Thank You, Peter!
Acts 11:1-18
We owe a big thank you to Peter for our spiritual existence. Without Peter's response to the insight God planted in his heart, there's a good chance we would not be on this spiritual and lifestyle journey we know as Christianity. Without his taking on the issue of exclusivism, there's the possibility the message of Jesus would have only been regarded as a renewal effort within Judaism. Let me set the stage for this remarkable change of heart on the part of Peter and thus future generations of Christ followers.
The story is recorded in chapters 10 and 11 of the book of Acts. I think it's one of the really significant stories in the history of the church and thus we need to do some serious reflecting on it and what it might be saying to us, the church locally, nationally, and internationally in our own day.
One of the key characters in the story is a centurion in the Italian battalion by the name of Cornelius. Because of his position we know he was a man who knew what courage and loyalty meant. He's also referred to as a "God-fearer"" - a term used to describe Gentiles who had tired of the popular idea that there were a whole bunch of gods influencing the world. Cornelius was a pious Roman who had become disillusioned, frustrated by the accounts of the behaviors of these ancestral gods. God-fearers were non-Jewish people who had gravitated toward Judaism and its belief in one God. They attended the synagogues and even adopted some of the Jewish ethical teachings. Cornelius was a man who was seeking after God and who God found and blessed. We also learn that he was a giving and praying man. Even though he might not yet have fully understood what his new relationship with God was, he was living a life close to God.
So, this devout - God-fearing - charitable - praying - Roman soldier had a vision. It happened in the middle of the afternoon, around 3 p.m. An angel appeared to him and informed him that his prayers and gifts had been observed by God and that God was pleased. The angel further instructed him to send word to Peter in Joppa and that Peter would share with him further about what he sought to know. So, Cornelius sent a soldier and two of his slaves to Joppa.
While they were on their way to Joppa, Peter was having a vision while on a rooftop. The vision was of a sheet-like thing coming down from the sky appearing to be filled with all sorts of strange animals and birds. And Peter heard this voice in his mind say: "Rise, Peter, kill and eat." Peter was a little bewildered. In fact, he at first argued with the thought in his head. What the voice told him to do was not possible for a practicing Jew. The voice in his head continued explaining that nothing God cleanses is common or unclean. Three times Peter and the angel exchange words until finally the sheet-like thing ascends back into the sky leaving a puzzled Peter to further mull over the meaning of the vision.
About this time Cornelius' messengers show up and the spirit instructed Peter that he should go with them right away. Peter first interviewed them a bit at the front door and then finally invited them in and hosted them overnight.
The next morning all of them left Joppa for Caesarea. To satisfy Jewish law six others of the faith accompanied Peter and Cornelius' messengers in order to validate whatever happened. Upon their arrival they discovered a house full of Cornelius' friends and relatives. Cornelius greeted Peter and the others by worshipfully falling on his knees. Peter assured him such homage wasn't necessary. Then Peter said: "You are well aware that it is against our law for a Jew to associate with a Gentile or even visit with him. But God has revealed to me that I should not call anyone impure or unclean. So when I was sent for, I came without raising any objection. May I ask why you sent for me?"(Acts 10:28-29, NIV)
Cornelius then shared his story and invited Peter to tell him more about this one God and the relationship to Jesus. Peter began by making one of the most noteworthy statements in all of scripture! It proclaimed a radical shift in the way this new movement was to be understood and would function from then on. It changed everything. Here are Peter's words: "I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts people from every nation who fear him and do what is right." (Acts 10:34-35,NIV) And then he went on and reviewed the good news about Jesus Christ. And those who were present - Jew and Gentile alike - were moved by the Holy Spirit, had a spiritual experience, and Peter baptized the Gentiles on the spot.
It was a radical message Peter proclaimed that day and a radical act he performed. Peter reinterpreted Christianity as a faith for everyone - a religion with no barriers to God - a religion where everyone has access to God - a religion where God reaches out without regard for a person's worthiness. What he did expanded and changed Judaism and ultimately ended up creating a new faith - Christianity.
Not everyone immediately agreed with Peter's new understanding and actions. There were some at old First Church Jerusalem who criticized Peter for what he had done and what he was saying. What we read in Acts 11 then is basically Peter answering those who criticized what he did with Cornelius and his people - who criticized his opening up the faith to those unlike them. You see, even in the early church there were major differences of opinion about the way things should be - about who should be allowed in - about who should be included and who should be excluded. Sadly, there are still those who want it to be a closed club - who haven't been able to continue to expand their understanding of the vision Peter had about including and excluding.
Luke, the author of the book of Acts as well as the Gospel of Luke, ends this water-shed story with the news that those who heard Peter's explanation there at old First Church Jerusalem had no argument with Peter's explanation and all hell broke loose - er, they broke into praise and thanksgiving, worship, glorifying God for this new understanding of God's inclusive nature and desire. I just wonder if there's a message in Peter's vision for the situations we find ourselves in today? Who do you suppose the strange animals might represent in our day? Who do some want to exclude that God might want us to include?
The painful truth is that we have a long history as the church of resisting such liberating thoughts and actions and desires on the part of God. The Holy Spirit sometimes has to push us - sometimes kick us - sometimes drag us - into new areas of ministry. It's that nagging voice of the Holy Spirit in our consciences, in our spirits, that causes us to often ask if the limits we've set in our lives are God's limits or one's we've created for our own interests?
Where do we need to allow the Holy Spirit to prod us into action in this day? Where might the vision of the Holy Spirit be leading us to sense and share the wideness of God's mercy? The Holy Spirit's role is to break down barriers so that the whole world might come to know the living God. Are we going to hunker down in our comfortable fellowship and keep the boundaries firmly in place or are there ways we might become instruments of the living God to a needy world?
May those who have ears to hear, hear, and hearing may we gain courage to act!
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Legs and Lungs
I had a little scare the other night and that caused me to consider the progression of the ALS in my body. I had difficulty catching my breath and it tired me out pretty good. I had to stay in my power wheelchair for awhile longer than normal in the evening because I could change my position to aid the breathing more easily than in bed.
There was a time before ALS decided to take on my body when I thought the part of my body I would have the most difficulty living without would be my legs. I first began to think about this in a seminary class on death or grief when the instructor led us in an exercise to consider such. It was a powerful experience and as a result I used it several times in the local church. The question was usually phrased something like: "What part of your body would be the hardest for you to lose the use of and why?" I would then proceed to share with them my own reflection to model what I had in mind.
I usually began my reflection by commenting on the difficulty I had adjusting to the reality that I was no longer able to work out a minimum of two hours a day. For ten years of my life that was my reality. It all began in Junior HS and then continued through HS and college. Two hours every day! And much of the work was on my legs. I depended a lot on my legs in the sports I competed in. Sprinting, long jumping, high jumping, stopping and starting and jumping on the basketball court and football field meant I needed strong legs and I had them. In some ways they made up for the deficiencies in other areas of my body. I will confess to being a little proud of how strong my legs were, maybe even a little vain. I worked them hard. They got me the attention I craved. I could run fast and I believed it was partially because of my leg strength.
Early in the spring of my senior year, my high school attended one of the area's top meets - The Toledo Blade Relays at the Lucas County Recreation Center in Toledo, Ohio. It was a very cold and damp day. I ran a 9.8 in a semi-final heat of the 100-yard dash. It was the second fastest time in the state at that point in the season and the second fastest qualifying time of the day.
A short time later, while running in a qualifying heat of the 220-yard dash, about midway through the curve, a pain in the back of my leg sent me high into the air and off the track. The pain was accompanied by an anguished scream. I had torn my hamstring. I foolishly attempted to run the 100-yard dash finals. It never quite healed enough for me to be competitive the rest of the year - I didn't even make it out of the districts.
God and I had a lot of talks that spring - every night in fact. Not that that was unusual. I'd been a nightly devotions kind of guy for a number of years by that time. It's just that the conversations were a bit more pointed - included a lot more emotion than normal. "Why, God?" "Why me, Lord?" The questions were a lot more plentiful and clearer than the answers.
Now, well meaning folks - teen friends and adult religious types alike - offered their words of intended support and encouragement, sometimes even attempts at interpretation of my reality and disappointment: the clichés we've all heard and maybe even regretfully offered ourselves - God's will, won't give you more to handle than .... It was for sure one of the experiences that began to unravel the popular religious notion that if you're a believer everything will be good in your life - everything will go your way and you will always be successful. I'm not sure I can describe where or by whom I was taught such things. I probably just picked it up reading between the lines of those around me. Today I would just say hogwash to such an understanding. But back then, I struggled.
Another benchmark leg experience in my life was a time in my thirties when I tore my anterior crucea ligament while playing in a basketball tournament some of the younger guys from the church were playing in. This one didn't cause as many theologically challenging questions, but it did change my ministry and lifestyle. No longer was a central aspect of my youth ministry going to be able to include an active, hands-on focus - no more rough-housing with the guys on a basketball court - no longer was I going to be able to concentrate on staying in shape by playing ball and running. One of the ways I dealt with the change in how I saw myself was I agreed to be appointed to a church as the solo pastor and preach every week; thus, for the time being at least, ending my being a career youth pastor. (Please spare me the comments about God causing me to tear my ACL so that I would heed the call to preach!)
Then came the summer of 2009. We were on an adult mission trip on an Indian reservation in South Dakota. It was the third time I had led a trip to Ft. Thompson. Something was different though. My legs didn't seem to be able to endure as much as they had in the past. I explained it away in my head as I'd aged in the last year. But, privately and sub-consciously I knew it was more serious than that. I struggled all summer to walk without tiring easily. It was 14 months before we finally received the diagnosis of ALS - Lou Gehrig's disease. During those 14 months I felt it happening, my legs weakening. I was easily exhausted when I walked. The dreaded was happening - I was having to face the loss of the use of my legs.
(Now, I've shared all of the above in preparation for what follows.)
Something else was going on at the same time I was losing the use of my legs, not as obvious to others at first, but obvious to me. I was having difficulty breathing. With time, we learned it wasn't my lungs but my diaphragm. Preaching became more and more of a challenge. I quit singing the hymns in order to have enough stamina to get through the sermon. (Do I need to again ask you not to be tempted to comment that God was trying to get me to stop preaching!)
Friends, experiencing the loss of my legs has been difficult. There's no question about it. It's just as hard as I anticipated it would be. However, let me share this with you: it doesn't come close to what it feels like to struggle to breathe - to not be able to eat the amounts of food I used to eat or carry on a conversation or be in large crowds or be romantic with my wife or discuss controversial issues without being able to finish a comment I need to make.
"What part of your body would be the hardest for you to lose the use of and why?" New answer. That little diaphragm muscle is a pretty powerful and awesome muscle! It's been the toughest one for me to do without so far, let me tell you! I know I'm going to lose some more. The other losses seem to be going a little slower. (I'm still typing but the fingers do argue more than they used to!) Compensating for some of the others may involve even more creative solutions.
Peace and Blessings upon you all and on your life journeys!
There was a time before ALS decided to take on my body when I thought the part of my body I would have the most difficulty living without would be my legs. I first began to think about this in a seminary class on death or grief when the instructor led us in an exercise to consider such. It was a powerful experience and as a result I used it several times in the local church. The question was usually phrased something like: "What part of your body would be the hardest for you to lose the use of and why?" I would then proceed to share with them my own reflection to model what I had in mind.
I usually began my reflection by commenting on the difficulty I had adjusting to the reality that I was no longer able to work out a minimum of two hours a day. For ten years of my life that was my reality. It all began in Junior HS and then continued through HS and college. Two hours every day! And much of the work was on my legs. I depended a lot on my legs in the sports I competed in. Sprinting, long jumping, high jumping, stopping and starting and jumping on the basketball court and football field meant I needed strong legs and I had them. In some ways they made up for the deficiencies in other areas of my body. I will confess to being a little proud of how strong my legs were, maybe even a little vain. I worked them hard. They got me the attention I craved. I could run fast and I believed it was partially because of my leg strength.
Early in the spring of my senior year, my high school attended one of the area's top meets - The Toledo Blade Relays at the Lucas County Recreation Center in Toledo, Ohio. It was a very cold and damp day. I ran a 9.8 in a semi-final heat of the 100-yard dash. It was the second fastest time in the state at that point in the season and the second fastest qualifying time of the day.
A short time later, while running in a qualifying heat of the 220-yard dash, about midway through the curve, a pain in the back of my leg sent me high into the air and off the track. The pain was accompanied by an anguished scream. I had torn my hamstring. I foolishly attempted to run the 100-yard dash finals. It never quite healed enough for me to be competitive the rest of the year - I didn't even make it out of the districts.
God and I had a lot of talks that spring - every night in fact. Not that that was unusual. I'd been a nightly devotions kind of guy for a number of years by that time. It's just that the conversations were a bit more pointed - included a lot more emotion than normal. "Why, God?" "Why me, Lord?" The questions were a lot more plentiful and clearer than the answers.
Now, well meaning folks - teen friends and adult religious types alike - offered their words of intended support and encouragement, sometimes even attempts at interpretation of my reality and disappointment: the clichés we've all heard and maybe even regretfully offered ourselves - God's will, won't give you more to handle than .... It was for sure one of the experiences that began to unravel the popular religious notion that if you're a believer everything will be good in your life - everything will go your way and you will always be successful. I'm not sure I can describe where or by whom I was taught such things. I probably just picked it up reading between the lines of those around me. Today I would just say hogwash to such an understanding. But back then, I struggled.
Another benchmark leg experience in my life was a time in my thirties when I tore my anterior crucea ligament while playing in a basketball tournament some of the younger guys from the church were playing in. This one didn't cause as many theologically challenging questions, but it did change my ministry and lifestyle. No longer was a central aspect of my youth ministry going to be able to include an active, hands-on focus - no more rough-housing with the guys on a basketball court - no longer was I going to be able to concentrate on staying in shape by playing ball and running. One of the ways I dealt with the change in how I saw myself was I agreed to be appointed to a church as the solo pastor and preach every week; thus, for the time being at least, ending my being a career youth pastor. (Please spare me the comments about God causing me to tear my ACL so that I would heed the call to preach!)
Then came the summer of 2009. We were on an adult mission trip on an Indian reservation in South Dakota. It was the third time I had led a trip to Ft. Thompson. Something was different though. My legs didn't seem to be able to endure as much as they had in the past. I explained it away in my head as I'd aged in the last year. But, privately and sub-consciously I knew it was more serious than that. I struggled all summer to walk without tiring easily. It was 14 months before we finally received the diagnosis of ALS - Lou Gehrig's disease. During those 14 months I felt it happening, my legs weakening. I was easily exhausted when I walked. The dreaded was happening - I was having to face the loss of the use of my legs.
(Now, I've shared all of the above in preparation for what follows.)
Something else was going on at the same time I was losing the use of my legs, not as obvious to others at first, but obvious to me. I was having difficulty breathing. With time, we learned it wasn't my lungs but my diaphragm. Preaching became more and more of a challenge. I quit singing the hymns in order to have enough stamina to get through the sermon. (Do I need to again ask you not to be tempted to comment that God was trying to get me to stop preaching!)
Friends, experiencing the loss of my legs has been difficult. There's no question about it. It's just as hard as I anticipated it would be. However, let me share this with you: it doesn't come close to what it feels like to struggle to breathe - to not be able to eat the amounts of food I used to eat or carry on a conversation or be in large crowds or be romantic with my wife or discuss controversial issues without being able to finish a comment I need to make.
"What part of your body would be the hardest for you to lose the use of and why?" New answer. That little diaphragm muscle is a pretty powerful and awesome muscle! It's been the toughest one for me to do without so far, let me tell you! I know I'm going to lose some more. The other losses seem to be going a little slower. (I'm still typing but the fingers do argue more than they used to!) Compensating for some of the others may involve even more creative solutions.
Peace and Blessings upon you all and on your life journeys!
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Acts of Charity
Well, let's give it a try - posting a sermon as a blog. You willing to help me do a test run?
I was a lectionary preacher - that is, I bought into the idea that there are values to dealing with Bible passages assigned for given weeks in an orderly fashion. Passages are chosen from the Old Testament, the Psalms, the Gospels, and the Epistles - 4 available readings every week, sometimes the relationship between them was obvious and sometimes not.
The values I found to be true for me were:
I was dealing with the same scripture readings that many others in several denominations were as well;
It was a good discipline that forced me to deal with a broad range of passages and topics;
I found the discipline wonderfully inspiring and challenging.
I note the above not to invite a discussion with those who choose to do it a different way (heaven knows I had my share of such discussions/debates/arguments over the years). Rather, I did so to introduce the content of this sermon. The Epistle reading for this Sunday, April 21, 2013 is the story of Tabitha's death and being miraculously restored to life. Tabitha was known for her good works and acts of charity, but we'll return to her story in a bit.
I last preached on this text six years ago shortly after returning from my first adult mission trip to New Orleans and from performing the funeral in Phoenix for a young man from a former church. His nickname was Beaver, although most people knew him as "The Beav." I received the phone call from his mother, Mary, on Monday morning during the orientation session in New Orleans. She began: "He didn't make it, Bill. Beav died this morning." And then she continued with something I was even less prepared for: "Julie wants you to do the funeral in Phoenix. We understand if you can't, but she would really appreciate it if you would. You might remember that she was Catholic. Beav went with her but he didn't really have a church and she and Beav always really appreciated how kind you have been to them."
I'll never forget the premarital counseling sessions I had with the two of them. He was 13 years older than she. They had met while hiking in the Red River Gorge with mutual friends. He had cystic fibrosis, that's why his death wasn't a surprise, just how long he survived before it finally got him. We had addressed it one of our sessions. I had asked them: "Are you sure you want to do this, you know because of the age difference and his health?" Julie was the one who responded because she knew it was her rationality I was questioning. "I know it doesn't make sense, Pastor Bill, but I would rather be married to Durell (that was his given name) for as many years as we have to enjoy than not to be married to him." There was no question they had discussed what they were in for. She had already endured numerous episodes of coughing and hospitalizations.
So, I performed their beautiful wedding on the 4th of July at the Art Museum in Cincinnati, Ohio. Their love and joy produced more fireworks in the hearts and spirits of those of us who were gathered that evening than all of the firework displays in all of Cincinnati that night.
Over the years, the Beav's mom kept me informed of their journey - the hospitalizations, the rock rappelling and white water rafting, the move to Phoenix because it would be easier for him to breathe, the births of their twin boys - 3 1/2 years old at the tune if their dad's death. He had been placed on the lung transplant list just three weeks prior.
I cried and I cried and I cried. He was only 44 and she was only 31. They were getting ready to celebrate ten years of marriage. There were those 3 1/2 year old twins. People all over the country had been praying for this young man and his family. His mother had flown bak and forth to Stanford to be with him and his wife. One of his many close college friends had flown out and spent the lsat five days with all of them. He was at his bedside when he died.
I could write3 a book about what went on for the next few days - the way the mission team an my wife ministered to me, the unbelievable work we performed, another phone call informing me of the death of a 42-year-old young woman of breast cancer who was in the same youth group and babysat our children, the laughter, the flight to Memphis and then to Phoenix on Thursday morning, meeting with the family and several of the couple's University of Cincinnati friends who had stayed in touch with them over the years and flown out to be with the family for the funeral.
Then came the funeral on Saturday morning in a sister United Methodist Church. I wasn't on my beset pastoral behavior as I tried to do the service through my own tears. And then there were the three emotional speeches by Beav's friends - all of us referencing what a great guy he was, how inspired we all were by his drive, the attitude that sort of considered cystic fibrosis more of a nuisance than a killer, the wonderful love he and Julie shared with the world, his unshakable optimism and longing for the "other side" of his reality (which he understood would be that time after he received his lung transplant). And when it was all over - there was relief - a resurrection experience of a sort - new life in our midst. It wasn't that we were no longer sad. It was just that something different was between us - in the room - after we had summarized who he was to us - the difference he had made in our lives - and the difference his having lived the way he did was going to make on our commitment to life - to organ transplants - to his wife and twin boys.
And so, her name was Tabitha - translated Dorcas in the Greek. She did a tremendous amount of good for the poor and outcast in her community of Joppa. Long before we began to refer to such ministries in the church as social missions, Tabitha was running soup kitchens and food pantries and homeless shelters in her hometown coastal community - a community known for piracy and other port-city problems. "It (was) a rough-and-ready center of commerce, full of (people) anxious to find an angle, do a deal, and turn a buck." (1)
The outcasts she was especially known to help were the poor widows. Proof of it is the fact that they were the ones standing around her death bed when Peter arrived. They were the ones weeping and showing off all the articles of comfort she had made for them - the tunics and shawls and quilts and other garments. Her acts of charity and good works were going to be sorely missed by the widows.
When I think of that scene around Tabitha's bed it conjures up in my mind what we often witness at funeral home visitations in our own day - the collages of photographs, the mementos placed near or in the casket (crayon pictures by grandchildren, a Reds baseball cap, etc.). It's amazing how much we can learn about a person's life from the pictures family members choose to display. And, oh what a treasure it is for the family to spend time laughing, crying, and remembering as they sort through the pictures in preparation for the therapeutic act of putting them on display. (2)
But let's get back to the scene of the widow and Peter gathered around Tabitha's bed. The widows sharing the mementos they'd received from Tabitha wasn't in the funeral home while they were preparing for others to come and offer them their condolences. Their sadness was much more ripe than when that time happens. Widows had it even worse in that day than in ours. They were culturally regarded as lost. They did not have many possessions - no one to take care of them - no pension plan or medicare or social security. Tabitha's death spelled for them their own death - an unknown future - a possible community crisis. "For those widows, the loss of Tabitha meant the loss of their lifeline to survival." (3)
Sometimes we get bogged down with trying to make sense of the miracle stories and we forget that the point of religious writing - the recording of the story - is not to be factual or historical but to reveal the faith, to nurture our faith development. One writer summarized the situation with these words: "Sometimes the recitation of miracles in the Bible causes more doubt than faith. We live in a skeptical world that demands scientific explanation for everything and finds the mysterious odd or exotic but certainly not compelling. This antipathy toward the supernatural breeds standoffishness to stories like the raising of Dorcas in today's lectionary passage. The event can be explained away, of course. Perhaps the ailing Dorcas badly needed rest, so her body slipped into a coma and began an internal healing process. When Peter came and disturbed the silent vigil, she was on the mend and came back to consciousness.
"In another interpretation, the abilities and exploits of the first leaders of the Christian community grew in size as the ears and retellings progressed until what had once been a tale of Peter's kindness to a sick woman was transformed into a resurrection miracle. It was not an actual event but a projection of hero worship into the past that eventually got recorded as scripture." (4)
I would offer that, no matter what one believes about whether there was an actual physical restoring of life or not, to me the point of the story is that Christianity, Jesus Christ, is about bringing life out of death - providing space for hope when despair raises its ugly head - carving out some space for faith when failure appears to be the reality - being able to envision victory in the face of defeat. There aren't a whole lot of verses written about Dorcas. And yet, and yet her reputation lives on centuries later. Even today there are Dorcas circles in United Methodist Women groups - circles dedicated for women with a vision to doing good - acts of charity. And friends, that's what it's all about - that's what the resurrection proclaims - that's what we communicate when we live by faith in the midst of the evil, despair, suffering, pain, and disappointments that fill our lives and the lives of others around us and around the world. It's not that we don't feel pain or don't get angry or question the things that happen to us or around us but that we rely on God to be with us in the midst of it all.
Tabitha may not have physically died that day when Peter showed up beside her believed death bed, but there finally did come a day when she did die. And the good news is that the acts of charity she performed continue as people quilt and knit and collect clothing and stock the shelves of food pantries and move homeless people into their own apartments and staff suicide prevention lines and raise money for missions and give up vacations to go on mission trips and visit nursing homes with pets and take meals to people when they return from the hospital and offer grief support groups and furnish meals for families with a a new baby and ... maybe even become organ donors.
We witnessed some awful scenes this past week - the Boston marathon bombings and the West, Texas explosion to name the ones that captured the spotlight the most. We also were the beneficiaries of humanity at its very best as heroic things were done to save some and comfort many. Acts of charity will help get us through the grief and shock to the other side of hope and peace. It will take time and the effort of us all.
Peace be with you!
1 "Roman or Catholic?," HomileticsOnline, May, 2004.
2 Emphasis, March/April, 2007, p. 74.
3 Rodney Thomas Smothe, "A Living Witness," Turning Obstacles Into O (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, 1994), 0-7880-0031-4.
4 Wayne Brouwer, "An Eye For the Miraculous," Emphasis, March/April, 2007, p. 70.
I was a lectionary preacher - that is, I bought into the idea that there are values to dealing with Bible passages assigned for given weeks in an orderly fashion. Passages are chosen from the Old Testament, the Psalms, the Gospels, and the Epistles - 4 available readings every week, sometimes the relationship between them was obvious and sometimes not.
The values I found to be true for me were:
I was dealing with the same scripture readings that many others in several denominations were as well;
It was a good discipline that forced me to deal with a broad range of passages and topics;
I found the discipline wonderfully inspiring and challenging.
I note the above not to invite a discussion with those who choose to do it a different way (heaven knows I had my share of such discussions/debates/arguments over the years). Rather, I did so to introduce the content of this sermon. The Epistle reading for this Sunday, April 21, 2013 is the story of Tabitha's death and being miraculously restored to life. Tabitha was known for her good works and acts of charity, but we'll return to her story in a bit.
I last preached on this text six years ago shortly after returning from my first adult mission trip to New Orleans and from performing the funeral in Phoenix for a young man from a former church. His nickname was Beaver, although most people knew him as "The Beav." I received the phone call from his mother, Mary, on Monday morning during the orientation session in New Orleans. She began: "He didn't make it, Bill. Beav died this morning." And then she continued with something I was even less prepared for: "Julie wants you to do the funeral in Phoenix. We understand if you can't, but she would really appreciate it if you would. You might remember that she was Catholic. Beav went with her but he didn't really have a church and she and Beav always really appreciated how kind you have been to them."
I'll never forget the premarital counseling sessions I had with the two of them. He was 13 years older than she. They had met while hiking in the Red River Gorge with mutual friends. He had cystic fibrosis, that's why his death wasn't a surprise, just how long he survived before it finally got him. We had addressed it one of our sessions. I had asked them: "Are you sure you want to do this, you know because of the age difference and his health?" Julie was the one who responded because she knew it was her rationality I was questioning. "I know it doesn't make sense, Pastor Bill, but I would rather be married to Durell (that was his given name) for as many years as we have to enjoy than not to be married to him." There was no question they had discussed what they were in for. She had already endured numerous episodes of coughing and hospitalizations.
So, I performed their beautiful wedding on the 4th of July at the Art Museum in Cincinnati, Ohio. Their love and joy produced more fireworks in the hearts and spirits of those of us who were gathered that evening than all of the firework displays in all of Cincinnati that night.
Over the years, the Beav's mom kept me informed of their journey - the hospitalizations, the rock rappelling and white water rafting, the move to Phoenix because it would be easier for him to breathe, the births of their twin boys - 3 1/2 years old at the tune if their dad's death. He had been placed on the lung transplant list just three weeks prior.
I cried and I cried and I cried. He was only 44 and she was only 31. They were getting ready to celebrate ten years of marriage. There were those 3 1/2 year old twins. People all over the country had been praying for this young man and his family. His mother had flown bak and forth to Stanford to be with him and his wife. One of his many close college friends had flown out and spent the lsat five days with all of them. He was at his bedside when he died.
I could write3 a book about what went on for the next few days - the way the mission team an my wife ministered to me, the unbelievable work we performed, another phone call informing me of the death of a 42-year-old young woman of breast cancer who was in the same youth group and babysat our children, the laughter, the flight to Memphis and then to Phoenix on Thursday morning, meeting with the family and several of the couple's University of Cincinnati friends who had stayed in touch with them over the years and flown out to be with the family for the funeral.
Then came the funeral on Saturday morning in a sister United Methodist Church. I wasn't on my beset pastoral behavior as I tried to do the service through my own tears. And then there were the three emotional speeches by Beav's friends - all of us referencing what a great guy he was, how inspired we all were by his drive, the attitude that sort of considered cystic fibrosis more of a nuisance than a killer, the wonderful love he and Julie shared with the world, his unshakable optimism and longing for the "other side" of his reality (which he understood would be that time after he received his lung transplant). And when it was all over - there was relief - a resurrection experience of a sort - new life in our midst. It wasn't that we were no longer sad. It was just that something different was between us - in the room - after we had summarized who he was to us - the difference he had made in our lives - and the difference his having lived the way he did was going to make on our commitment to life - to organ transplants - to his wife and twin boys.
And so, her name was Tabitha - translated Dorcas in the Greek. She did a tremendous amount of good for the poor and outcast in her community of Joppa. Long before we began to refer to such ministries in the church as social missions, Tabitha was running soup kitchens and food pantries and homeless shelters in her hometown coastal community - a community known for piracy and other port-city problems. "It (was) a rough-and-ready center of commerce, full of (people) anxious to find an angle, do a deal, and turn a buck." (1)
The outcasts she was especially known to help were the poor widows. Proof of it is the fact that they were the ones standing around her death bed when Peter arrived. They were the ones weeping and showing off all the articles of comfort she had made for them - the tunics and shawls and quilts and other garments. Her acts of charity and good works were going to be sorely missed by the widows.
When I think of that scene around Tabitha's bed it conjures up in my mind what we often witness at funeral home visitations in our own day - the collages of photographs, the mementos placed near or in the casket (crayon pictures by grandchildren, a Reds baseball cap, etc.). It's amazing how much we can learn about a person's life from the pictures family members choose to display. And, oh what a treasure it is for the family to spend time laughing, crying, and remembering as they sort through the pictures in preparation for the therapeutic act of putting them on display. (2)
But let's get back to the scene of the widow and Peter gathered around Tabitha's bed. The widows sharing the mementos they'd received from Tabitha wasn't in the funeral home while they were preparing for others to come and offer them their condolences. Their sadness was much more ripe than when that time happens. Widows had it even worse in that day than in ours. They were culturally regarded as lost. They did not have many possessions - no one to take care of them - no pension plan or medicare or social security. Tabitha's death spelled for them their own death - an unknown future - a possible community crisis. "For those widows, the loss of Tabitha meant the loss of their lifeline to survival." (3)
Sometimes we get bogged down with trying to make sense of the miracle stories and we forget that the point of religious writing - the recording of the story - is not to be factual or historical but to reveal the faith, to nurture our faith development. One writer summarized the situation with these words: "Sometimes the recitation of miracles in the Bible causes more doubt than faith. We live in a skeptical world that demands scientific explanation for everything and finds the mysterious odd or exotic but certainly not compelling. This antipathy toward the supernatural breeds standoffishness to stories like the raising of Dorcas in today's lectionary passage. The event can be explained away, of course. Perhaps the ailing Dorcas badly needed rest, so her body slipped into a coma and began an internal healing process. When Peter came and disturbed the silent vigil, she was on the mend and came back to consciousness.
"In another interpretation, the abilities and exploits of the first leaders of the Christian community grew in size as the ears and retellings progressed until what had once been a tale of Peter's kindness to a sick woman was transformed into a resurrection miracle. It was not an actual event but a projection of hero worship into the past that eventually got recorded as scripture." (4)
I would offer that, no matter what one believes about whether there was an actual physical restoring of life or not, to me the point of the story is that Christianity, Jesus Christ, is about bringing life out of death - providing space for hope when despair raises its ugly head - carving out some space for faith when failure appears to be the reality - being able to envision victory in the face of defeat. There aren't a whole lot of verses written about Dorcas. And yet, and yet her reputation lives on centuries later. Even today there are Dorcas circles in United Methodist Women groups - circles dedicated for women with a vision to doing good - acts of charity. And friends, that's what it's all about - that's what the resurrection proclaims - that's what we communicate when we live by faith in the midst of the evil, despair, suffering, pain, and disappointments that fill our lives and the lives of others around us and around the world. It's not that we don't feel pain or don't get angry or question the things that happen to us or around us but that we rely on God to be with us in the midst of it all.
Tabitha may not have physically died that day when Peter showed up beside her believed death bed, but there finally did come a day when she did die. And the good news is that the acts of charity she performed continue as people quilt and knit and collect clothing and stock the shelves of food pantries and move homeless people into their own apartments and staff suicide prevention lines and raise money for missions and give up vacations to go on mission trips and visit nursing homes with pets and take meals to people when they return from the hospital and offer grief support groups and furnish meals for families with a a new baby and ... maybe even become organ donors.
We witnessed some awful scenes this past week - the Boston marathon bombings and the West, Texas explosion to name the ones that captured the spotlight the most. We also were the beneficiaries of humanity at its very best as heroic things were done to save some and comfort many. Acts of charity will help get us through the grief and shock to the other side of hope and peace. It will take time and the effort of us all.
Peace be with you!
1 "Roman or Catholic?," HomileticsOnline, May, 2004.
2 Emphasis, March/April, 2007, p. 74.
3 Rodney Thomas Smothe, "A Living Witness," Turning Obstacles Into O (Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing Company, 1994), 0-7880-0031-4.
4 Wayne Brouwer, "An Eye For the Miraculous," Emphasis, March/April, 2007, p. 70.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Waiting on Death III
And so, we come to the third part of this trilogy on waiting on death - my own wait on my own death. Waiting for mom Machunas to pass away made me more acutely and also a bit more painfully aware that is at least part of what we are doing because of my health reality. Oh, we all always know that we are all going to die - some day. But, something happens to you - your psyche changes - when you know that the death you are facing is more definite, sooner, than that which we all know will be our reality. Once the diagnosis gets spoken, read, interpreted the screen or stage on which life is lived changes - things are more colorful and less depending on the day; scenes seem to last longer or are shorter depending on what unfolds during the day; encounters with friends, family and even strangers take on more meaning or less depending on ....
A ministerial friend recommended Rabbi James Kugel's book In the Valley of the Shadow as we sat and talked in one of my favorite sermon preparation and reflection spots a few weeks after his retirement and my disability, or incapacity leave (I actually detest those words as a description of this time!), started. In Kugel's book he recounts his own journey with terminal cancer. Early in the book, he notes feeling as if "the background music suddenly stopped (31)" when he was informed of the state of the disease within his body. I think it's an apt way to describe what happens. For me, it has seemed as if I am trying to live life as fully as I ever have but always with this sense of effort rather than effortlessness which I think was the way it was before. Always there is this different backdrop offering the staging, the way we do things, what gets said or not said while we are being or doing.
Now, I'm not sure I was aware nor was anyone else aware that effortlessness was the way I went about living life before knowing how much more "in my face" the end of this physical life is, but it certainly is how I would describe it from this vantage point. I've said on more than one occasion "I love life - this life" which I think is a part of why living in the here and now seemed to me to take such little effort. I still enjoy life - I want to and plan on still enjoying life as much as possible - which probably has a great deal to do with why I make the effort, and sometimes it takes real effort let me tell you. When everything you do or say takes every ounce of energy you have, well you never can forget with what you are dealing and with what the end result will finally be.
And so, we "wait for death" still not wanting it to come quickly but measuring its "nearerness" with each deteriorating muscle and loss of function, perhaps more noticeable to me some have suggested because of how much in tune with my body has been my life. "Ready to die" spiritually and mentally (I'm not afraid of death itself or the hereafter whatever that looks like), but not physically and emotionally (I don't want this life to end and I'm not thrilled with the process of the journey to get to that final hour). Thus, while the "wait" might be longer than we first assumed to be my reality, it's a more welcome wait for now than that which we endured during Leona's final few days.
So, that's it for now, but we know that is not it. There are more things to be said, decisions to be made, life to be enjoyed and endured, tears to be shed, laughter and beauty to be experienced, evil to be faced (I'm writing this the morning after the senseless bombings at the Boston Marathon), etc. You'll excuse me if I slow down these posts a little now - three in one week is probably a pace I can't keep up and you'll soon tire of if I do. Maybe I'll post a few short sermons instead.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Waiting On Death II
Part II of this Blog Trilogy on Waiting On Death was first written 17 months ago as we waited in the Defiance, Ohio hospice facility for the second time in six months. The first time was in April of 2011 when Dorothy's father, Jim Machunas, died after being there just three hours. This time we were there for Dorothy's mother, Leona. We had a third occasion to benefit from the ministry of this hospice in August of 2012 when our beautiful and wonderful sister-in-law, Judy Machunas, passed away after a two year courageous battle with bile duct cancer.
I wrote this reflection on Monday, November 7, 2011, a few weeks after Leona's death:
"Waiting for death. Not mine - my mother-in-law's. It know it sounds like I'm getting ready to share a nasty mother-in-law joke, but I assure you that is not the situation. The thought ran through my head as I sat with my wife, Dorothy, and her siblings in the Defiance Hospice facility a few weeks ago.
"Leona Vennekotter Machunas, Dorothy's 90 year-old mom, fell on Wednesday, October 19 in her home of 66 years. She was able to successfully push her wrist Lifeline button thus alerting them to contact those on the call list; which they were able to do, locating her daughter-in-law, Judy, who lives in the neighboring house about 150 yards away. We received a call at our home in Columbus informing us of the fall and of her being transported to the Defiance Clinic. While we waited for an update, Dorothy began to pick up the house and pack some things for a possible trip to northwestern Ohio.
"Daughter Susie and son, Bob, were already at the Clinic waiting when the ambulance arrived. Shortly after Leona arrived at the Clinic she was taken for x-rays. Seeing the knot on her head and the blood the technician decided to take a picture of her head first. Despite her being in obvious pain in her shoulder/arm area they immediately transported her back to the ER because a bleed in the head was noted and they knew they had to treat that quickly. Upon returning to the ER they asked if she had a Living Will. Susie and Bob assured them she did and that she would not want them to proceed with treatment. Thus, the decision was made to transfer her to the hospice facility for the inevitable. That's when we received the second call and immediately jumped in the van for the 2 1/2 hour trip in a driving rain.
Leona was still at the Clinic when we arrived and so Dorothy was able to ride in the ambulance with her when she was transported to the hospice facility. We all gathered that first night believing she would be gone in a few hours. Several of the grandchildren came to the facility to see their grandmother for what they and we all thought would be the last time. After several hours it became obvious that it wasn't going to happen as soon as we thought. So, three of her adult children began to make plans to spend the night. (Her youngest son, Tom, had ankle surgery the day before and was unable to come to the facility.) The rest of us went home. I went with brother-in-law, Gary, to their nearby home in Defiance.
The next day we had conversations with a somewhat alert woman. Word spread and other family members and friends stopped to see her on Friday and Saturday. While she looked really bad because of the knot on her head and the black and bluing in the face still she greeted folks with a smile and some conversation.
I'm not going to try and recall the hour by hour, day by day experience. Instead, let me simply note that what we thought would be a few hours of unwanted waiting turned into five and a half days of unpleasant, as well as unwanted, waiting for a body that wasn't ready to stop living quit functioning so that death could result.
More than once during those days the knowledgeable and experienced and caring hospice staff shared that they thought she would be gone by the end of their shift. More than once I offered a well-intentioned prayer of release believing the end to be near. We experts were no match for her determined physical body. It was nature's reality that was the determiner and not our wishes or God's mercy or grace. We were waiting for death, first reluctantly but finally wishfully and longingly - not wanting to see her suffer any more."
That's all I wrote then. Today I would add:
So much more happened that one day short of a week we waited on death to arrive and add its mixture of depth, pain, peace, and relief. There were indeed the friends and family members who stopped and visited with us and her, even after she could no longer respond with words. Their words of encouragement and comfort, stories of past good times brought laughter and tears - early sources of healing even before the final passing. People were willing to stare death in the face because of their relationship and love for Leona, us, and one another.
Death did finally come - it just took longer than was anticipated. That wasn't all bad though. This time of reflecting about the experience of waiting on death when Leona was dying awakened in me a sense that it was a part of what I am doing because of my own health reality as well. But, that's Part III.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Waiting On Death I
My uncle Pete, the youngest of my dad's brothers, passed away this past Saturday. He was the last of the four brothers. Two sisters of three are still alive. His funeral was Monday. It was a little more than two weeks from the day of diagnosis of cancer. He had undergone hip surgery a few weeks ago and was having a seemingly slow recovery. After weeks of his commenting on how he just didn't feel right, he was taken to the ER. The result was that it was determined that he was full of cancer and there wasn't much that could be done except make him comfortable.
The decision was made to take Pete to his home on North Maple Street in Ottawa (Ohio, for those of you who may not know the family roots). And, I'm guessing Pete had a little to say about it being his wish to go home for his final days. Pete lived his whole life on Maple Street. One of the mantras used numerous times in the funeral home during the visitation hours and at the funeral was: "He was born on Maple Street, he lived his whole life on Maple Street, and he died on Maple Street." Hospice and the church were contacted and provided the necessary support to make his final days as comfortable as possible.
And so, there came a week of waiting for my cousins - Don, Deb, Diane and Daryl - and their spouses, children, grandchildren, and my aunt Jean. There were others who were part of the vigil both in the home and far away. The "Waiting on Death" experience is difficult, interesting, full of both good and bad emotions, comforting, peppered with the telling of stories both positive ones and negative ones - some recalling favorite family events and some revealing things never known before - faith, hope, joy, denial, tears, laughter, food, and well, about anything one can imagine.
The purpose of this post is to reflect for awhile on the experience of waiting on death. Depending on how much more I comment on in this post it's probably going to lead to one or two more pieces - a sort of Part I and Part II or a Blog Trilogy. Only time will reveal which it will be, so here goes:
I long ago lost count of how many times I was present with persons and their loved ones as the last hour approached. There were the family members - dad, grandparents, in-laws, and sister-in-law - but there were also the church members and friends. One of the unique aspects of being clergy is that we get invited into / included in this wondrous/mystical/magical/painful/healing period of time between a person learning they are going to die sooner than later and their actual death. I hope I am properly understood when I share with you that I experienced it as one of the most rewarding/fulfilling aspects of ministry. Oh, it was often hard and painful but the journey with a person and loved ones during those last days was also very profound and mysterious and spiritual. Words and emotions get shared then that are seldom ever so real. Well wishers - neighbors, friends, other relatives, the community of faith - all rally to aid in the grieving and waiting with food and calls and cards and visits depending on the personality and comfort level of the ones offering the support.
But, still there is the waiting - the knowing death is coming but not at all sure when. We ask for some idea: "How long, doc?" Usually doctors admit that there is really no way to know for sure but succumb to the family pressure and offer best guesses. That's what they really are in the final analysis, best guesses. I cannot tell you the number of times I've thought a dying person's final demise was very near and offered a prayer of release - an asking God to end the suffering by allowing them to enter the other world of existence - only to have a person linger on for hours or days. We professionals (that is, doctors, hospice nurses, and clergy) get the final hour wrong, a lot. But I've found even that to create some interesting and provocative conversations around the deathbed and I am thankful for the treasures those have been.
Well, I think I'm going to end this "Waiting on Death I" on that note. It's going to be a trilogy - II will revolve around the experience of waiting as my wife's mother death and in III I will share the contemplating I'm doing around my own "Waiting on Death." For now, PEACE BE WITH YOU!
The decision was made to take Pete to his home on North Maple Street in Ottawa (Ohio, for those of you who may not know the family roots). And, I'm guessing Pete had a little to say about it being his wish to go home for his final days. Pete lived his whole life on Maple Street. One of the mantras used numerous times in the funeral home during the visitation hours and at the funeral was: "He was born on Maple Street, he lived his whole life on Maple Street, and he died on Maple Street." Hospice and the church were contacted and provided the necessary support to make his final days as comfortable as possible.
And so, there came a week of waiting for my cousins - Don, Deb, Diane and Daryl - and their spouses, children, grandchildren, and my aunt Jean. There were others who were part of the vigil both in the home and far away. The "Waiting on Death" experience is difficult, interesting, full of both good and bad emotions, comforting, peppered with the telling of stories both positive ones and negative ones - some recalling favorite family events and some revealing things never known before - faith, hope, joy, denial, tears, laughter, food, and well, about anything one can imagine.
The purpose of this post is to reflect for awhile on the experience of waiting on death. Depending on how much more I comment on in this post it's probably going to lead to one or two more pieces - a sort of Part I and Part II or a Blog Trilogy. Only time will reveal which it will be, so here goes:
I long ago lost count of how many times I was present with persons and their loved ones as the last hour approached. There were the family members - dad, grandparents, in-laws, and sister-in-law - but there were also the church members and friends. One of the unique aspects of being clergy is that we get invited into / included in this wondrous/mystical/magical/painful/healing period of time between a person learning they are going to die sooner than later and their actual death. I hope I am properly understood when I share with you that I experienced it as one of the most rewarding/fulfilling aspects of ministry. Oh, it was often hard and painful but the journey with a person and loved ones during those last days was also very profound and mysterious and spiritual. Words and emotions get shared then that are seldom ever so real. Well wishers - neighbors, friends, other relatives, the community of faith - all rally to aid in the grieving and waiting with food and calls and cards and visits depending on the personality and comfort level of the ones offering the support.
But, still there is the waiting - the knowing death is coming but not at all sure when. We ask for some idea: "How long, doc?" Usually doctors admit that there is really no way to know for sure but succumb to the family pressure and offer best guesses. That's what they really are in the final analysis, best guesses. I cannot tell you the number of times I've thought a dying person's final demise was very near and offered a prayer of release - an asking God to end the suffering by allowing them to enter the other world of existence - only to have a person linger on for hours or days. We professionals (that is, doctors, hospice nurses, and clergy) get the final hour wrong, a lot. But I've found even that to create some interesting and provocative conversations around the deathbed and I am thankful for the treasures those have been.
Well, I think I'm going to end this "Waiting on Death I" on that note. It's going to be a trilogy - II will revolve around the experience of waiting as my wife's mother death and in III I will share the contemplating I'm doing around my own "Waiting on Death." For now, PEACE BE WITH YOU!
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Easter = Resurrection = Body of Christ = Community
The experience which motivated this post happened a couple of weeks ago but Easter provides a good backdrop for blogging about it. In most Easter Sunday morning sermons, I would at some point make reference to the understanding that the church - the Body of Christ - is the physical reality of Jesus the Christ - and that is at least one way to make sense, understandable, maybe even believable this idea of resurrection. Something happened to cause a bunch of frightened, depressed, disheartened followers to begin to function again. Something happened to instill in them a new confidence, a new enthusiasm, to hope and believe again. The resurrection is at least the reality that a group of people was refueled and retooled to continue to live the journey and into the reality of the Kingdom of God here on earth. And it is still when we experience new life, new hope, new ideas, new goals, community, today that we know the truth of the concept of resurrection.
So, here's what happened on a Sunday morning a few weeks ago. One of the first things I found I could not do while I was going through testing and before diagnosis of ALS was sing during Sunday morning worship. I simply did not have enough support from the diaphragm to push out music (no cracks please about whether what I did when I was able to sing was music or not!). It was hard, friends, to be in worship and not be able to sing. Of course, part of it was conserving my energy in order to have enough strength to share the morning message.
Over the last two years I have gone from holding the hymnal and mouthing the words to simply reading the words. But two weeks ago I realized it was going to be too much to even hold the hymnal. And so, I just sat there and listened to the congregation - the community of faith - the Body of Christ - sing. And suddenly, I realized they were my voice! I was singing because I was present with the community! Wow! Now, I've preached about such ideas before - told congregations of such circumstances - and tried to inspire us to think of ourselves that way, but let me tell you when it actually happens there's nothing quite like it! Oh, I still would rather be one of the physical voices but I sure appreciate being part of a community of faith where others are caring and carrying me and many others.
One last word here. I know over the years I've stressed the importance of the community of faith - the church - being the place and the body of folks who most profoundly live out this ministry of caring. But today I think we need to be careful not to be overly zealous about the uniqueness of the community of faith. I would note that there are other arenas where such experiences of caring and resurrection occur. I have experienced and been reminded in recent months of other communities that have been my fortune to be associated with and from which I still draw strength and courage on this journey. I've been out to eat, emailing, face-booking, and visiting with high school and college friends, teammates in some cases, and had them retouch my life with memories and their human touch of words and hugs and handshakes and smiles and tears. This week a couple of former YFers are coming to visit and there have been some pretty awesome pictures on Facebook of other former YF members getting together. I really look forward to such visits even though my talking during them is becoming more challenging, more limited. Community, the resurrection life, can be experienced in a neighborhood, a MOPS group, an athletic team, friends, bands, service clubs, families, a staff, among coworkers, as well as the church. The important thing here is to be part of a community - to be connected with others. If you're not, the church is really a good place to find one. I would encourage you to give it a try.
Happy Easter to all my brothers and sisters in Christ and blessings on all of you whether part of the Christian faith or not!
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