On Pentecost Sunday I have often preached of an experience I had at a relatively young age sailing with my family on Long Island Sound. My parents loved to sail. My father, a Quaker, no doubt found the hours he spent in silence at the tiller guiding our boat over the waves a time of peace and refreshment. When I was about 10 I began taking the tiller. Some days the wind would be stiff and we would heel over and cut through the waves. Other days were calm—meaning little or no wind. On those days we were hot and often bored.
There is a Victorian-era church in England, where, in the midst of billowing clouds painted on the flat surface of the ceiling, plaster feet meant to be those of Jesus visibly hang down. Today we smile at the image. The possibility that Jesus moved vertically into the sky, to be seated at the right hand of God, isn’t made more real by our exploration of outer space. The image has moved from belief to metaphor, or, perhaps, was always meant to be metaphor.
If I were to ask all of you gathered here today to raise your hand if you experienced teasing or bullying in your life, I imagine most of us would be raising our hands. For some of us it was a searing experience that has impacted much of our lives since then. For others it may have been a time that brought some reality into our lives without much lasting consequence. Yet, we know that for many being bullied was, and is, an ongoing serious concern.
Throughout history, people have been moved to share the inspiration they find in nature, and their understanding of the experiences in their lives, and ours, that nature can offer. Throughout history people surrounded by nature have been moved to prayer. And we come together today to celebrate a festival of nature whose roots predate Christianity.
My first year in seminary we were all required to meet each week in a small group called Curriculum Conference. I was surprised to learn that one of the members of the class, lived on a farm in a nearby suburb—a sheep farm. All winter long as we talked about our lives and our experiences as new seminary students, we watched Liz knit scarves and sweaters from fine wool of vibrant colors—wool from the sheep she and her husband raised. The last meeting was held at her house because it was lambing time. We marveled at the gentle lambs—they seemed to be all legs, covered with white fluff. We held them and they nestled into our arms.
In the 19th century, a medical doctor named J. C. Stroud explained the odd flow of both blood and water from Jesus’ body as a violent rupture of his heart. “Stroud theorized that a hemorrhage had taken place through the heart wall into the pericardial sac, there was a clotting of blood, separating it from the serum … —a convenient thesis that gives preachers the opportunity to stress that literally died of a broken heart.”[1] Another 19th century doctor theorized that the soldier had actually pierced his bladder as well and that it was urine that flowed out with the blood.[2] Doctors in the 1950’s and 60’s estimated the water probably represented serous pleural and pericardial fluid.[3] “Since the pleural cavity is just inside the rib cage, even a shallow lance thrust could have opened it and the two parts of the blood have come out relatively unmixed.”[4]
For me, preaching at a funeral, much like preaching at a wedding, is an essential part of my call to ministry. When else are there so many people in church for whom Jesus Christ has little impact on their daily lives? There is no more pregnant time for birthing new life in Christ.
I have a pair of earrings that I cherish. Each is a small disc of old dull gold, with decorative engraving around a tiny pearl. Some years ago I dropped one of them and stepped on it, breaking the disc off the ear wire. I was quite sad when I realized what I’d done.
In today’s reading from the Gospel of John we see Jesus struggle with the reality of what is to come. In this Gospel he goes knowingly to his death, yet he has struggled with the truth that approaches and accepted his fate.
“The Bible’s Moses cuts himself shaving. He is afraid, he is a liar. He does many a thing under the table before being Up There with the other Tables.”[1] So says Hélène Cixous, French literary critic and feminist. True, and we could also add murderer, stutterer, unsure of himself, hot headed, unpredictable, and often a big disappointment.
But the Bible’s Moses is also one who sees God face to face and lives, whose face shines with the blinding Shekinah glory, which must be veiled before other mere mortals.
How many times have we seen an adult trying to comfort a screaming baby? Have you ever been mystified and at the same time frustrated when regardless of what you tried, you had no success? For a new parent it is a relief when one can finally begin to understand what a baby needs by the sound of their cry.
Think a minute of the fanciest invitation you ever received. Was it for a wedding, birthday, graduation or engagement party? A Bar or Bat Mitzvah? An Anniversary?
When you received the envelope in the mail, did you know it was something special? Did the envelope have a certain size? A certain weight? An unusual color? Was your name written in careful script? What did you think when you opened it up?
I wonder if you’ve seen the clip on YouTube of Jimmy Kimmel on his late night television show noting that we’re hearing a lot about Jesus in the race for the Presidency, we might listen to Jesus saying some of what we’re hearing in the campaign. He shows Jesus standing behind a podium with the American and other flags behind him, repeating comments about walls, and refugees, and use of guns that we have heard. As we listen, the contrast is profound between the figure and the sentences he repeats.
A.J. Jacobs wrote a book called A Year of Living Biblically. Now A. J. identifies as non-practicing Jew. In his own words, he is “Jewish in the same way that Olive Garden is Italian.” But he did this experiment to test the idea of “taking the Bible literally,” as so many in American claim. He read through the Bible and wrote down every command, something like 750, and spent an entire year living according to those commands. At the end of the experiment, he concludes you simply cannot take the whole Bible literally. It’s just not something we can do. It’s impossible and anyone who says they take the Bible literally is lying or at least kidding themselves.
The Gospel of Matthew was written for people who were Jewish, yet followers of Jesus Christ. They were a minority among the Jews of that time and there was growing tension between the two groups. Thus the story of Jesus’ birth and flight to Egypt in Matthew reflects the Hebrew ethos of the time.
What’s in a name? I was surprised some years ago when a friend asked me what my second name was. I wondered what she meant for a second and then realized that she had two names she used as a first name, Nancy Mack, and she wondered what my name really was. I had to disappoint her, my parents named me Ann. Very simple, no middle name, just Ann.
How appropriate that we read this lesson that begins the Gospel of John on the first Sunday after Christmas. This quieter time gives us a chance to reflect on the meaning of the prophecy fulfilled in Jesus’ birth. To hear these words leads us into that time of reflection.
What child is this? is a question for all of us. Our answers change as we grow older—as we see the world through eyes of wisdom and experience.
G. K. Chesterton, the famous British poet and theologian, was a brilliant man who could think deep thoughts and express them well. He was also extremely absent-minded throughout his life, so much so that he became known for getting lost. Once he even sent a telegram to his wife that said: “Honey, seems I’m lost again. Presently, I am at Market Harborough. Where ought I to be?” In a clear and precise answer, she telegraphed back a one-word reply “HOME!”
I remember a cartoon, probably from The New Yorker, that showed three men. One, rather small in stature, was standing against a wall. He had disheveled hair, a long beard, and wore a tunic with patches all over it. He was holding a sign that read: The end is at hand.
