Listen to the Sauerkraut

Deuteronomy 26:1-11

Every Thanksgiving meal is a story.

Or lots of stories.

On the Thanksgiving table of my childhood there was always a dish of sauerkraut.
It was Silver Fleece canned sauerkraut, and it wasn’t the most delicious thing on the table – at least to my taste! – but it was there every year.
That particular sauerkraut was there because my grandmother’s mother’s family had come from Germany. And that family had brought to their new American Thanksgiving table a piece of who they were, and where they had come from, every year until, in our generation, it simply wouldn’t have been Thanksgiving without that particular fragrant dish of pickled cabbage.

There are other stories at other tables.
Stories about cranberry sauce almost left on the kitchen counter in another state, and rescued at great peril of rush hour traffic. Stories about recipes, passed from mother, to daughter, to son; stories disastrous dishes of Thanksgivings past, and about why it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without that particular dish.

Funny stories, loving stories, a few sad stories. Stories that shape our lives, and reflect our relationships.

Close your eyes for a minute, and see the dinner table in your imagination.
Where do those foods come from? Why are they right for this meal? Who is in the stories that sit on your table today?

Of course, there are probably some things on your table because of “Tradition” and not because of someone specific, and those dishes tell a community story.
A story that starts with the one we learned in elementary school: about hungry, hard-working Pilgrims and generous Indians making friends and making peace over a harvest feast.
That story goes on, integrating stories of new immigrants. Hungry Poles, or Irish, or Italians, and a new generation of “natives” to teach the harvest feast. Hard working Chinese, and Mexicans, and a new kind of “Indians,” and another new generation of natives to pass the tradition on. And each new generation makes the story its own.

Like all the stories on our tables, the national story of Thanksgiving is a story about who we are, and where we come from.
And it’s a story about coming home.

So is the story that Moses teaches the people of Israel to tell on a similar occasion. When you bring your harvest to the altar, you tell a story:
A wandering Aramean was my ancestor….we went to Egypt as a stranger, and became many; we were oppressed, and cried for relief; God brought us out of Egypt into an abundant land.
And that’s where this food came from.

These stories are our salvation history:
the story of who we are as the story of whose we are, and why.
On days like today, we’re more aware than usual that we belong to our ancestors, for better or worse. We belong to what happened to our families. And we belong to God, who brings us home.
And that’s where this food has come from.

The stories aren’t usually perfect. To claim a shiftless Aramean as your father wasn’t something to be especially proud of, and it is hard to remember slavery, even – or especially – after you’ve been set free.

But the messy bits – from turkey disasters to broken relationships to slavery – all the sins and the griefs belong in our stories, along with the healing and joy.
The messy bits, just like the joyful bits, are our salvation story, because they are who and where we were when God called us to be God’s own. Even the messy bits that happen every year, and get cleaned up at every Thanksgiving meal.

When we hear the stories – at the altar or on the table – and remember who and whose we are, and why: That’s what makes it a holy meal.

That’s what we do here this morning. We gather around a table, and tell the story of our salvation to make holy the meal we share, and to make holy the community that shares it.

Just like it’s what we do later today: gather, tell, and eat. And eat some more.

So listen to the prayers,
and listen to the sauerkraut.
Listen to the turkey, and the yams (or the sweet potatoes) the dressing (or the stuffing), and all the other dishes on the table.

Listen for the stories, sad or funny, loudly repeated or quietly heard,
the stories that remind us of how we belong to our family, and our community, and our God.
About who we are, and whose we are,
and about coming home.

Listen especially today, but not only today
and when you hear each story, say Thank You.

Thank you.
Amen.

Living in The End

Isaiah 65:17-25,  2 Thessalonians 3:6-13, Luke 21:5-19

There’s just something about the end of the world that makes it come up over and over again. Every summer, it seems, there’s at least one “blockbuster” end-of-the world disaster movie.  And every November, in the church’s cycle of scripture, there’s at least one end-of-the-world gospel story. Like, for example, today.  It’s one the special-effects crews would have a field day with.

The scene starts with the beauty and marvel of the Temple in Jerusalem – wonderful workmanship, and gorgeous decoration.  But swiftly the emphasis shifts to destruction and calamity: not a stone of the building will be left on another; earthquakes and wars and insurrections and lawlessness and….  well, you’ve probably seen one of those movies.

Last week, Frank Samela called me to announce that certain parts of our very own buildings were auditioning for disaster: crumbling concrete, and a part of the rectory foundation ready for stone to slip from on top of stone.

Of course, the first question I asked him was, “When will this be?  Should I be packing up the office?”

And Frank explained: Teams of workmen spent this last week tuckpointing at the rectory and repairing concrete in our driveway and stairs.  (Yes, it is safe for you to move normally around the building)

When I asked, Frank didn’t tell me when; he told me what we were going to do about it.

And, in that, he’s more like Jesus than he probably realizes.

Everyone’s natural reaction to hearing Jesus announce that the Temple will be torn stone from stone is to ask When??

And Jesus never answers when.  Instead, he describes what to do: how we are to respond to God, no matter when:

Do not follow false teachers.

Do not be terrified.

Make up your minds to testify to God, in the midst of disaster. 

But don’t prepare your testimony in advance, because it is Jesus who will show you what to say.

Waiting for the end is not just for pessimists with a basement full of canned goods.  It's the everyday task of Christian living.  And there are better and worse ways to do it - we heard today Paul's worries about the Thessalonians' method of waiting: apparently another teacher has told them that in a world near the end, they should party like it's 1999.  So he reminds them of the way Jesus teaches us to live:

Be faithful.

Be confident.

Above all be witnesses for God and the gospel, not by eloquence, but by listening for Christ.

Now, if you’re like most of the people I’ve been talking to lately, you don’t really have time for the world to end this November.

We’re busy.

But over the last couple thousand years of Christian life, it’s become clear that the end of the world comes in more than one way.

There are little apocalypses that surround us now.

Cancer.  Job loss. Broken relationships in our families. Wars and earthquakes. Little apocalypses that end not the earth, but certainly life as we know it.  Challenges that become disasters if they lead us to forget either who we are, or whose we are.

And neither Jesus, nor the economic pundits, nor the doctors, nor anyone else can tell us when they’ll come. But Jesus does, always, tell us what to do, and how to respond.

Be faithful.

Be confident in God.

and be ready to be witnesses for Christ.

Jesus doesn’t promise us the resources to survive unscathed,

but instead the resources to proclaim the gospel, to shine with God’s good news in the midst of the world’s biggest mess.

And whether the end of the world comes all at once, or in local apocalypses, over and over, you and I are who God chooses to testify to God’s good news.

I have been listening lately to the words of the gospel that Jesus has given to this particular community – to Calvary, in the middle of all the little apocalypses of illness and loss – and this is what I have heard:

In the heart of our identity is the good news of God’s compassion. 

We are never more Calvary than when we are feeding and visiting one another in times of struggle. 

Never more ourselves than when we pour out compassion in the form of mosquito nets to combat malaria, or school uniforms to help lift girls and boys out of chronic poverty.

Those actions are what Jesus gives us to say to a world that loses hope.

And God has given us two very powerful words that come up over and over again at Calvary: Thank you.

I hear Thanks-Giving in Vestry meetings, ordinary conversations, and Sunday School classes.  Thanks to one another, and thanks to God for the abundance of God’s gifts, and for hearing our prayer. In fact, we’re building our budget for next year not on “here’s what we need,” but on “thank you very much!”

Those two words are what Jesus gives us to say to a world driven by fear and need.

And, at Calvary, we also know something about joy.

In prayer and in scripture, we are reminded that the time of God’s coming in final judgment is not just about earthquakes and disaster.  It is also about healing and peace.

We are reminded of that today in the vision of the prophet Isaiah: God’s promise to create earth and heaven new, to vanish the burdens of error and violence and grief and greed that have scarred our relationships with God, with one another, and with all creation, and to renew God’s people in health and blessing, and especially joy.

When I hear that vision – even more than when I hear about earthquakes and crumbling stones – I can’t help but ask “when?”

How soon, God, will that new creation come?

But the answer is the same: not a timetable, but a guide.

Be faithful.

Be confident in God.

And above all, be ready to be a witness for God’s good news.

In the new creation, the token of that good news is our joy. 

The radiant joy that God has in us shines through us, as God’s invitation to all the world.

In world ending disaster, in little, life-changing apocalypses, and in paradise, God calls on us as witnesses:  Faithful, confident, and above all, hearing and sharing the good news that Jesus gives us, radiating joy.

We practice that here at Calvary, so that whenever the end of the world comes, in disaster or in new creation, we are already doing what God calls us to do.

God’s witnesses, 

by compassion, and gratitude, and joy;

now, and whenever.  

Amen.

Expecting healing

Isaiah 35:1-10,  Luke 5:17-26

Do you ever think that we expect a lot of God?

I’ve been praying for healing for a lot of folks lately.

(Have you?)

Praying for patience and strength, for people who are sick, and for their families and friends.  Praying for wisdom and guidance for doctors and nurses and pharmacists and techs.  Praying for the healing of hearts and spirits, damaged by long trials of pain and limitation.

And I’ve been very explicit with God about how much I want the cancer and the degenerative diseases and the heartbreak to just go away and leave us alone.

I expect God to listen, and to hear.

I expect people I’m praying for to recover.

I expect healing in ways I can’t even describe.  And that’s when I sometimes start to think it’s a lot that I’m expecting from God.

But the evidence of scripture is that God expects us to expect all that and even more.

God gives us visions of healing that go beyond re-knit bones and flesh, beyond stronger muscles, beyond cancer remission, surgical repairs, and getting life “back to normal.”

God gives us visions of healing that sweep souls and hearts into vibrant joy; visions of broken communities restored, of chronic and life-long limits entirely transformed into wholeness.

We heard from the prophet Isaiah that this healing vision God gives includes homecoming, safety, and the end of sorrow; not just for God’s people, but for wild beasts and for the land itself.  The lonely, barren desert land bursts into blossom in sheer joy.

That’s not “getting better.” That’s healing above and beyond health.

And Luke’s story of Jesus and a paralyzed man reminds us that healing is found first in the community of friends, whose faith and literal support bring us to the place of healing, then in the reconciliation of our lives and souls to God, and then finally, in the transformation of our physical ills and limits.

Do we sometimes expect less of God than we should?

That’s what this morning is all about.  The promise that God’s healing, like God’s love, is broader and deeper than we imagine when we are hurting, or lonely, or despairing. 

The promise that God’s healing touches not just our bodies, but our hearts, souls and communities – and even the earth itself, with all creation. 

And the promise that God’s healing is about even more than the relief of pain or the return to normal – that God’s healing is about joy and wholeness that cannot be contained.

Sometimes the physical cure we ask for is secondary to God’s true healing – as in the story of the paralyzed man this morning.  Sometimes, the physical cure is immediate and unmistakeable. Sometimes it never comes.

But the witness of scripture and the promise of God invite us to ask for more. 

To bring our pain, small and great to God.

To bring the aches of our heart and spirit and hips and hands, expecting to share in the healing of the world.  To bring our physical and spiritual crisis to God, expecting to be transformed by God’s touch. 

To bring our dis-ease and brokenness of every kind, expecting to be swept up in God’s compassion for all creation.

We don’t pray to control what happens. 

We pray because whatever happens, we need God’s healing gifts, for heart, body, spirit and the community and creation around us. 

We pray because God expects us to long for healing.

And when we do that in community, as we share one another’s pain, we share our hope and our love as well.

And that is why we are here today.

To share, one-by-one and all together, in God’s healing of the world.