Archives for 2011

a sermon on Philippians 3:4b-14 for the 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time
preached on October 2, 2011, at the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone 

Conversion stories are everywhere in Christian literature. You know how they go – someone starts out living a terrible, horrible life, with all sorts of sinfulness and worldliness, then that person is radically changed through a dramatic experience and comes to faith. We have them in the Bible and beyond – it seems that so many faithful people have wonderful stories to tell about how God has intervened and changed things in their lives.

The apostle Paul’s story is one of the greatest of all conversion stories. The book of Acts tells it from one perspective, and Paul himself tells it several other times in his letters to churches around the Mediterranean that are collected in the New Testament. In today’s reading from his letter to the church in Philippi, we hear a little of that story. Paul was a very faithful Jew, properly circumcised and raised in the tradition, with the right ancestry and perfect lineage in the tribe of Benjamin. He studied the Law at length, and from this knowledge he became a Pharisee and attacked the early followers of Jesus because he felt that they misinterpreted the Law.

But then something happened to Paul. He had an experience that changed everything. He doesn’t recount the details here, probably because the Philippians knew his story very well, but from the other tellings of it in the New Testament, we know that it was a dramatic encounter with Jesus himself long after Jesus had ascended into heaven, an encounter that left Paul blind for several days and may have even given him some sort of lifelong physical affliction.

This conversion experience changed everything for Paul. As he says in these verses, everything that Paul once counted in his favor he now viewed as rubbish, garbage, nothingness. He suffered the loss of all things because of Christ, and this new emptiness gave him the space to gain Christ, not that he could claim all this by his own doings but rather that God could fill him and share with him Christ’s faithfulness and righteousness.

But Paul knew that he was not yet completely filled in this way. He recognized that he still had a long way to go to make this way of life his own, yet he kept on trying to do all this “because Christ Jesus has made me his own,” as he said. Paul put aside the ways of his past life so that he could move forward into something new and different and real and complete in the days ahead: “Forgetting what is behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.”

Like so many conversion stories, Paul’s story is an incredible one, a powerful witness to the transformation possible in and through the life of faith. While so many over the centuries have experienced this kind of conversion, many other faithful people have a less dramatic story of growing into the life of faith.

Take me, for example. I grew up in the church and never really stepped away from it. Conversion for me almost wasn’t even possible because I was grounded in the tradition from the very beginning – baptized as an infant,raised in Sunday school, active in the youth group and campus ministry, and a natural fit to go to seminary right away. If anything, I sometimes identify more with Paul’s life before his conversion than anything else! I’ve always felt connected to God and the community of faith and can’t really point to a single large moment of powerful transformation or conversion like Paul could.

For a long time, I wasn’t particularly comfortable with this, especially growing up in a culture in the deep South that insisted on a specific moment of salvation as part of an authentic Christian religious experience, but I’m grateful that someone once suggested to me the idea of a “nurturing conversion,” where we find transformation not in a single moment but rather over a lifetime of being nurtured into the life of faith. I know I’m not the only one who lives and feels like this  – others too have spent a lifetime trying to sort out what it means to be faithful in their lives, building on the faith they have had for a full lifetime and seeking to walk with God along all the changes and challenges of life and living even though they have never experienced the kind of dramatic conversion that Paul describes. I’m grateful that our Presbyterian tradition welcomes all of us, both those who have experienced a powerful moment of transformation and those who have been converted through the nurturing life of faith, but I still feel like I’m missing out on something sometimes because I don’t share that transformative experience.

So what do we do with all this? How do we connect Paul’s incredible experience from two thousand years ago to our own lives today? How do we make sense of Paul’s conversion alongside our own faith journeys? What does it mean for us to give up the things of our lives and find our real and true value and worth in Christ?

For me at least, I think this all begins when we open our minds to the possibility of transformation each and every day so that we can live into the new life we have in Christ. Whether we have experienced a powerful moment of conversion or not, God can still work a new thing in us and through us and around us and in spite of us. Whether we can identify firsthand with Paul’s experience of conversion or not, God can transform our lives by the power and faithfulness of Jesus Christ himself and remake us more and more in the image of the one who comes to make all things new. And whether we are new to faith and life or have seen many years in life and the church, we all have to keep trying day by day to make this our own, to sort out the meaning of the cross and the resurrection for us and our world, to share that experience with others along the way, and to trust that there is still more in store for all creation.

But the good news in all this amidst such varied experiences of conversion is that we are not alone. Whether we can point to a moment of radical conversion or have been converted over the whole of our lives, whether we identify with Paul or someone else, whether we have walked many miles along the road of faith or are just setting out on the journey, we are one family, one people, one church, following our one Savior and Lord, Jesus Christ, gathering around one font and one table where we can know his presence even today.

So we are not alone. We are not alone as we sort out our faith in our lives. We are not alone as we figure out what transformation and conversion might be for us and our world. We are not alone in seeking God’s glory and promise We are not alone in struggling to make the cross and resurrection our own. We are not alone in giving up the things of our past and of our world so that we can take on a new and shared identity with all those throughout time and around the world who follow our Lord Jesus Christ.

So today as we celebrate World Communion Sunday, a day when we particularly remember that whenever we gather at this table we gather with sisters and brothers all around the earth, we gather at this feast of celebration, not alone or with a few of our choicest friends but with the whole company of the saints in heaven and on earth, trusting that here Jesus is with us and makes us his own and will never leave us alone as we press on toward the goal of new life in him.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

a sermon on Exodus 17:1-7
preached to the Presbytery of New York City on Saturday, September 24, 2011
and in a very similar version to the First Presbyterian Church of Whitestone on Sunday, September 25, 2011

The journey through the wilderness to the promised land had only just begun, and the Israelites were already getting frustrated. Moses had come back to Egypt to lead the people out of slavery and into freedom, but freedom was harder than anyone had imagined.

The journey kept dragging on and on and on, and the inconveniences kept mounting. For a while it was hard to find food, but God finally provided manna and quail. Then the people started to complain that there wasn’t enough variety on the menu – but there’s only so many ways you can mix up two ingredients! And in today’s reading, the people were complaining that there was no water to drink as they camped.

As you might expect, the people directed their anger, frustration, and complaints at Moses. They even questioned his motives for leading them out of Egypt: “Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?” They were so frustrated that they just wanted to go back home to Egypt, back to the land of suffering and slavery that they knew so well, where they knew what to expect. They’d rather face the perils of life under Pharaoh than take a chance on the uncertainty of a wilderness journey.
 
 

The Israelites aren’t alone – we too know what it’s like to take a wilderness journey to a promised but unknown land. Our world these days has more than its share of uncertainty: How long will our economy keep slumping? How long will it take for our friends and neighbors to find a job? What sort of world will our children and grandchildren receive from us?

As if our world’s uncertainty wasn’t enough, there’s also our church and our presbytery. Will we ever return to the way of life we once knew, where every church had a pastor, where every pastor had a church, where the sanctuaries were full and the nurseries were bustling? How long will it take us to sort through our problems and find some way to live together? Will there be anything left of us when we get to the promised land – if we ever get there at all?

All along the way, we find things to complain about in the church and the world. We question the motives of our leaders. We doubt that we’ll have enough food or water or money or patience to survive the journey. We even quarrel amongst ourselves about how we should or should not be moving forward. Like the Israelites, we too would usually prefer to turn back to the unhappy and difficult ways we have known rather than risk a little bit of uncertainty on our wilderness journey.
 
 

In the midst of all this complaining and quarreling, Moses was nearing his wit’s end, so he turned to God for some advice. “What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me.” God’s instruction to Moses was clear: “Go on ahead of the people, and take some of the elders of Israel with you… I will be standing there in front of you on the rock at Horeb. Strike the rock, and water will come out of it, so that the people may drink.”

So God got involved in the Israelites’ troubles yet again, not ignoring their complaints but taking action, setting up a way forward that took care of their present needs in hopes of keeping the people focused on the promised land. God made it clear that Moses was not the only one who could move things forward – he had not been alone in leading the people out of Egypt, so he should not be left alone to face the trials and tribulations of the journey through the wilderness to the promised land, either. So God offered to meet Moses and the elders not where they were but a little closer to where they were going.

When they had gone on a little ways, God met them and gave them water from a rock, keeping them focused on the way ahead and helping them to move beyond the memory of Egypt just a little more. Moses made sure that the Israelites did not forget all that they had put him through, though – he named the place Massah and Meribah, or “test” and “argument,” because there they had wondered if the Lord was with them on their wilderness journey.
 
 

Amidst all the complaining and crying of our day and our own wilderness journeys, there are certainly voices that speak up trying to make a difference. Some folks set right out and go looking for the water we need to survive on the journey. Some women and men look for a way to change the system that keeps getting us off track. Some people try their best to take action to address the complaints going on all around. But all too often it seems that the complainers keep on complaining, that the chorus of quarreling and testing goes on and on, the thirst for the water we need unquenched. There are few who step up to lead the people out of the chorus of woe, few who try to lead the people out into what will move us beyond our impasse rather than just maintaining the status quo of complaining.

But even the best leaders can’t fix things on their own – others have to stand up and join in to move ahead of the people’s doubting and quarreling, not just to resolve the immediate complaints but also to help everyone move into something new. In these wilderness days, we need our elders of all sorts – our Presbyterian ruling and teaching elders, for sure, but also the other elders and leaders of our nation and world – to step away from the murmuring and complaining crowds, to join with those who are not afraid to seek God’s guidance for the days ahead, to look at the problems of our church and our world through new eyes and ask new and different kinds of questions, to go on out ahead of the people to meet God a little further out in the wilderness.

When we go together – when we stop looking back to the Egypts of our past and start dreaming of a new and different promised land, when we step out from where we are into something new, when we support one another in our wilderness journey – we might just meet God, stepping in to give us what we need, challenging us to put aside our bickering and complaining and testing, and inviting us to keep our eyes and hearts on the promised land of new life in this world and the next as we go on our wilderness journey.
 
 

And so we take our next steps on this way by meeting here at this table, by glimpsing here even a minuscule vision of the things ahead for all creation, by gathering here with saints and sinners of this time and of all time to set aside as much quarreling and testing as we can, by hoping and praying and expecting that we will meet Jesus here and find everything we need for the wilderness journey ahead. Thanks be to God. Amen.

a sermon on Romans 8:26-38
preached September 18, 2011, at the Service of Witness to the Resurrection for the Rev. Charles Brewster

In the six years I’ve been in ministry in New York City, it was one of my greatest joys to get to know Charles. Across the nearly forty years that separated us in age, we found so many other things that connected us: a deep love of Presbyterian polity and theology, concern for our common witness to Jesus Christ through the Presbytery of New York City, care for the people of God through service in our  congregations here in Queens, common interest in our Mac computers, a love of travel and especially travel to Scotland after our trip there two years ago, and of course a good glass of single malt Scotch on that trip or most anytime!

Charles and I shared these and so many things – we were connected at so many levels – and one of them was a deep love of this text. This text from Paul’s letter to the church in Rome stands as a true monument of our faith. Somehow Paul composed these incredible words to a congregation that he did not know in a city he had only dreamed of visiting when he wrote, yet even without these direct connections he found words to embody the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

First of all, here Paul acknowledges our weakness and God’s strength. When we are so weak that we don’t know even how to pray, that’s when God steps in for us. When we are in greatest need, the Spirit reaches out and makes us whole. Charles knew this as well as anyone. Over the last two years, as his nerves and muscles became less and less able to communicate and he gradually became weaker, Charles asked for help more and more. He recognized his own weakness and God’s strength working through others to care for him with simple and wonderful grace. He was never afraid to ask for help from his brother Fred or anyone else. He never masked his difficulties, never gave up his daily reading of the New York Times and his well-worn Greek New Testament. He never stopped knowing the fullness of God’s love that overcomes all weakness in him and for him and through him.

After these words, Paul moves on to remind us that our connection to God is not something that we control. God calls us according to God’s purpose, sealing us in the family of God through Jesus Christ before we can even know it or begin to understand it. God makes things right for us by no action of our own and glorifies us for life beyond our understanding. These core tenets of our faith – and especially our Presbyterian way of thinking about these things – are so clear in these verses. Our relationship with God happens not because of anything we do but because of God’s own initiative. God’s own relationship with us makes us all part of God’s family, with Jesus Christ the firstborn in it. And the glory that awaits us is not because of our own merit but because of the grand promises of God to make all things new.

Charles made these things so real in his life. He was always confident that God’s own initiative came long before his own. He had a wide understanding of family that included everyone here in this room and countless others around the world because he knew that he was united to all humanity in and through Jesus Christ. And he didn’t worry about the things of this world or the stresses and pain of his life here because he knew that there was yet more glory still to come.

Paul closes this great chapter with a succinct and brilliant statement of the comfort and confidence of the gospel. Even amidst this look at God’s strength in our weakness and God’s initiative in our life of faith, Paul makes it clear that living this way isn’t always easy. He asks the hard questions that centuries of faithful Christians have kept on asking. He wonders aloud how we can say that God is in control when things go wrong. He know that sometimes there are not words to describe our grief and confusion. Sometimes it feels like everyone is set against us. Sometimes it feels like we won’t see any benefit of God’s love. Sometimes it feels like we are charged, condemned, and ready to be led away to the gallows, separated from God’s love forever and ever by the hardships and perils of this world. But in all these things, Paul says, we are victorious through our Lord Jesus Christ. We have nothing to fear because God has done in Christ what only God can do to make us and all creation whole and new.

Paul then pulls all of this together as only he can do:

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

I’ve known lots of folks who have embodied these words in their life and living and connected their lives to God’s own in Jesus Christ, but few measure up to Charles.

In these days, as we remember that death has not separated Charles from God’s love in Jesus Christ, we can also take comfort that life also did not separate him from God’s love. As much as anyone, Charles didn’t let the things of this world disconnect him from the confidence and hope of living in the life of the risen Christ. He didn’t let anyone or anything get in the way of staying connected to God and God’s people, you and me and everyone he met. He never forgot God’s claim upon him and each one of us. He always remembered the life of Christ that shows God’s strength in the midst of our every weakness.

So on this day when we remember our friend and brother in Christ and we bear witness to the resurrection for him and all the saints, may this be our comfort and our hope, that like Charles we too belong to God here and now, in life and in death, in strength and in weakness, and may God’s faithfulness that Charles mirrored so well show forth in our lives, our communities, and our world until all the world shines in the glory of God’s love and we are united with our brother Charles once and for all time in the wonder of new life through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.