human sin. Jesus died on account of human sin. It was sin that put Jesus to death, and because that is so often the way of the world, Jesus would be subjected to the same experience so many others have also known. He suffered and died, and according to both Mark and Matthew he let out a terrible cry of abandonment: My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? And that question is never fully answered. How many others have also asked the same question? Just yesterday I saw the most heart wrenching story of mother, crossing the Rio Grande River to escape a terrible life, and her nine year old daughter, drowned. In the throes of overwhelming grief and pain, she too wanted to know, Why?
We do not get to Easter without the cross, because this is the way of the world, not the world God made, but the world we human beings have made. And if God is going to redeem not only human beings, but also the whole creation, then God is going to do it in the midst of what looks like and feels like overwhelming defeat.
Five of us have been reading and discussing a book, Lives of Moral Leadership by the psychiatrist and now emeritus professor at Harvard, Robert Coles. In one of the chapters toward the end of the book, Coles wrote very personally about some of his teachers who functioned as moral leaders for him, one of them, a medical school teacher, Professor Kneeland. Coles is now 91, so he was in medical school in the 50’s, just a decade after the end of World War ll. And Coles recalled how Professor Kneeland told the class about some of his medical school friends in Germany, who were part of the resistance group, The White Rose. They wrote, published and distributed resistance literature against Hitler and his henchmen. Some were caught and executed by beheading.
Coles wrote that the class sat in rapt attention as it dawned on them that these medical students, the same age as they, had become protagonists in a struggle against evil. Indeed, some of those resisters were devout Christians, and one in particular, Sophie Scholl, when asked by a Nazi judge why she, a good Aryan, would enter into a plot against the state, quietly answered in three words, “Because of God,”---- because of who God is and what God calls God’s people to do and to become, because Jesus revealed what intimacy with God truly looks like--- obedience to compassion, truth and love. It isn’t that God desired Jesus to die. Death came to Jesus as the result of his obedience to the demands of radical love.
So, Jesus entered into the city from the east gate, on the back of a colt, the foal of a donkey, while Roman soldiers entered from the west gate on their magnificent war horses, brandishing their shields and swords. Those Romans knew what power was, just as we do too. The palms were waved; the hosannas were sung, and the garments were laid on the ground so Jesus’ feet or the feet of his donkey would not touch the dirt. But there would be no escaping the dirt. And that is the irony of Palm Sunday which turns it into Passion Sunday. Jesus rode into Jerusalem not to conquer but to die.
Palm/Passion Sunday
Mark 11: 1-11
This Sunday is one of contrast, because it has within it two very different stories. While many of us refer to this Sunday before Easter as Palm Sunday, its official name is really The Sunday of the Passion. Even if the story of Jesus’ triumphal entrance into Jerusalem is read, it is liturgically correct to also read the story of Jesus’ passion. Many Protestant churches, however, avoid the passion story this Sunday, which means that their parishioners, who avoid Maundy Thursday and Good Friday services, will move from the triumph of Palm Sunday to the triumph of Easter Sunday without ever confronting the cross. And whether we like it or not, the cross is at the center of the Christian story.
When we consider Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, most of us do not see it as the ridiculous event it really was. Mark claims Jesus was riding on the back of a baby donkey, which would have been very uncomfortable for both the donkey and Jesus. Mark also claims that Jesus entered from the east, that is, the direction of the Mount of Olives, the place, according to the Old Testament, where God will fight the nations and restore Jerusalem to its rightful place of power. This is the same direction from which the liberator Judas Maccabees entered into Jerusalem, when in 160 BC he expelled the Greeks, who had defiled the Temple, so there is no doubt that Mark’s gospel sees Jesus as a liberator. But a strange liberator he was, who rode not on a magnificent war horse as the Romans did but sat upon a baby donkey.
As Jesus entered the city, we read that enthusiastic crowds greeted him with shouts of Hosanna, a cry, which is both a call for mercy and a word of praise. They laid down their cloaks for him as they waved branches of palms. He was greeted as both king and liberator, and the expectation was that he would do something spectacular to restore the Jews to their place of pride and power. In other words, he would make them into a mighty kingdom, not unlike the one Solomon and David ruled.
Jesus then went to the Temple, and perhaps the people thought, “Surely, this is it!” This is the time and place he will act to liberate and make new. The Temple, after all, was the symbol of Jewish religious power and piety, the place where the Ark of the Covenant, believed to be the residence of God, was stored. But all Jesus did was enter, look around and then return to Bethany, the home of his friends, Mary, Martha and Lazarus. We can imagine that the crowds who had just extolled him as king and liberator were disappointed. What was he up to, they must have wondered?
And it would not take them very long to find out. The very next day, according to Mark’s gospel, Jesus threw the money-changers out of the temple, which probably made him a marked man, leading the religious authorities to manipulate his death at the hands of the Romans. Mark gives us a few more chapters of Jesus’ teaching, but by chapter 14, the end game is coming into clear sight. In that chapter we have this extraordinary scene in the Garden of Gethsemane, which we will hear at the end of the service as part of the passion narrative. This is where Jesus begged God to take the cup of suffering from him. At first, he called God, Abba, a familiar, intimate term of address, like papa or daddy, but then as time elapsed, he moved to the more formal, Father. Jesus was straining to hear God’s response, but what he heard was God’s silence. And Jesus, along with his disciples and other followers would quickly learn that there was going to be no dramatic divine intervention to save Jesus from the cross. The course of human depravity will play out, and the forces of power and evil will crucify the Beloved Son.
Why? Not because God required Jesus to die as the perfect sacrifice for human sin. Jesus died on account of human sin. It was sin that put Jesus to death, and because that is so often the way of the world, Jesus would be subjected to the same experience so many others have also known. He suffered and died, and according to both Mark and Matthew he let out a terrible cry of abandonment: My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? And that question is never fully answered. How many others have also asked the same question? Just yesterday I saw the most heart wrenching story of mother, crossing the Rio Grande River to escape a terrible life, and her nine year old daughter, drowned. In the throes of overwhelming grief and pain, she too wanted to know, Why?
We do not get to Easter without the cross, because this is the way of the world, not the world God made, but the world we human beings have made. And if God is going to redeem not only human beings, but also the whole creation, then God is going to do it in the midst of what looks like and feels like overwhelming defeat.
Five of us have been reading and discussing a book, Lives of Moral Leadership by the psychiatrist and now emeritus professor at Harvard, Robert Coles. In one of the chapters toward the end of the book, Coles wrote very personally about some of his teachers who functioned as moral leaders for him, one of them, a medical school teacher, Professor Kneeland. Coles is now 91, so he was in medical school in the 50’s, just a decade after the end of World War ll. And Coles recalled how Professor Kneeland told the class about some of his medical school friends in Germany, who were part of the resistance group, The White Rose. They wrote, published and distributed resistance literature against Hitler and his henchmen. Some were caught and executed by beheading.
Coles wrote that the class sat in rapt attention as it dawned on them that these medical students, the same age as they, had become protagonists in a struggle against evil. Indeed, some of those resisters were devout Christians, and one in particular, Sophie Scholl, when asked by a Nazi judge why she, a good Aryan, would enter into a plot against the state, quietly answered in three words, “Because of God,”---- because of who God is and what God calls God’s people to do and to become, because Jesus revealed what intimacy with God truly looks like--- obedience to compassion, truth and love. It isn’t that God desired Jesus to die. Death came to Jesus as the result of his obedience to the demands of radical love.
So, Jesus entered into the city from the east gate, on the back of a colt, the foal of a donkey, while Roman soldiers entered from the west gate on their magnificent war horses, brandishing their shields and swords. Those Romans knew what power was, just as we do too. The palms were waved; the hosannas were sung, and the garments were laid on the ground so Jesus’ feet or the feet of his donkey would not touch the dirt. But there would be no escaping the dirt. And that is the irony of Palm Sunday which turns it into Passion Sunday. Jesus rode into Jerusalem not to conquer but to die.
March 25, 2021
Dear Friends,
Charlotte Sorenson was living in Stockbridge, MA, a lovely New England town, nestled in the Berkshires, right next to Lenox, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. In 1954 she was 15 years old, a sophomore at Stockbridge Plains School. Norman Rockwell, the famous illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post, was also living in Stockbridge, and he had this habit of noticing people and then inviting them to his studio, where they would pose for a drawing or a painting he had in mind. His subjects did not pose for days, weeks or months on end, but usually for about twenty minutes, when he would get the look from them he wanted, and then an assistant would snap a picture from which he worked. Sometimes the look was a facial expression, at other times a pose. He apparently knew what he was looking for, and it was common for Rockwell to notice someone as he or she sat on a bench or walked down the street. His studio was on Main Street from which he had a great view of what was going on all around him.
Rockwell thought of himself as a kind of movie director, casting roles for his pictures. He would often try out four or five people for a role, sometimes using a face from one person and a body from another. But he always brought in only one subject at a time. He would explain to them the painting and what kind of look or pose he wanted, and for their time they would get a check for $5 or $10. Apparently, there was something about Charlotte that caught his eye, and so he used her in one of his less well known paintings, called Bright Future for Banking, where she is clustered with a group of teenagers, all wearing graduation caps and gowns.
Charlotte liked to go the drugstore after school, where she and her friends would often buy a soda or a root beer float. She does not remember if Rockwell was the one to directly invite her to his studio, or if he had someone else ask her. And she also says that she remembers almost nothing of the modeling moment. It must not have taken very long, she said, or else I would remember more about it. Charlotte, who is 81, living in Boulder, CO, said she must have seen the painting when it was finished, but it did not make much of an impression. she does not remember much about that either, just that it was not on the And then she just forgot about it. She graduated, and life happened.
Well one day last December, she was looking through a magazine, and suddenly she recognized herself. There she was in a gallery advertisement for a painting she had not seen or thought about for years. There are some Rockwell paintings that are famous: The Problem We All Live With, which shows federal marshals walking an African-American child to school. Then there is The Runaway, where a policeman is sitting at a lunch counter with a little boy who is running away from home, and four paintings, named, The Four Freedoms, based on Franklin Roosevelt’s address to Congress in 1941, when he outlined his vision for a post-war world: freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from hunger and freedom from fear. Bright Future never had the impact those other paintings did.
In fact, it was almost thrown away in the garbage. A man, walking down a Manhattan street, noticed the painting in the trash and asked the janitor, who was cleaning up, if he might have it. The man had two sons, and the painting ended up on the older son’s wall. It was later sold to a gallery, when neither son wanted to buy the other out, although the owner of the gallery refused to say how much he paid for it. It is now up for sale with an asking price of $885,000.
Rockwell, I am sure, would be quite shocked at the asking price---just as he would be shocked at what some of his other paintings have sold for---Saying Grace sold for $46 million in 2013, Breaking Home Ties went for 15.4 in 2006, and Two Plumbers sold for 1.6 million in 2017. Though the public loved Rockwell’s work and eagerly awaited the latest copy of the Saturday Evening Post on whose covers Rockwell’s work was often placed, serious critics were often disdainful of his work, finding it too sentimental. After Rockwell painted The Four Freedoms, a Time Magazine reviewer complained that Rockwell would be incapable of painting a really evil person or even a complex one! Whether that is true or not, the readers of the Saturday Evening Post were apparently not looking for the portrayal of evil or complexity. They simply wanted to see displayed a snapshot of their lives, people who were living and doing ordinary things.
Charlotte Sorenson said she can remember feeling a bit disappointed that the painting did not make it on the cover. It was inside the magazine, in an ad for a bank. “It was not one of his famous or exciting paintings,” she said. “It was just kind of boring.” But then that is indeed how life often is, made up of ordinary moments that perhaps do seem boring. Maybe that is why Jesus chose ordinary people to be his disciples. They were not particularly exciting or dynamic. Some of them were fisherman, though Matthew was a tax collector, hardly an ordinary thing for a Jewish person to do, since it made you an enemy of the people. Nonetheless, his disciples were not the movers and shakers of their society, and yet in the ordinary and not so ordinary burdens and challenges of life, somehow God does show us grace filled moments. And perhaps that is why so many “ordinary Americans” loved Norman Rockwell’s work.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Charlotte Sorenson was living in Stockbridge, MA, a lovely New England town, nestled in the Berkshires, right next to Lenox, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. In 1954 she was 15 years old, a sophomore at Stockbridge Plains School. Norman Rockwell, the famous illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post, was also living in Stockbridge, and he had this habit of noticing people and then inviting them to his studio, where they would pose for a drawing or a painting he had in mind. His subjects did not pose for days, weeks or months on end, but usually for about twenty minutes, when he would get the look from them he wanted, and then an assistant would snap a picture from which he worked. Sometimes the look was a facial expression, at other times a pose. He apparently knew what he was looking for, and it was common for Rockwell to notice someone as he or she sat on a bench or walked down the street. His studio was on Main Street from which he had a great view of what was going on all around him.
Rockwell thought of himself as a kind of movie director, casting roles for his pictures. He would often try out four or five people for a role, sometimes using a face from one person and a body from another. But he always brought in only one subject at a time. He would explain to them the painting and what kind of look or pose he wanted, and for their time they would get a check for $5 or $10. Apparently, there was something about Charlotte that caught his eye, and so he used her in one of his less well known paintings, called Bright Future for Banking, where she is clustered with a group of teenagers, all wearing graduation caps and gowns.
Charlotte liked to go the drugstore after school, where she and her friends would often buy a soda or a root beer float. She does not remember if Rockwell was the one to directly invite her to his studio, or if he had someone else ask her. And she also says that she remembers almost nothing of the modeling moment. It must not have taken very long, she said, or else I would remember more about it. Charlotte, who is 81, living in Boulder, CO, said she must have seen the painting when it was finished, but it did not make much of an impression. she does not remember much about that either, just that it was not on the And then she just forgot about it. She graduated, and life happened.
Well one day last December, she was looking through a magazine, and suddenly she recognized herself. There she was in a gallery advertisement for a painting she had not seen or thought about for years. There are some Rockwell paintings that are famous: The Problem We All Live With, which shows federal marshals walking an African-American child to school. Then there is The Runaway, where a policeman is sitting at a lunch counter with a little boy who is running away from home, and four paintings, named, The Four Freedoms, based on Franklin Roosevelt’s address to Congress in 1941, when he outlined his vision for a post-war world: freedom of speech, freedom of worship, freedom from hunger and freedom from fear. Bright Future never had the impact those other paintings did.
In fact, it was almost thrown away in the garbage. A man, walking down a Manhattan street, noticed the painting in the trash and asked the janitor, who was cleaning up, if he might have it. The man had two sons, and the painting ended up on the older son’s wall. It was later sold to a gallery, when neither son wanted to buy the other out, although the owner of the gallery refused to say how much he paid for it. It is now up for sale with an asking price of $885,000.
Rockwell, I am sure, would be quite shocked at the asking price---just as he would be shocked at what some of his other paintings have sold for---Saying Grace sold for $46 million in 2013, Breaking Home Ties went for 15.4 in 2006, and Two Plumbers sold for 1.6 million in 2017. Though the public loved Rockwell’s work and eagerly awaited the latest copy of the Saturday Evening Post on whose covers Rockwell’s work was often placed, serious critics were often disdainful of his work, finding it too sentimental. After Rockwell painted The Four Freedoms, a Time Magazine reviewer complained that Rockwell would be incapable of painting a really evil person or even a complex one! Whether that is true or not, the readers of the Saturday Evening Post were apparently not looking for the portrayal of evil or complexity. They simply wanted to see displayed a snapshot of their lives, people who were living and doing ordinary things.
Charlotte Sorenson said she can remember feeling a bit disappointed that the painting did not make it on the cover. It was inside the magazine, in an ad for a bank. “It was not one of his famous or exciting paintings,” she said. “It was just kind of boring.” But then that is indeed how life often is, made up of ordinary moments that perhaps do seem boring. Maybe that is why Jesus chose ordinary people to be his disciples. They were not particularly exciting or dynamic. Some of them were fisherman, though Matthew was a tax collector, hardly an ordinary thing for a Jewish person to do, since it made you an enemy of the people. Nonetheless, his disciples were not the movers and shakers of their society, and yet in the ordinary and not so ordinary burdens and challenges of life, somehow God does show us grace filled moments. And perhaps that is why so many “ordinary Americans” loved Norman Rockwell’s work.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Wanting to See Jesus by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 3/21/2021
Jeremiah 31: 31-34
John 12: 20-33
“We want to see Jesus.” John’s Gospel is very clear about the identity of the people who made this request of Philip. They were Greeks, not Jews, and if the Greeks were known for anything, it is for their tradition of seeking wisdom. This is the culture that produced not only the philosophies of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, but also the great tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripedes. When Robert Kennedy, sorrowfully undone by the assassination of his brother, was trying to work his way through his grief, Jacqueline Kennedy gave him Edith Hamilton’s book, The Way of the Greeks, in which he read that wisdom comes by way of suffering. So wrote Aeschulus, “Pain that we cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until in our sleep, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.” So, it should not surprise us that the Greeks with all kinds of wisdom at their disposal, should come to seek more wisdom, or perhaps something more than wisdom.
Now this word see in John is very interesting, because sight in this gospel is more than what the eye is designed to do. To see in John means to understand in a new way, to know the truth deeply and to be transformed by that truth. John makes it perfectly clear that although all kinds of people came to see Jesus, some out of curiosity, others wanting healing, not all of them really saw Jesus, that is truly grasped who he was and what he was trying to do.
And we are not so different from all those crowds, including the Greeks, because we too want to see Jesus. We want to understand what so often transcends our understanding. But we can’t see Jesus directly. We see him through all the stories we know and love, stories like the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son. We see Jesus in his teachings on forgiveness, when he tells the crowd, who had just caught a woman in adultery, “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.” Most of us probably see him more clearly in those stories than we do in the doctrine we might have been taught in catechism class or Sunday School. Many peoples’ eyes glaze over when they hear Jesus is one person in two natures, and because reason cannot fully explain, people often prefer to know Jesus through the beloved stories--- walking down the streets and paths of Galilee, while he teaches and heals.
Some years ago I worked as a chaplain at University Hospital in Stony Brook, New York. It was part of a huge medical complex with a medical school as well as departments of applied and pure science. My boss, Bob, was a Roman Catholic priest, who also had an appointment as a professor of ethics in the medical school. And one day, he returned to the office, clearly upset. He had been called for an emergency, when a 32 year old woman, the wife of one of the hospital doctors, threw a blood clot during delivery, and in no time at all, she and the baby were dead. The husband was present at the birth, so he knew what had happened, and because he was close to Bob, he asked Bob to be with him when he told his wife’s parents their daughter and grandchild were dead. So Bob agreed. And, as you can imagine, it was pretty horrible.
The grandmother, a devout Roman Catholic, then wanted Bob to accompany her to the hospital chapel, where they both prayed. Now, of course, Bob was extremely upset over these deaths, but he was also upset, because he could not understand how it was that this woman, a devout Roman Catholic, should be so completely clueless about Jesus.
She goes to a Roman Catholic Church every single Sunday, he said, and she stares at the giant crucifix in the front of the church. She sees this image of a suffering, dying man, whom she thinks is supposed to save her and her family from suffering. He shook his head in disbelief. She doesn’t really see Jesus at all. And so now, she feels cheated, let down. Her faith is of no help, because things like this are not supposed to happen.” But, of course, such things do happen all the time. And unless we want to say that faith is of no use to us, we have to find and see Jesus in the suffering. That is where the real challenge is. Anyone can go out on a walk and behold the beauty of the world and be impressed by God’s creative cleverness, but it is when you are beaten down and back, when you feel your back painfully pressed hard against the wall, trapped by the pain that is ripping your heart apart, that is the place where Jesus meets us. That is when we really need to see.
And because that experience was so seminal for my boss, he decided to run a discussion on “Seeing Jesus” for staff and students. And about 15 people joined, including me. Two of the participants offered quite a challenge, one, the President of the local Right to Life Chapter, an anti-abortion group, and the other a doctor, who regularly performed abortions. In fact, one of this man’s medical school colleagues and friends had been shot to death by someone totally opposed to abortion. Luckily, these two people were mature, mature enough to be able to listen to each other as well as to the other people in the group, all with varied ways of seeing Jesus and knowing Jesus.
The Right to Lifer saw Jesus in her gallant efforts to save unborn children. She saw Jesus’ presence as she marched, petitioned and even attempted to block entrances to clinics where abortions were performed. And the doctor, well, he saw Jesus with people in some of the most agonized moments of their lives, when they learned for example that the fetus had three number 13 chromosomes and would be horribly deformed and struggling for breath before it died a few days later. And he saw Jesus in a terrified 15 year old, who could tell no one of what she claimed was her shame, and though she did not believe in abortion, she could not have that baby. I see Jesus with her. And so, I help her.
And his adversary asked, “You mean you see Jesus when you destroy life?” I did not say that,” he countered. I said. I see Jesus with people in their pain and their sorrow and the struggles they are trying to get through. I don’t see Jesus offering definitive answers to difficult questions. He is the one who is with us, assuring us we are not alone. But the answers we come to ---they belong to us, not to Jesus.”
That doctor reminds us that God calls us to act not with certainty but with faith—not faith in the rightness of our actions and the purity of our consciences, but faith in the love and mercy of God.
In today’s reading from the book of Jeremiah, we see an Israel, who has forsaken the covenant and broken the law time and time again. Nonetheless, God will make with them a new covenant, written on their hearts. Christians see the new covenant in Jesus Christ, whose lifting up on the cross neither saves us from the responsibility and ambiguity of our decisions and actions, nor gives us the definitive answers to our most troubling questions. The Greeks told Philip, “We want to see Jesus”, and we too want to see Jesus. But when we see him, really see him, we don’t necessarily find a list of absolute beliefs to which we must consent, but rather we come face to face with the cross, with the agony and challenge of good and evil. We see, despite the horror, what the mercy and love of God really look like. And that’s when we see Jesus.
Jeremiah 31: 31-34
John 12: 20-33
“We want to see Jesus.” John’s Gospel is very clear about the identity of the people who made this request of Philip. They were Greeks, not Jews, and if the Greeks were known for anything, it is for their tradition of seeking wisdom. This is the culture that produced not only the philosophies of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle, but also the great tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripedes. When Robert Kennedy, sorrowfully undone by the assassination of his brother, was trying to work his way through his grief, Jacqueline Kennedy gave him Edith Hamilton’s book, The Way of the Greeks, in which he read that wisdom comes by way of suffering. So wrote Aeschulus, “Pain that we cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until in our sleep, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.” So, it should not surprise us that the Greeks with all kinds of wisdom at their disposal, should come to seek more wisdom, or perhaps something more than wisdom.
Now this word see in John is very interesting, because sight in this gospel is more than what the eye is designed to do. To see in John means to understand in a new way, to know the truth deeply and to be transformed by that truth. John makes it perfectly clear that although all kinds of people came to see Jesus, some out of curiosity, others wanting healing, not all of them really saw Jesus, that is truly grasped who he was and what he was trying to do.
And we are not so different from all those crowds, including the Greeks, because we too want to see Jesus. We want to understand what so often transcends our understanding. But we can’t see Jesus directly. We see him through all the stories we know and love, stories like the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son. We see Jesus in his teachings on forgiveness, when he tells the crowd, who had just caught a woman in adultery, “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.” Most of us probably see him more clearly in those stories than we do in the doctrine we might have been taught in catechism class or Sunday School. Many peoples’ eyes glaze over when they hear Jesus is one person in two natures, and because reason cannot fully explain, people often prefer to know Jesus through the beloved stories--- walking down the streets and paths of Galilee, while he teaches and heals.
Some years ago I worked as a chaplain at University Hospital in Stony Brook, New York. It was part of a huge medical complex with a medical school as well as departments of applied and pure science. My boss, Bob, was a Roman Catholic priest, who also had an appointment as a professor of ethics in the medical school. And one day, he returned to the office, clearly upset. He had been called for an emergency, when a 32 year old woman, the wife of one of the hospital doctors, threw a blood clot during delivery, and in no time at all, she and the baby were dead. The husband was present at the birth, so he knew what had happened, and because he was close to Bob, he asked Bob to be with him when he told his wife’s parents their daughter and grandchild were dead. So Bob agreed. And, as you can imagine, it was pretty horrible.
The grandmother, a devout Roman Catholic, then wanted Bob to accompany her to the hospital chapel, where they both prayed. Now, of course, Bob was extremely upset over these deaths, but he was also upset, because he could not understand how it was that this woman, a devout Roman Catholic, should be so completely clueless about Jesus.
She goes to a Roman Catholic Church every single Sunday, he said, and she stares at the giant crucifix in the front of the church. She sees this image of a suffering, dying man, whom she thinks is supposed to save her and her family from suffering. He shook his head in disbelief. She doesn’t really see Jesus at all. And so now, she feels cheated, let down. Her faith is of no help, because things like this are not supposed to happen.” But, of course, such things do happen all the time. And unless we want to say that faith is of no use to us, we have to find and see Jesus in the suffering. That is where the real challenge is. Anyone can go out on a walk and behold the beauty of the world and be impressed by God’s creative cleverness, but it is when you are beaten down and back, when you feel your back painfully pressed hard against the wall, trapped by the pain that is ripping your heart apart, that is the place where Jesus meets us. That is when we really need to see.
And because that experience was so seminal for my boss, he decided to run a discussion on “Seeing Jesus” for staff and students. And about 15 people joined, including me. Two of the participants offered quite a challenge, one, the President of the local Right to Life Chapter, an anti-abortion group, and the other a doctor, who regularly performed abortions. In fact, one of this man’s medical school colleagues and friends had been shot to death by someone totally opposed to abortion. Luckily, these two people were mature, mature enough to be able to listen to each other as well as to the other people in the group, all with varied ways of seeing Jesus and knowing Jesus.
The Right to Lifer saw Jesus in her gallant efforts to save unborn children. She saw Jesus’ presence as she marched, petitioned and even attempted to block entrances to clinics where abortions were performed. And the doctor, well, he saw Jesus with people in some of the most agonized moments of their lives, when they learned for example that the fetus had three number 13 chromosomes and would be horribly deformed and struggling for breath before it died a few days later. And he saw Jesus in a terrified 15 year old, who could tell no one of what she claimed was her shame, and though she did not believe in abortion, she could not have that baby. I see Jesus with her. And so, I help her.
And his adversary asked, “You mean you see Jesus when you destroy life?” I did not say that,” he countered. I said. I see Jesus with people in their pain and their sorrow and the struggles they are trying to get through. I don’t see Jesus offering definitive answers to difficult questions. He is the one who is with us, assuring us we are not alone. But the answers we come to ---they belong to us, not to Jesus.”
That doctor reminds us that God calls us to act not with certainty but with faith—not faith in the rightness of our actions and the purity of our consciences, but faith in the love and mercy of God.
In today’s reading from the book of Jeremiah, we see an Israel, who has forsaken the covenant and broken the law time and time again. Nonetheless, God will make with them a new covenant, written on their hearts. Christians see the new covenant in Jesus Christ, whose lifting up on the cross neither saves us from the responsibility and ambiguity of our decisions and actions, nor gives us the definitive answers to our most troubling questions. The Greeks told Philip, “We want to see Jesus”, and we too want to see Jesus. But when we see him, really see him, we don’t necessarily find a list of absolute beliefs to which we must consent, but rather we come face to face with the cross, with the agony and challenge of good and evil. We see, despite the horror, what the mercy and love of God really look like. And that’s when we see Jesus.
March 18, 2021
Dear Friends,
This past Monday was March 15th, known as the Ides of March. In 44 B.C. Julius Caesar was assassinated on March 15th, stabbed to death by a number of conspirators, led by Brutus and Cassius. The story goes that a seer had predicted that harm would come to Caesar no later than the Ides of March, and on his way to the Senate, where Caesar would meet his terrible fate, he is reported to have said to the seer, “The Ides of March has come,” to which the seer replied, “Aye, Caesar, but not gone.”
March 15th is also important in our own American history, because it is the date Maine became a state: March 15, 1820. Maine did not allow slavery, and so its admission for statehood was held up by southerners, insisting that if Maine were admitted as a free state, then a slave state must also be admitted, and so Missouri was put forth as a state. Anti-slavery Mainers were furious that their statehood was held hostage by people defending slavery! But Congress was in the mood for compromise, and so it passed what became known as the Missouri Compromise, when both Maine and Missouri were admitted as states. But the Compromise did not quell the anger of Maine’s anti-slavery people, and so when the Erie Canal was opened in 1825, some passionate anti-slavery Mainers moved west. One such man was Elijah P. Lovejoy, who moved from Maine to Illinois in 1837. He began a newspaper dedicated to the abolition of slavery, and for that commitment, he was murdered by pro-slavery people, who threw his printing press into the Mississippi River! Elijah had a younger brother named Owen, who was just as passionately anti-slavery as Elijah had been, and he swore he would continue his brother’s work to extirpate the curse of slavery. But rather than running a newspaper, he decided to enter into politics, and in 1854 he was elected to the Illinois state legislature, where he became friends with Abraham Lincoln, a lawyer, who had arrived in Illinois from Kentucky.
Both Lincoln and Lovejoy made friends with another Maine man, who had come to Illinois, Elihu Washburn. Elihu and his brother, Israel, were both serving in Congress in 1854, when a landmark bill was passed, The Kansas-Nebraska Act, which overturned the Missouri Compromise, thus allowing the spread of slavery across the West. This infuriated Elihu and Israel, and a meeting was called in May with other anti-slavery congressmen to figure out how to stop the spread of slavery. The men gathered in the rooms of a representative from Massachusetts, Edward Dickinson, who had a gifted poetry writing daughter named Emily. Their one stated goal, however, was not to read poetry, but to stop the spread of slavery.
The summer of 1854 would see the passion about slavery grow deeper and wider. The anti-slavery people were convinced a new party must be formed, and so the Republican Party was born. The state of Maine was right there with the new party, fully committed to anti-slavery. By 1859 Abraham Lincoln was articulating a platform for the Republican Party, which presented itself as the party for ordinary Americans, standing against the rich oligarchs, who owned slaves. In the election of 1860, which Lincoln won, Maine gave him 62% of its votes. When Lincoln arrived in Washington DC to take office in March, Elihu Washburn was at the railway station to meet the new President.
Now I happen to love the state of Maine. It is stunningly beautiful. When my husband was 16, he spent a summer at Jackson Laboratory in Bar Harbor, studying biology, which he loved. But he also fell in love with Acadia National Park, and when I married him, he showed me Acadia and helped me to fall in love with the Park as well. We have been going there for more decades than I care to count, hiking the trials in the different seasons, each with its unique beauty.
Though I love the state’s geography, I have always thought Maine too conservative for my taste. My husband would retire there someday, but I told him, “No way.” Not only are my friends here, but also I love being (relatively) close to both Boston and New York and my siblings in New Jersey. Besides, I don’t like being reminded that “you are not a real Mainer, if you cannot trace your roots back at least three or four generations.” Everyone else is a newcomer, a potential threat to a way of life they do not want to see changed. Mainers like to take life slowly, “the way life is supposed to be,” they say. In fact, they are among the pokiest drivers I have ever seen. Never in a hurry to arrive anyplace, no matter the speed limit, they insist on driving at least five or ten miles below it.
I must admit I had forgotten the central role Maine had played in the fight against slavery. Maine was not a place of great wealth, except the wealth of its natural beauty, so perhaps its citizens were never much tempted to become slaveholders. Most Mainers understood themselves to be God-fearing people, who saw the Israelites’ flight from slavery in Egypt to the freedom of the Promised Land to be the paradigm for their own fight against slavery.
We are now living in a time when our nation is compelled to revisit its past as it confronts its original sins of racism and sexism. Remember, women did not get the vote until 1920, well after black males, who were enfranchised by the 15th Amendment in 1870---though their vote was destroyed by Jim Crow. Sometimes we do need to confront our past and be reminded how we have arrived at the place we are today as we try to grow the wisdom that can embrace the pride of our history while also owning its shame. This is hardly an easy or comfortable thing to do, but God does not call us to be comfortable but faithful. And faithfulness demands truthfulness.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
This past Monday was March 15th, known as the Ides of March. In 44 B.C. Julius Caesar was assassinated on March 15th, stabbed to death by a number of conspirators, led by Brutus and Cassius. The story goes that a seer had predicted that harm would come to Caesar no later than the Ides of March, and on his way to the Senate, where Caesar would meet his terrible fate, he is reported to have said to the seer, “The Ides of March has come,” to which the seer replied, “Aye, Caesar, but not gone.”
March 15th is also important in our own American history, because it is the date Maine became a state: March 15, 1820. Maine did not allow slavery, and so its admission for statehood was held up by southerners, insisting that if Maine were admitted as a free state, then a slave state must also be admitted, and so Missouri was put forth as a state. Anti-slavery Mainers were furious that their statehood was held hostage by people defending slavery! But Congress was in the mood for compromise, and so it passed what became known as the Missouri Compromise, when both Maine and Missouri were admitted as states. But the Compromise did not quell the anger of Maine’s anti-slavery people, and so when the Erie Canal was opened in 1825, some passionate anti-slavery Mainers moved west. One such man was Elijah P. Lovejoy, who moved from Maine to Illinois in 1837. He began a newspaper dedicated to the abolition of slavery, and for that commitment, he was murdered by pro-slavery people, who threw his printing press into the Mississippi River! Elijah had a younger brother named Owen, who was just as passionately anti-slavery as Elijah had been, and he swore he would continue his brother’s work to extirpate the curse of slavery. But rather than running a newspaper, he decided to enter into politics, and in 1854 he was elected to the Illinois state legislature, where he became friends with Abraham Lincoln, a lawyer, who had arrived in Illinois from Kentucky.
Both Lincoln and Lovejoy made friends with another Maine man, who had come to Illinois, Elihu Washburn. Elihu and his brother, Israel, were both serving in Congress in 1854, when a landmark bill was passed, The Kansas-Nebraska Act, which overturned the Missouri Compromise, thus allowing the spread of slavery across the West. This infuriated Elihu and Israel, and a meeting was called in May with other anti-slavery congressmen to figure out how to stop the spread of slavery. The men gathered in the rooms of a representative from Massachusetts, Edward Dickinson, who had a gifted poetry writing daughter named Emily. Their one stated goal, however, was not to read poetry, but to stop the spread of slavery.
The summer of 1854 would see the passion about slavery grow deeper and wider. The anti-slavery people were convinced a new party must be formed, and so the Republican Party was born. The state of Maine was right there with the new party, fully committed to anti-slavery. By 1859 Abraham Lincoln was articulating a platform for the Republican Party, which presented itself as the party for ordinary Americans, standing against the rich oligarchs, who owned slaves. In the election of 1860, which Lincoln won, Maine gave him 62% of its votes. When Lincoln arrived in Washington DC to take office in March, Elihu Washburn was at the railway station to meet the new President.
Now I happen to love the state of Maine. It is stunningly beautiful. When my husband was 16, he spent a summer at Jackson Laboratory in Bar Harbor, studying biology, which he loved. But he also fell in love with Acadia National Park, and when I married him, he showed me Acadia and helped me to fall in love with the Park as well. We have been going there for more decades than I care to count, hiking the trials in the different seasons, each with its unique beauty.
Though I love the state’s geography, I have always thought Maine too conservative for my taste. My husband would retire there someday, but I told him, “No way.” Not only are my friends here, but also I love being (relatively) close to both Boston and New York and my siblings in New Jersey. Besides, I don’t like being reminded that “you are not a real Mainer, if you cannot trace your roots back at least three or four generations.” Everyone else is a newcomer, a potential threat to a way of life they do not want to see changed. Mainers like to take life slowly, “the way life is supposed to be,” they say. In fact, they are among the pokiest drivers I have ever seen. Never in a hurry to arrive anyplace, no matter the speed limit, they insist on driving at least five or ten miles below it.
I must admit I had forgotten the central role Maine had played in the fight against slavery. Maine was not a place of great wealth, except the wealth of its natural beauty, so perhaps its citizens were never much tempted to become slaveholders. Most Mainers understood themselves to be God-fearing people, who saw the Israelites’ flight from slavery in Egypt to the freedom of the Promised Land to be the paradigm for their own fight against slavery.
We are now living in a time when our nation is compelled to revisit its past as it confronts its original sins of racism and sexism. Remember, women did not get the vote until 1920, well after black males, who were enfranchised by the 15th Amendment in 1870---though their vote was destroyed by Jim Crow. Sometimes we do need to confront our past and be reminded how we have arrived at the place we are today as we try to grow the wisdom that can embrace the pride of our history while also owning its shame. This is hardly an easy or comfortable thing to do, but God does not call us to be comfortable but faithful. And faithfulness demands truthfulness.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
IN THE NIGHT by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 3/14/2021
Numbers 21: 4-9
John 3: 1-3; 14-21
Nicodemus, a Pharisee and leader of the Jews, came to Jesus in the night. He did not come in the bright light of midday, or in the muted light of daybreak or in the deep shadows of a setting sun. No, the text tells us he came to Jesus by night. And if we have any imagination at all, remembering that Jesus’ world was completely devoid of electricity, we can picture Nicodemus carefully making his way, maybe even stumbling though the pitch blackness of night. That the writer of this gospel bothered to tell us, when Nicodemus made his visit to Jesus must mean something. The gospels are pretty terse, compact in their language and details, so when we are given a specific piece of information, it is probably a good thing to pay attention, in this case, to the night.
Perhaps the explanation is as easy as Nicodemus’ desire to escape detection. After all, he was a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews, and he might have feared what people would say or think if they saw him with the man, who had made such a disturbance in the temple by throwing out the moneychangers. What is a leader of the Jews doing with a renegade? And then there is the symbolism of night and dark, which John’s gospel uses as a stark contrast to light. Light in John’s gospel reveals; dark conceals. Jesus is the light of all people, John says in the opening words of his gospel, and “this light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” So perhaps the writer is telling us that Nicodemus is a man, living in darkness, but he sees enough to realize that he wants more. And so he shows up, even if it is in the night.
Nicodemus tells Jesus that he knows that Jesus is a teacher from God, because. He says, “no one can do these signs apart from the presence of God. So, Nicodemus had seen enough to be impressed. In today’s world, we might call him a seeker. He was looking for something, though he was not exactly sure what that something was. And he was confused when Jesus told him that he must be born again. How is that possible? Nicodemus demanded to know. Can we re-enter our mother’s womb?
Now after the exchange about being born again, we hear Jesus remind Nicodemus how Moses in the desert had lifted up the bronze serpent so that the Jews, who looked at it would be saved from the lethal serpent bites. Nicodemus would have known the story---how the people of Israel, while wandering through the desert after their escape from Egypt, had lost their trust in God. Why are we here in this barren wasteland, they wanted to know? Why did you bring us here to perish? And they blamed Moses and God, and for their lack of faith, they were bitten by serpents. I guess there is nothing like a serpent bite to encourage immediate repentance, and so they asked Moses to pray to God on their behalf. And Moses did, and God responded with the idea of a bronze serpent.
Now the lifting up of the bronze serpent is symbolic, as you heard in the introduction to this text, analogous to the lifting up of Jesus on the cross. In other words, Nicodemus is being told that just as the serpent saved, so will Jesus save. And then Jesus says the words which Martin Luther claimed are the heart of the Gospel: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” How ironic! Here we are, in the darkness of night, which for John’s gospel means confusion, ignorance, inability to see and understand, and yet this dark night is the place and the time where the truth is fully told. Here is the heart of the gospel: God’s love for the world, expressed fully in Jesus Christ, a love that is not for condemnation but for salvation---new and abundant life.
So why would the writer of this gospel put the good news right smack in the middle of the night, the place and the time, human beings are least able to see? Maybe it is because the night, as much as it hides, can sometimes reveal. Sometimes the night is the place and the time, where truth does come out. Things happen in the night. Babies are more likely to be born in the night and people are more likely to die at night than in the daylight. A policeman at my former church once told me that he was far more likely to get a confession in the night than during the day. Bright lights, he said, are a dumb way to coax out the truth. Remember all night college rap sessions, when you and your friends discussed the big questions of life? It seemed to me that sometimes people would say things in the night they never would say in the light of day, admitting to feelings and thoughts they would not own in the sunlight. Yes, the night can hide the truth, but sometimes, ironically, the truth is revealed, in the dark.
Some years ago, in one of former churches, there was this prominent elderly couple, who had been married for 67 years. I remember when they celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary, and when it was announced in church, the congregation stood up and gave them a resounding ovation. I was very close to the wife. She and I would have these long conversations about life. Well one evening a few nights after her husband’s death, I happened to be driving home, when I noticed that the light was on in their home, and I could see the wife sitting in the living room. To this day I don’t know why I stopped my car. It was nearly 10 P.M., far too late to bother her, an inappropriate invasion on her grief, perhaps, but I rang the bell anyway, and she immediately let me in. She had been sitting in a rocking chair with one light illuminating her figure against the large picture window, but the rest of the room was dark.
With no easement into the story, she began to tell me how her marriage of 67 years had been a sham. I should have left him years ago, she said. He cheated on me; humiliated me, abused me physically and mentally. And then she poured out to me a catalogue of details. At the end of it all, as the grandfather clock struck midnight, she said something like this. “In a few days we will bury him, and people will see me grieve. But now you know that I will be grieving for something else---for the husband, life and marriage I never had.”
To this day I wonder if she would ever have told me that had it not been night. There was something about that room and that Victorian lamp, sitting on a table next to her chair, casting shadows across the room. We could hear the grandfather clock ticking, marking the advancement of the night, and as time belonged fully to the night, so did her confession. She would never speak of it openly again, except to say, “It is night’s secret.”
And so is the Gospel: night’s secret, night’s truth. It belongs to the night in the sense that this is where we human beings often live, and so this is where the truth must meet us—exactly where we live---often in confusion, in ignorance, in sin, in darkness. But isn’t that precisely when and where we need to hear the truth and meet the truth? John’s gospel tells the truth: the light has come into the world and the people loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. Consider human history; take a sharp look at our world. No wonder Jesus said that people love the darkness. And yet the good news is that even in the night, when we may be hiding from the truth, the truth of God in Jesus Christ sometimes finds us.
Numbers 21: 4-9
John 3: 1-3; 14-21
Nicodemus, a Pharisee and leader of the Jews, came to Jesus in the night. He did not come in the bright light of midday, or in the muted light of daybreak or in the deep shadows of a setting sun. No, the text tells us he came to Jesus by night. And if we have any imagination at all, remembering that Jesus’ world was completely devoid of electricity, we can picture Nicodemus carefully making his way, maybe even stumbling though the pitch blackness of night. That the writer of this gospel bothered to tell us, when Nicodemus made his visit to Jesus must mean something. The gospels are pretty terse, compact in their language and details, so when we are given a specific piece of information, it is probably a good thing to pay attention, in this case, to the night.
Perhaps the explanation is as easy as Nicodemus’ desire to escape detection. After all, he was a Pharisee, a leader of the Jews, and he might have feared what people would say or think if they saw him with the man, who had made such a disturbance in the temple by throwing out the moneychangers. What is a leader of the Jews doing with a renegade? And then there is the symbolism of night and dark, which John’s gospel uses as a stark contrast to light. Light in John’s gospel reveals; dark conceals. Jesus is the light of all people, John says in the opening words of his gospel, and “this light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” So perhaps the writer is telling us that Nicodemus is a man, living in darkness, but he sees enough to realize that he wants more. And so he shows up, even if it is in the night.
Nicodemus tells Jesus that he knows that Jesus is a teacher from God, because. He says, “no one can do these signs apart from the presence of God. So, Nicodemus had seen enough to be impressed. In today’s world, we might call him a seeker. He was looking for something, though he was not exactly sure what that something was. And he was confused when Jesus told him that he must be born again. How is that possible? Nicodemus demanded to know. Can we re-enter our mother’s womb?
Now after the exchange about being born again, we hear Jesus remind Nicodemus how Moses in the desert had lifted up the bronze serpent so that the Jews, who looked at it would be saved from the lethal serpent bites. Nicodemus would have known the story---how the people of Israel, while wandering through the desert after their escape from Egypt, had lost their trust in God. Why are we here in this barren wasteland, they wanted to know? Why did you bring us here to perish? And they blamed Moses and God, and for their lack of faith, they were bitten by serpents. I guess there is nothing like a serpent bite to encourage immediate repentance, and so they asked Moses to pray to God on their behalf. And Moses did, and God responded with the idea of a bronze serpent.
Now the lifting up of the bronze serpent is symbolic, as you heard in the introduction to this text, analogous to the lifting up of Jesus on the cross. In other words, Nicodemus is being told that just as the serpent saved, so will Jesus save. And then Jesus says the words which Martin Luther claimed are the heart of the Gospel: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” How ironic! Here we are, in the darkness of night, which for John’s gospel means confusion, ignorance, inability to see and understand, and yet this dark night is the place and the time where the truth is fully told. Here is the heart of the gospel: God’s love for the world, expressed fully in Jesus Christ, a love that is not for condemnation but for salvation---new and abundant life.
So why would the writer of this gospel put the good news right smack in the middle of the night, the place and the time, human beings are least able to see? Maybe it is because the night, as much as it hides, can sometimes reveal. Sometimes the night is the place and the time, where truth does come out. Things happen in the night. Babies are more likely to be born in the night and people are more likely to die at night than in the daylight. A policeman at my former church once told me that he was far more likely to get a confession in the night than during the day. Bright lights, he said, are a dumb way to coax out the truth. Remember all night college rap sessions, when you and your friends discussed the big questions of life? It seemed to me that sometimes people would say things in the night they never would say in the light of day, admitting to feelings and thoughts they would not own in the sunlight. Yes, the night can hide the truth, but sometimes, ironically, the truth is revealed, in the dark.
Some years ago, in one of former churches, there was this prominent elderly couple, who had been married for 67 years. I remember when they celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary, and when it was announced in church, the congregation stood up and gave them a resounding ovation. I was very close to the wife. She and I would have these long conversations about life. Well one evening a few nights after her husband’s death, I happened to be driving home, when I noticed that the light was on in their home, and I could see the wife sitting in the living room. To this day I don’t know why I stopped my car. It was nearly 10 P.M., far too late to bother her, an inappropriate invasion on her grief, perhaps, but I rang the bell anyway, and she immediately let me in. She had been sitting in a rocking chair with one light illuminating her figure against the large picture window, but the rest of the room was dark.
With no easement into the story, she began to tell me how her marriage of 67 years had been a sham. I should have left him years ago, she said. He cheated on me; humiliated me, abused me physically and mentally. And then she poured out to me a catalogue of details. At the end of it all, as the grandfather clock struck midnight, she said something like this. “In a few days we will bury him, and people will see me grieve. But now you know that I will be grieving for something else---for the husband, life and marriage I never had.”
To this day I wonder if she would ever have told me that had it not been night. There was something about that room and that Victorian lamp, sitting on a table next to her chair, casting shadows across the room. We could hear the grandfather clock ticking, marking the advancement of the night, and as time belonged fully to the night, so did her confession. She would never speak of it openly again, except to say, “It is night’s secret.”
And so is the Gospel: night’s secret, night’s truth. It belongs to the night in the sense that this is where we human beings often live, and so this is where the truth must meet us—exactly where we live---often in confusion, in ignorance, in sin, in darkness. But isn’t that precisely when and where we need to hear the truth and meet the truth? John’s gospel tells the truth: the light has come into the world and the people loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. Consider human history; take a sharp look at our world. No wonder Jesus said that people love the darkness. And yet the good news is that even in the night, when we may be hiding from the truth, the truth of God in Jesus Christ sometimes finds us.
March 10, 2021
Dear Friends,
Some of you might have heard about Pope Francis’ historic visit to Iraq, the first Pope to ever visit that country. The Papacy does have some history to live down. In 1263 Pope Urban IV promulgated a papal bull that welcomed, Hulagu Khan, a Mongul warlord, whom the Pope was hoping would convert to Christianity. Tragically many Christians at that time cheered on Hulagu and his allies, who rampaged and slaughtered their way through some of the grandest cities of the Middle East.
A number of people were rightly concerned about safety, given the Coronavirus’ recent surge in Iraq. While the Pope and his retinue were vaccinated, most Iraqis do not yet have access to the vaccine. Crowds enthusiastically greeted the Pope, but most of them were maskless. Nonetheless, the Pope had fervently prayed and concluding that God truly wanted him to visit Iraq, he believed God would protect the Iraqi people. Let us hope the Pope is correct.
There were a number of reasons for the Pope’s visit, including a desire to encourage inter-religious tolerance and understanding. To that end he met with Iraq’s top Shiite cleric, Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, who greeted the Pope by standing, a gesture he almost never makes. The Pope said he was deeply moved by al-Sistani’s kindness and generosity of spirit. Yet perhaps the most important reason for the Pope’s visit was to show his support and concern for Iraq’s Christians, who since the American invasion in 2003, have suffered not only the destruction of their churches, when the Islamic State ruled, but also the displacement of their people. Right before the 2003 invasion, Iraq had about 1.5 million Christians. Now their number hovers around a few hundred thousand.
The Pope’s message was clear and also challenging: He told Christians to forgive the injustices leveled against them while also rebuilding churches that were left as wrecked shells. “Fraternity is more durable than fratricide, hope is more powerful than hatred, peace more powerful than war,” the Pope said. “The road to a full recovery may still be long, but I ask you, please, do not grow discouraged. What is needed is the ability to forgive, but also the courage not to give up. Forgiveness is necessary to remain in love as a Christian.”
When Pope Francis climbed onto the stage in Mosul, he was surrounded by the grey hollowed out shells of four churches: Syriac Catholic, Armenian Orthodox, Syriac Orthodox and Chaldean. Mosul was where the Islamic State claimed the seat of the Caliphate, and it was also the site of cruelty directed not only against Christians but also Muslims and Yazidis, who did not embrace their rule. Mass killings and beheadings were common daily occurrences. The second largest city in Iraq, Mosul became the backbone of the Islamic State and in 2017 it took a fierce nine month battle to free the city from its awful grip. By July 2017 Mosul was free, but only after more than 10,000 Iraqi civilians had died.
The Rev. Raed Kallo was among the few Christians to return after the defeat of the Islamic State. Before the war, his church had about 500 families. Now there are barely 70 families. The Muslim head of the Independent Social and Cultural Council invited “all our Christian brothers to return to this, their city, their properties and their businesses.” One resident told the Pope how her son along with two other people were killed in a mortar strike as the Islamic State neared the town. “Their deaths alerted the other residents to flee, saving the entire city. But now it is time for the survivors to try to forgive the aggressors.”
Under the dictatorial rule of Saddam Hussein, Christians, who date back to the first centuries of the faith, were granted full legal status, and shared the same rights as Muslims. But with the American invasion in 2003 and the subsequent chaos, Christians were among the first to suffer attacks by militants. There were four main Christian groups: Chaldean, Syriac, Assyrian and Armenian, and their churches were repeatedly bombed by Sunni militants. In 2008 a Chaldean Catholic archbishop was abducted and murdered, and in 2010 Islamic militants invaded a church in Baghdad during a Sunday evening mass, a siege, lasting four hours, leaving dozens of people, including two priests, dead. And so most Christians left Iraq, becoming refugees in Canada, Sweden, Australia and some neighboring Middle East countries. There is now a painful history to face, and many Christian Iraqis are too fearful to return. For those Christians, who have remained in Iraq, there is wariness of Muslim neighbors, whom some blame for turning their backs on them.
And so, it remains to be seen how Pope Francis’ call for forgiveness is received. Only time will tell. For years the Vatican has been voicing its concern about the Christian flight from the Middle East. War, poverty, persecution and discrimination have made life difficult for Christians in Iraq and elsewhere, and now the Pope is asking them to forgive that they might begin again in hope. This is the first visit the Pope has made since the beginning of the virus, now a year ago. That he chose to go to Iraq and make a plea for forgiveness as Christians are making their journey through Lent, leading to Easter, was no casual decision. Forgiveness is never easy. Families and friends struggle to find their way when hurts dominate the landscape of their lives. So much of the time forgiveness is deeply personal, but when a people have to contend with the politics of brutality and murder, the challenge is magnified beyond the personal. In such situations neither you nor your enemy knows each other’s name. You and your enemy became nameless members of a despised group. To many people in such circumstances forgiveness hardly feels possible or even appropriate. Yet perhaps that is the reason for the Pope’s visit. He wanted to make it plain through his actions and voice that Christianity stands squarely on forgiveness. It is the main thread, weaving all the other parts together.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
Dear Friends,
Some of you might have heard about Pope Francis’ historic visit to Iraq, the first Pope to ever visit that country. The Papacy does have some history to live down. In 1263 Pope Urban IV promulgated a papal bull that welcomed, Hulagu Khan, a Mongul warlord, whom the Pope was hoping would convert to Christianity. Tragically many Christians at that time cheered on Hulagu and his allies, who rampaged and slaughtered their way through some of the grandest cities of the Middle East.
A number of people were rightly concerned about safety, given the Coronavirus’ recent surge in Iraq. While the Pope and his retinue were vaccinated, most Iraqis do not yet have access to the vaccine. Crowds enthusiastically greeted the Pope, but most of them were maskless. Nonetheless, the Pope had fervently prayed and concluding that God truly wanted him to visit Iraq, he believed God would protect the Iraqi people. Let us hope the Pope is correct.
There were a number of reasons for the Pope’s visit, including a desire to encourage inter-religious tolerance and understanding. To that end he met with Iraq’s top Shiite cleric, Grand Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, who greeted the Pope by standing, a gesture he almost never makes. The Pope said he was deeply moved by al-Sistani’s kindness and generosity of spirit. Yet perhaps the most important reason for the Pope’s visit was to show his support and concern for Iraq’s Christians, who since the American invasion in 2003, have suffered not only the destruction of their churches, when the Islamic State ruled, but also the displacement of their people. Right before the 2003 invasion, Iraq had about 1.5 million Christians. Now their number hovers around a few hundred thousand.
The Pope’s message was clear and also challenging: He told Christians to forgive the injustices leveled against them while also rebuilding churches that were left as wrecked shells. “Fraternity is more durable than fratricide, hope is more powerful than hatred, peace more powerful than war,” the Pope said. “The road to a full recovery may still be long, but I ask you, please, do not grow discouraged. What is needed is the ability to forgive, but also the courage not to give up. Forgiveness is necessary to remain in love as a Christian.”
When Pope Francis climbed onto the stage in Mosul, he was surrounded by the grey hollowed out shells of four churches: Syriac Catholic, Armenian Orthodox, Syriac Orthodox and Chaldean. Mosul was where the Islamic State claimed the seat of the Caliphate, and it was also the site of cruelty directed not only against Christians but also Muslims and Yazidis, who did not embrace their rule. Mass killings and beheadings were common daily occurrences. The second largest city in Iraq, Mosul became the backbone of the Islamic State and in 2017 it took a fierce nine month battle to free the city from its awful grip. By July 2017 Mosul was free, but only after more than 10,000 Iraqi civilians had died.
The Rev. Raed Kallo was among the few Christians to return after the defeat of the Islamic State. Before the war, his church had about 500 families. Now there are barely 70 families. The Muslim head of the Independent Social and Cultural Council invited “all our Christian brothers to return to this, their city, their properties and their businesses.” One resident told the Pope how her son along with two other people were killed in a mortar strike as the Islamic State neared the town. “Their deaths alerted the other residents to flee, saving the entire city. But now it is time for the survivors to try to forgive the aggressors.”
Under the dictatorial rule of Saddam Hussein, Christians, who date back to the first centuries of the faith, were granted full legal status, and shared the same rights as Muslims. But with the American invasion in 2003 and the subsequent chaos, Christians were among the first to suffer attacks by militants. There were four main Christian groups: Chaldean, Syriac, Assyrian and Armenian, and their churches were repeatedly bombed by Sunni militants. In 2008 a Chaldean Catholic archbishop was abducted and murdered, and in 2010 Islamic militants invaded a church in Baghdad during a Sunday evening mass, a siege, lasting four hours, leaving dozens of people, including two priests, dead. And so most Christians left Iraq, becoming refugees in Canada, Sweden, Australia and some neighboring Middle East countries. There is now a painful history to face, and many Christian Iraqis are too fearful to return. For those Christians, who have remained in Iraq, there is wariness of Muslim neighbors, whom some blame for turning their backs on them.
And so, it remains to be seen how Pope Francis’ call for forgiveness is received. Only time will tell. For years the Vatican has been voicing its concern about the Christian flight from the Middle East. War, poverty, persecution and discrimination have made life difficult for Christians in Iraq and elsewhere, and now the Pope is asking them to forgive that they might begin again in hope. This is the first visit the Pope has made since the beginning of the virus, now a year ago. That he chose to go to Iraq and make a plea for forgiveness as Christians are making their journey through Lent, leading to Easter, was no casual decision. Forgiveness is never easy. Families and friends struggle to find their way when hurts dominate the landscape of their lives. So much of the time forgiveness is deeply personal, but when a people have to contend with the politics of brutality and murder, the challenge is magnified beyond the personal. In such situations neither you nor your enemy knows each other’s name. You and your enemy became nameless members of a despised group. To many people in such circumstances forgiveness hardly feels possible or even appropriate. Yet perhaps that is the reason for the Pope’s visit. He wanted to make it plain through his actions and voice that Christianity stands squarely on forgiveness. It is the main thread, weaving all the other parts together.
Yours in Christ,
Sandra
ANGER: RIGHTEOUS OR SINFUL? by Rev. Dr. Sandra L. Olsen 3/7/2021
John 2: 13-22
A friend of mine recently told me about an article she came across about a therapist, who was treating a man for his uncontrollable temper. His marriage was pretty much on the rocks, because he would descend into fits of rage with his wife and children. As a district attorney in a large west coast city, he was renown for his quick and caustic style in the courtroom and was considered brilliant in his ability to sniff out guilt. He never lost his cool in court, but his dealings with staff were becoming so abusive that the complaints could not be ignored. He realized he needed help and so he entered therapy. The therapist tried to get at the source of his anger. Yes, he had strict, perfectionist parents, who expected him to be at the top of his class in college and law school, which he was. “So maybe I am angry at my parents” he mused, “but that is no reason for me to behave the way I do.”
The therapy continued, but so did his rage until finally in in exasperation the therapist came up with a plan. The next time you come to therapy, he said, I want you to bring your checkbook with at least 20 blank checks, which I am going to make out to the leader of the Klu Klux Klan in South Carolina. Every time you inappropriately lose your temper, he will receive $100 from you!
The therapist knew exactly what he was doing. The lawyer was Jewish, and his father, also a lawyer, had spent his career going after the Klan in South Carolina. “My parents,” the lawyer had told his therapist,” had the courage of titans, but we three kids paid a heavy price for their courage. We were terrified. I was spat upon in school, and even in high school I was beaten up by the sons of Klan members. And every time I came home and told my parents, my father would resolve to work even harder against the Klan. He even went to Mississippi after the three civil rights workers were murdered, and he helped there with the investigation. When the first trial brought a no guilty verdict, I remember my father crying.” Well, the problem was solved, because the man would simply not allow himself to lose his temper and thereby give a donation to people and a cause he despised.
Anger is a persistent challenge in human life, which is why it is named as one of the seven deadly sins, labeled number three, and coming right after pride and envy. These seven deadly sins, by the way, are not biblical. They were actually catalogued in the Middle Ages and with Dante’s Divine Comedy we have the perfect description of their workings. The punishment of the angry in Dante’s masterpiece is to be enveloped in suffocating smoke. Think of that image---to be unable to breathe and thus to live, because you inhale nothing but smoke, which chokes and finally kills you!
Of course, we should realize that it is the mark of a healthy life to recognize when we are angry and deal with it. The reason anger is named as sin is not because anger is NEVER appropriate, because, of course, sometimes it is. It is sin when we misuse anger, misdirect and misunderstand it. Anger may indeed be purging and yes, even righteous---Jesus’ anger in the Temple was certainly righteous--- but we should also be wary of it. Someone once compared anger to nuclear energy. It cannot be entirely trusted in the hands of mere mortals, because it sometimes overlaps itself and sets up a rhythm of violence, difficult to control.
Some years ago I took a classics course at Wesleyan, where we read classics---like Homer’s Iliad, Shakespeare’s King Lear and portions of Dante’s Divine Comedy. I recall the professor taking one whole class to discuss this very human emotion called anger and how some of the greatest literary geniuses worked with it in some of the greatest literature ever written. Think of Achilles, the great Greek hero, who refused to fight in the Trojan War, after he was forced to give to King Agamemnon the woman Achilles considered to be his war booty. Achilles was enraged, but when his friend, Patrolus was killed in battle, while wearing Achilles armor, Achilles rage rose to a fevered pitch, and in revenge he killed Hector. And then there is King Lear, who becomes enraged at his daughter, Cordelia, when she tells him she loves him as a daughter should and does not offer him the exaggerated and dishonest devotion of her other two sisters. Lear makes a series of tragic choices, which brings down destruction on his kingdom and on the one daughter he finally comes to understand loves him best. Anger is not an emotion easily trusted, because all too often, it hides behind self-righteousness, which functions to make us look better than we really are.
Consider our Gospel reading from John---the cleansing of the Temple. This incident is described in all four gospels, but its placement in John is completely different from Matthew, Mark and Luke. In the synoptics (as the three other gospels are called) the cleansing of the Temple comes toward the end of Jesus’ ministry as he returns to Jerusalem. Shortly after this incident he goes to Gethsemane, where he is arrested. In the synoptics, in fact, it is Jesus’ action in the Temple, which put the final nail in his coffin. He has been viewed as a trouble maker all along by the religious authorities for refusing to play by the purity codes and laws of Judaism, and in the Temple he has gone after the very heart of the sacrificial system. And so, he must go!
But this is not how the cleansing of the Temple works in John, who puts it at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, not at the end. In John’s Gospel Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple does not lead to his arrest, but it does lead to an immediate confrontation, making Jesus’ separation from Judaism more immediately apparent. John’s Gospel uses this story of the Temple cleansing to point to what is truly religiously significant---not the temple as a building, but the temple that is Jesus, who will die and be resurrected. Jesus, in other words, is the Temple’s replacement.
Now most scholars think that the cleansing of the Temple probably did occur toward the end of Jesus’ ministry and was viewed as the last straw by the religious establishment. John’s gospel, however, is not so interested in history as it is in proclaiming who Christ is----- the one who is with God from the very beginning, the one who is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, the one who is the new Temple.
In all four gospel’s Jesus anger does look like the expression of righteous anger against the religious establishment, but it is only in John’s Gospel that Jesus says, “Stop making my father’s house a marketplace!” But the buying and selling of animals was part of the sacrificial system of Judaism and the changing of money was necessary so that the offering to the Temple could be made with Jewish, not pagan coins. If you were a priest, trying to do your job, perhaps even recognizing the imperfection of the system, but also seeing it as a means of giving order and structure to Jewish life in a time of national calamity, you would have had a very different perspective on what Jesus did. Understandably you would be angry.
Anger erupts in all our lives. We all have a catalogue of things we are angry about. I once heard a minister say she was asked at an interview to list things that really made her angry. Perhaps that is an exercise we all should do. There are many good reasons to be angry, but there are even more good reasons to be wary of our anger. Righteous anger lets go of illusions---especially the illusion that that we are the holy innocents, free from all guilt. Once that illusion is gone, we can have our anger. While it can be righteous, it is never legitimately self-righteous.
John 2: 13-22
A friend of mine recently told me about an article she came across about a therapist, who was treating a man for his uncontrollable temper. His marriage was pretty much on the rocks, because he would descend into fits of rage with his wife and children. As a district attorney in a large west coast city, he was renown for his quick and caustic style in the courtroom and was considered brilliant in his ability to sniff out guilt. He never lost his cool in court, but his dealings with staff were becoming so abusive that the complaints could not be ignored. He realized he needed help and so he entered therapy. The therapist tried to get at the source of his anger. Yes, he had strict, perfectionist parents, who expected him to be at the top of his class in college and law school, which he was. “So maybe I am angry at my parents” he mused, “but that is no reason for me to behave the way I do.”
The therapy continued, but so did his rage until finally in in exasperation the therapist came up with a plan. The next time you come to therapy, he said, I want you to bring your checkbook with at least 20 blank checks, which I am going to make out to the leader of the Klu Klux Klan in South Carolina. Every time you inappropriately lose your temper, he will receive $100 from you!
The therapist knew exactly what he was doing. The lawyer was Jewish, and his father, also a lawyer, had spent his career going after the Klan in South Carolina. “My parents,” the lawyer had told his therapist,” had the courage of titans, but we three kids paid a heavy price for their courage. We were terrified. I was spat upon in school, and even in high school I was beaten up by the sons of Klan members. And every time I came home and told my parents, my father would resolve to work even harder against the Klan. He even went to Mississippi after the three civil rights workers were murdered, and he helped there with the investigation. When the first trial brought a no guilty verdict, I remember my father crying.” Well, the problem was solved, because the man would simply not allow himself to lose his temper and thereby give a donation to people and a cause he despised.
Anger is a persistent challenge in human life, which is why it is named as one of the seven deadly sins, labeled number three, and coming right after pride and envy. These seven deadly sins, by the way, are not biblical. They were actually catalogued in the Middle Ages and with Dante’s Divine Comedy we have the perfect description of their workings. The punishment of the angry in Dante’s masterpiece is to be enveloped in suffocating smoke. Think of that image---to be unable to breathe and thus to live, because you inhale nothing but smoke, which chokes and finally kills you!
Of course, we should realize that it is the mark of a healthy life to recognize when we are angry and deal with it. The reason anger is named as sin is not because anger is NEVER appropriate, because, of course, sometimes it is. It is sin when we misuse anger, misdirect and misunderstand it. Anger may indeed be purging and yes, even righteous---Jesus’ anger in the Temple was certainly righteous--- but we should also be wary of it. Someone once compared anger to nuclear energy. It cannot be entirely trusted in the hands of mere mortals, because it sometimes overlaps itself and sets up a rhythm of violence, difficult to control.
Some years ago I took a classics course at Wesleyan, where we read classics---like Homer’s Iliad, Shakespeare’s King Lear and portions of Dante’s Divine Comedy. I recall the professor taking one whole class to discuss this very human emotion called anger and how some of the greatest literary geniuses worked with it in some of the greatest literature ever written. Think of Achilles, the great Greek hero, who refused to fight in the Trojan War, after he was forced to give to King Agamemnon the woman Achilles considered to be his war booty. Achilles was enraged, but when his friend, Patrolus was killed in battle, while wearing Achilles armor, Achilles rage rose to a fevered pitch, and in revenge he killed Hector. And then there is King Lear, who becomes enraged at his daughter, Cordelia, when she tells him she loves him as a daughter should and does not offer him the exaggerated and dishonest devotion of her other two sisters. Lear makes a series of tragic choices, which brings down destruction on his kingdom and on the one daughter he finally comes to understand loves him best. Anger is not an emotion easily trusted, because all too often, it hides behind self-righteousness, which functions to make us look better than we really are.
Consider our Gospel reading from John---the cleansing of the Temple. This incident is described in all four gospels, but its placement in John is completely different from Matthew, Mark and Luke. In the synoptics (as the three other gospels are called) the cleansing of the Temple comes toward the end of Jesus’ ministry as he returns to Jerusalem. Shortly after this incident he goes to Gethsemane, where he is arrested. In the synoptics, in fact, it is Jesus’ action in the Temple, which put the final nail in his coffin. He has been viewed as a trouble maker all along by the religious authorities for refusing to play by the purity codes and laws of Judaism, and in the Temple he has gone after the very heart of the sacrificial system. And so, he must go!
But this is not how the cleansing of the Temple works in John, who puts it at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, not at the end. In John’s Gospel Jesus’ cleansing of the Temple does not lead to his arrest, but it does lead to an immediate confrontation, making Jesus’ separation from Judaism more immediately apparent. John’s Gospel uses this story of the Temple cleansing to point to what is truly religiously significant---not the temple as a building, but the temple that is Jesus, who will die and be resurrected. Jesus, in other words, is the Temple’s replacement.
Now most scholars think that the cleansing of the Temple probably did occur toward the end of Jesus’ ministry and was viewed as the last straw by the religious establishment. John’s gospel, however, is not so interested in history as it is in proclaiming who Christ is----- the one who is with God from the very beginning, the one who is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, the one who is the new Temple.
In all four gospel’s Jesus anger does look like the expression of righteous anger against the religious establishment, but it is only in John’s Gospel that Jesus says, “Stop making my father’s house a marketplace!” But the buying and selling of animals was part of the sacrificial system of Judaism and the changing of money was necessary so that the offering to the Temple could be made with Jewish, not pagan coins. If you were a priest, trying to do your job, perhaps even recognizing the imperfection of the system, but also seeing it as a means of giving order and structure to Jewish life in a time of national calamity, you would have had a very different perspective on what Jesus did. Understandably you would be angry.
Anger erupts in all our lives. We all have a catalogue of things we are angry about. I once heard a minister say she was asked at an interview to list things that really made her angry. Perhaps that is an exercise we all should do. There are many good reasons to be angry, but there are even more good reasons to be wary of our anger. Righteous anger lets go of illusions---especially the illusion that that we are the holy innocents, free from all guilt. Once that illusion is gone, we can have our anger. While it can be righteous, it is never legitimately self-righteous.
March 4, 2021
Dear Friends,
Though it is no longer Black History month, I recently came across an engaging article that deserves attention. In a small French town of 60 inhabitants, named Sechault, located in eastern France, sits a cemetery, the final resting place for Black soldiers of the 369th Infantry Regiment from Harlem. As you enter the town, your eyes alight on a small granite monument on which is written the word, “Colored,” the (former) official name of the New York National Guard unit from which the soldiers came. Denied a send-off parade with other (White) soldiers who were going to France in 1917, the men of this unit were assigned to the French Army, because their own countrymen refused to fight along with them. In 191 days of continuous fighting this 2000 member unit suffered grievous losses, but evidenced great courage and tenacity. Their German enemy gave them the name, Hollenkampfer, translated as “Harlem Hellfighters,” but it took the United States Army until this past fall to recognize the name as its official title.
The region of Champagne-Ardenne in which Sechault sits offers a tranquil patchwork of fertile fields where wheat, beets and hops are grown. Gazing at the view, one would never imagine the terrible carnage that took place here in the final days of World War l. From September to November 1918, a bloody battle took place there that left over one half of the Black soldiers wounded and another 144 dead. On September 29 the unit captured Sechault from the Germans and along with other acts of heroism during the siege, the unit was awarded France’s highest military honor, The Croix de Guerre, which was also awarded to individual soldiers, who had shown remarkable gallantry.
Every year on November 11, Armistice Day, there is a small ceremony, attended only by the families of the town. “There are no signs, showing the way to Sechault,” the mayor said, “but after this pandemic is over, I have some ideas about other things we can do.” Mr. Salez, the mayor, would like to have a hiking trail built, leading from the monument to a hill about a mile away. A tattered American flag flies on the hilltop, where a lichen-stained monument sits, commemorating another unit of American Black soldiers from the 371st Regiment, who fought and died there in 1918.
The Hellfighters were all New Yorkers, who worked as doormen, porters, nightwatchmen, mailmen, and elevator operators. When the United States entered the War in 1917, these men persistently lobbied New York’s Governor Charles Whitman, who finally agreed to let them form an all-black unit. When they arrived in South Carolina for military training, they suffered taunts and insults before being shipped to France. When the unit first arrived in France in December 1917, they were assigned menial work and prevented from integrating with other American troops. And so, they were assigned to the French Army, which welcomed them.
France’s universalism code then and even now forbids quantification or categorization by race or religion. While today American academics insist that this refusal on France’s part only camouflages the discrimination of Muslims and other groups, it is also true that many black American writers and artists, such as James Baldwin, Richard Wright and Henry Ossawa Tanner, found an acceptance in France that they could not find in their own country.
When the Hellfighters returned to New York in 1918, they paraded up Fifth Avenue and on to Harlem. Though they were initially greeted as heroes, the accolades were short lived. When Pvt. Henry Johnson, cited for extraordinary bravery in France, accused white soldiers of racism in 1919, he quite literally went into hiding
Dear Friends,
Though it is no longer Black History month, I recently came across an engaging article that deserves attention. In a small French town of 60 inhabitants, named Sechault, located in eastern France, sits a cemetery, the final resting place for Black soldiers of the 369th Infantry Regiment from Harlem. As you enter the town, your eyes alight on a small granite monument on which is written the word, “Colored,” the (former) official name of the New York National Guard unit from which the soldiers came. Denied a send-off parade with other (White) soldiers who were going to France in 1917, the men of this unit were assigned to the French Army, because their own countrymen refused to fight along with them. In 191 days of continuous fighting this 2000 member unit suffered grievous losses, but evidenced great courage and tenacity. Their German enemy gave them the name, Hollenkampfer, translated as “Harlem Hellfighters,” but it took the United States Army until this past fall to recognize the name as its official title.
The region of Champagne-Ardenne in which Sechault sits offers a tranquil patchwork of fertile fields where wheat, beets and hops are grown. Gazing at the view, one would never imagine the terrible carnage that took place here in the final days of World War l. From September to November 1918, a bloody battle took place there that left over one half of the Black soldiers wounded and another 144 dead. On September 29 the unit captured Sechault from the Germans and along with other acts of heroism during the siege, the unit was awarded France’s highest military honor, The Croix de Guerre, which was also awarded to individual soldiers, who had shown remarkable gallantry.
Every year on November 11, Armistice Day, there is a small ceremony, attended only by the families of the town. “There are no signs, showing the way to Sechault,” the mayor said, “but after this pandemic is over, I have some ideas about other things we can do.” Mr. Salez, the mayor, would like to have a hiking trail built, leading from the monument to a hill about a mile away. A tattered American flag flies on the hilltop, where a lichen-stained monument sits, commemorating another unit of American Black soldiers from the 371st Regiment, who fought and died there in 1918.
The Hellfighters were all New Yorkers, who worked as doormen, porters, nightwatchmen, mailmen, and elevator operators. When the United States entered the War in 1917, these men persistently lobbied New York’s Governor Charles Whitman, who finally agreed to let them form an all-black unit. When they arrived in South Carolina for military training, they suffered taunts and insults before being shipped to France. When the unit first arrived in France in December 1917, they were assigned menial work and prevented from integrating with other American troops. And so, they were assigned to the French Army, which welcomed them.
France’s universalism code then and even now forbids quantification or categorization by race or religion. While today American academics insist that this refusal on France’s part only camouflages the discrimination of Muslims and other groups, it is also true that many black American writers and artists, such as James Baldwin, Richard Wright and Henry Ossawa Tanner, found an acceptance in France that they could not find in their own country.
When the Hellfighters returned to New York in 1918, they paraded up Fifth Avenue and on to Harlem. Though they were initially greeted as heroes, the accolades were short lived. When Pvt. Henry Johnson, cited for extraordinary bravery in France, accused white soldiers of racism in 1919, he quite literally went into hiding