Monday, September 24, 2012

Family: Fluid, Fragile and Strong



I asked my sister, Callie, if she would write a post about her family's experience this past year.  Callie, Jason and Vincent have opened their home and their lives in foster care.  They are in a transition time now - expecting a baby after 8 years - and getting ready to say goodbye to the four foster kids who have been theirs this year.  I have been deeply moved watching their journey of love.  
Here is what she wrote.

Soon our kids will leave our home, for them the only home they have ever known; for the littlest ones the only family they have ever known. I will have to face myself, and whether or not I really believe that the joys and struggles of this year have made a lasting difference, as I release them into a merciless world.  As I pack their thing-- each day, choosing something else to sort out, separating theirs from ours, them from us—I am grieved for them.  Grieved for their loss of life here that they have grown to love so much, and for the feeling of safety and security that has allowed them to thrive and move towards wholeness as children.  With no idea of what lies ahead for them, only intimate knowledge of what is behind them and the pain and confusion that has followed them through their time here with the constant goal of reunification to the life from which they came, I grieve this loss for them, deeply.

              When I think back to their first days in our home, tiny little strangers, emotionally and physically shattered, their entire identities built around struggling to survive the pain, I remember the relief that we all felt.  This was not yet their home, but a place of shelter in a storm.  At that time, I saw our home as a place of respite for these children, a place to heal wounds, to find rest, and to feel love.  Today I am struggling to return to that mentality.  Today we are a family; this is our home, and all of the visible wounds have healed.  We have moved so far beyond a place of rest that there is new life among us - literally with the addition of a newborn brother straight from the hospital now a healthy and abundantly happy eight month old - and also universally inside of each child.

            Much of this transition has been fluid, natural, and seemingly ordained by the grace of God.  Our gifts have directly correlated with their weaknesses, and our extended family and community has welcomed them with no reserve.  
Some of it has been extremely difficult.  We have felt isolated, alone and underwater, we have made critical novice mistakes, and we have struggled to see the forest through the trees. 
All of it has been transformational.  Each child is visibly transformed.  Their behavior, their medical status, their developmental and cognitive functions, and most importantly, their identity as valuable children who are worthy of love, with a place in the world and people to call their own.  I can see this so clearly, like a gift that we have given them; I can see how we have facilitated this massive change, like ripple in the universe, I can feel the difference that we have made.  For today. 

            But what about tomorrow?  Tomorrow (next month or two) Jason and Vincent and I will, with the grace of God, welcome into our family a baby brother.  We will return to the life that we knew before fostering, with the addition of our newest member, and the change that has occurred in our hearts as we cared for these children will remain with us as we continue on as a family towards whatever life has in store.  This is our blessing, to have each other, along with our extended family and community, to know health and strive towards it, and to put each other first in order that can move through life as a family.

But for the children who will leave our home, I can’t help feeling like our blessing is their curse.  Their tomorrow looks like a whole life of change and uncertainty.   Their tomorrow looks like losing their place in this world with no promise that they will ever know another.  Because Jason and I are committed to continuing to provide a healthy and balanced life for all children in our home, we have to untangle their identity from our own, and send them on to whatever life has for them.  If we don’t, a reality that we daily struggle with, then we are compromising the integrity of our home, the safety and security of our family, and the possibility that we could survive as a family to provide respite to our own children and other shattered children in the future.  Our weaknesses have become their weaknesses, our ability to continue to provide for their extraordinary needs has been depleted by time.  The demands of a fragile and emotional pregnancy, and the impending reality of another baby coming home loom large. 

            As I have considered this decision, there have been many moments where my own inadequacy, and the lack of immediate community involvement in our daily lives have felt crushingly disappointing.  I badly wish that I could do “it all,” even to the point of questioning the Lord and his ability to do what I cannot.  I feel responsible for these children and their future, even though I have known from the day that they came into my life that my window would be fleeting, and they were sent here like a breeze to blow in and then out again on their way to their somewhere.  All of their transformation seems so fragile, even reversible, when I imagine them back in the life from whence they came.  Unbearably fragile and reversible.  It sets me back to know that I cannot prevent their wounds from returning, their new-found spirit of life from failing to thrive, and their new sense of value from being destroyed by those who they will call their people, whose own wounds run deeper and have festered longer than these children’s who have inherited that pain.  Why can’t I do it all?  For my family and for them, and for their family, and the next family to come?

            Because I cannot, I have also wished throughout this process that I could find a way to share my feeling of responsibility with my community, with my family, my church, the Church.  I have wondered many times if our feeling of isolation is another of our failures, or if it is the failure of the body to recognize the ministry that we have immersed ourselves in.  If the future of these children, or even greater, of all children, were the responsibility of those who walk with Christ, were the ministry of an organization of families like a church, propping up the organization of one foster family like ours, could we sustain?  Would the month or two or six that our children will continue in the foster system waiting for permanent placement, if continued in our home, make a difference?  And could the active participation of the church in this field of mission make that happen?  Could their growth have been compounded, their understanding of love have multiplied, and our family’s feeling of isolation been negated had there been an understanding of this ministry in our community of ministers? 

            While it is myself and my limitations that cause me the most doubt, one of those limitations has been my ability to effectively share this journey with those whose might have ears to hear and hearts to sow in.   This is something I will strive to do better, not just for our future family and the children who we will encounter in our fostering journey, but for every family that sets themselves aside to be a place of respite for shattered children around us, and also for every child who finds themselves in a shelter from the storm of their life. 

            But today I will do my best to offer another day of respite for my children.  They will wake up in their very own beds to the excitement of the light of another day, like yesterday and the day before.  They will find their clothes stacked clean in outfit sets in the same place they were the morning before, take pleasure in the caring hands that bathe them and braid their hair in which they take enormous pride, and we will all make our way around the city together to school, therapies, never-ending doctor appointments, church on Sunday, joyful visits with our extended family and tumultuous visits with theirs, and back home again, where they can’t get in the door fast enough to retreat from the day, and like the putting on of a healing ritual they will enthusiastically settle into their evening routine. 
I wish you could see it.  It’s a sight to see.  All of these tiny strangers in one big family, on their way to different.  It’s a sight to see. 

We may not be their family for tomorrow, but we’re here today, committed to this window and just as unsure and frightened for their tomorrow as they are. 

            So, soon we will release them into a merciless world, but into the hands of a merciful God, who has entrusted us with their care today, and is limitless to provide for them tomorrow.



God, in your loving mercy, hear our prayer.

On October 6 we are going to "shower" the Hansons with messages and love...
If you'd like to participate in an online shower for Jason and Callie, or send them a message, follow the link           

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Stories of Life-giving change


So there is this new ebook that just came out, which is filled with creative ideas for renewing the church - ideas that come from the experiences and insights of 50 different contributors from 15 different faith traditions.  A bit of our story from Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church is in this book, alongside so many other wonderful ideas and stories!

 You can get Renew 52, for FREE by following the link.

Read an introduction to the book by David Lose

Finally, here is LNPC's contribution from the book.

Make space for sabbath
byKaraK Root

Our small, 90-year-old congregation has found new life and vitality. Our secret? We’ve stopped having worship services every Sunday. A couple of years ago we made the decision as a congregation to embrace the Sabbath and practice it communally.

Actually, the secret was a process of intentional discernment—exploring the question: Who are we now, and who are we called to be for this time and place? This meant grieving and letting go of the way we were in the past—when the congregation was ten times the size it is now and much younger. But it also meant letting go of all the messages that we’re bombarded with that tell us how we should be doing church in order to be “successful.”

Instead, we asked ourselves: Where is God already moving in and among us? How do we already embody the mission of God here and now? Our new understanding of our identity became centered in worship, hospitality, and Sabbath. We recognized and celebrated all the myriad ways we worship and experience God’s presence—and while sitting in a pew on Sundays made the list, it isn’t by any means the only way. We learned that hospitality is the practice of intentionally living inside God’s abundant welcome, and welcoming others authentically and mutually. But the big shocker for us was Sabbath.

Sabbath, we discovered, is a revolutionary, counter-cultural practice that reorients us to God’s presence and promi- nence in our lives and the world. It helps us notice and remember whose we are—that we belong to a living God for whom resting is part of creating, and whose Spirit is moving in our lives and the world, even when we are too dis- tracted or busy to notice. And Sabbath reminds us who we are—individually and communally. We are created in God’s image, set free to live out our particularity instead of being enslaved and defined by production or consumption.

For several months we read about Sabbath, we retreated with some Sabbath-keeping nuns, and we had lots of discussions about the needs in our busy communities and our own lives. And we asked ourselves: How can our life and faith come from our being and not our doing?

Thus began an experiment of keeping Sabbath as a community, an experiment that has altered us remarkably. On the first and third Sundays we worship on Sunday mornings in all our Presbyterian glory. On the second and fourth weekends we meet Saturday nights by candlelight and harp, and sink into Sabbath rest together. The “preached word” takes many forms, looser in format than the Sunday sermons, and often very interactive. We hold silence each week, two whole minutes that sometimes stretch into eternity, but which have become life-giving. Simple, TaizĂ©- like music is woven throughout the service, and we center our worship around shared prayer (something that has invaded our Sunday morning services as well). Our Saturday worship continues with a communal meal—lingering together around warm food and conversation. Then we go home.

And on Sunday, we spend the day in Sabbath. Here and there, all over the city, individuals and families purposely stopping. The guidelines we give ourselves are to try to do nothing from obligation, to pay attention to the struggle to stop and offer even that as a gift of gratitude, to get outside some, to play some, to do something that gives us delight. To be with others if we’re alone a lot. To be alone if our lives are crowded. To make the day different than our ordinary days. To pay attention to what our souls need. And to rest.

Practicing Sabbath in this way has infected our whole communal life. Our session (church board) meetings are full of worship, we retreat more as a community, we remind each other to rest, we say “no” more, and “yes” more too. Sabbath is continuing to teach us who we are and remind us whose we are. And our one-year experiment has become a way of life for our church community.
t hasn’t always been easy, and we’ve had our ups and downs, but Sabbath-keeping has become a communal rhythm that grounds us, feeds us, and offers respite for our community. It has opened us up to encounter God more candidly throughout our week, un-anchoring worship from Sunday mornings and placing it within our souls and the community instead. It has also expanded our hospitality and our encounter of others. Whenever we have a fifth Sunday, for example, we worship at a nearby county emergency children’s facility, sharing/leading chapel with and for the kids there as our own worship service.

Anxiety no longer rules around here; we’re more settled and joyful. Most importantly, though, I think we’d all say we no longer go to church; we are the church. I suspect that Sabbath has taught us that.

Kara K. Root is pastor of Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church in Minneapolis, Minn. She has an M.Div. from Fuller Seminary, and is a Minister of Word and Sacrament and Certified Educator in the PCUSA. As mom to two entertaining kids (and two unruly dogs), and wife and proofreader to a wily theologian, she is fully immersed in life. She’s written for Sparkhouse’s re:form curriculum, Homily Service Journal, WorkingPreacher.org, and Patheos. She blogs about ministry and motherhood at “in the hereandnow.” 


Sunday, September 16, 2012

90 Years of Wonder and Life



Life is strange and a little amazing.  Seeing this timeline stretching across the back of the sanctuary and all of us here today makes me wonder, what if those first people, sitting in the shade of a tree in 1915, with their bibles open, swatting away flies and talking about faith, what if they could see us today?  Or the ones who raised $1200 to buy the plots of land, or $6000 to build the first chapel on this site in 1918? What if the crowd who sat together filled with joy and hope at the future when Lake Nokomis Presbyterian Church became officially incorporated in 1922 could have a glimpse of us right now, sitting here in all of our own struggles and joys, trying to do this life the best we know how, just like they were, so long ago, in the church they saw begin? 

Even though the dinner began with turkey in the 30s, would they be excited to know we’re still eating Ham (comma) and Cherry Pie every year for over eighty years?  Would those empowered ladies who had recently been granted the right to vote be tickled to hear that the bazaar that has been raising money for missions and agencies in the community through jams and quilts and attic treasures every year since 1924 is just a few weeks away? 

How would it feel to know that you were part of something that was still going on, long after you were gone?  That your life, your story, your quirky personality and tricky milestones of life, and hard work and sweat, and gentleness and tears, was woven into the fabric of a community reaching far beyond your whole lifetime and all those you knew?  

Would they feel as blessed and awed as I feel to see the story laid out - That for decades your music, Jane, filled this sanctuary and lifted people’s souls, or your teaching, Marlys, guided a generation and more in embracing their own story, and seeking to understand and live out their faith?  That living last suppers and youth disaster relief trips and whole lives that began with water dribbled on a bawling forehead and feet pounding through halls and Easter bonnets and choir robes and floor hockey in the basement and confirmation corsages and college farewells and all the pain and happiness in between, were cherished and nurtured by this community of which I am now a part? 

How much do we really know about the impact of our lives- even our ordinary, very human and faltering lives, as we are being rooted and grounded in love?  How much could we really grasp about how vastly connected it all is, how far deep it goes, how profoundly significant and prevailing is a life in the hands of the living God, to say nothing of a whole collection of them, and collections of them over time? Could we even begin to fathom what is the breadth and length and height and depth, or would our imagination short-circuit first?

And if we could pause on the threshold of that place, with just the faint awareness that we have our toes tipped over the edge of something spectacular, if we could, with the slight whiff of awe and wonder in our nostrils, breathe it in deeply and let it fill us momentarily and then spill out, as these things usually do in the only language remotely up to the task, that of poetry and prayer, and pray,

if we could pray for those who are coming down the river, and for those who are swimming in it with us right at this moment, for those we love and those we’ve yet to meet and those we will never know…  If we could put words to this thing in the form of a wish, a hope, a prayer, a longing lifted to Almighty God, what would it be?  What would we say of this mystery of living and life?
 
My guess is it would be a little like the prayer that that Pastor Paul prays for his people, a prayer that begins from the astounding mystery that in Christ God restores the world to its maker, and all people to one another, that this living business is sacred, and it touches on salvation and hope and redemption and promise, that God is doing something both outside and within the very fabric of what we see and do every day, that pulsing inside everything real is the most real thing of all: God has come, God is here, God is bringing all things to Godself, also known as, Christ has died, Christ has risen and Christ will come again.
So from that place, “for this reason”, Paul prays for his people this impossibly grand prayer, this extravagant prayer, beautiful and intangible. To know that which is beyond knowledge, to grasp that which is immeasurable.  To be filled with the fullness of the one who is all in all. The one who can accomplish abundantly far more than we could ever ask for or even ever imagine. 
It is a tremendous and impossible prayer, but he prays it anyway.

  And then he writes it down for them, in a letter to them, just between his description of who God is and what God has done, and then his explanation of the way we live it out in our lives. Right where our human story meets up with the Divine story is where he falls to his knees, lifts his face to the sky and prays that the mystery would fill them, swallow them, seep into and out of them, open their eyes and their hearts and their hands and their lives to the love of God that surpasses all knowledge, that claims and calls them to fullness of life.

And I suspect that a tiny part of what happens when we are church together, in all our goofy and ordinary caring and arguing and forgiving and hoping and grieving ways, is that from time to time we get our own glimpse, our own whiff, our own inkling and passing awareness, we get to dip our toe into this mystery and every now and again have that breath-stealing peek that things are a lot bigger, a lot more poignant and magnificent than they might seem.   And these glimpses happen in the same space that God’s presence with us happens – person to person, in community, as we share life and doubts and joys and prayers with each other.  As we are church.

The other day, I shared with a few people something that I think of almost daily in my role as pastor here. In fact, this moment I recall so often might be what clinched the deal for me.  Before I really got to know LNPC, when I was first interviewing with the Pastoral Nominating Committee in 2008, I asked them how they would describe the job of a pastor to a friend or neighbor who was not a church-goer.  This was my sneaky way of fishing for their true view the pastoral role, you see, the job description behind the job description. 
Each member of the committee responded with a few things about what they thought a pastor did, and then finally Gary Johnson stopped and leaned toward me and said, “Look, we know how to be the church. We just need a pastor.” 
And boy is this true.  This congregation knows how to be the church.  And that’s not to say that everything is perfect – human beings are broken and beautiful all rolled up into one, and being church with each other is a messy and complicated business, but it’s also simple. Like Gary said. It’s about loving each other. It’s about honesty and trust and seeking God and being human. It’s about sharing what we have for the good of all, and breaking bread and eating food with glad and generous hearts, and praising God and having the goodwill of all the people.   

Toward the end of 2010 we shared a wonderful conversation around the question, What is Church to me?  We sought to uncover, What is this thing we're part of?
And we got lots of beautiful answers from each other, here they are:

Church is prayer.
It is hands - that hold and embrace those in need,
that reach out beyond ourselves and reach up to God.
It is smiles and connection.
It is where I go to be real.
It is the people of eschatological imagination.
Church is celebration and grief shared,
it is where we learn and grow
and the people that help us remember the truth.
It is what connects us to the story of God's faithfulness in the past and helps us see God's faithfulness right now in our lives and in the world.
It is the things that help us notice God and feel God with us.
Church is singing
and communion
and baptism
and worship
and laughter
and tears
and hugs
and helping each other.
It is giving what I can and seeing it multiply.
It is being connected to something bigger than myself.
It is being held by something greater than myself.
It is belonging to God
and participating with God.
Church is the place to ask questions and doubt.
It is a place to play with questions and ideas about God.
It is the protection around me,
accountability and support.
Church is the people who live forgiveness together.
It helps me see where I am wrong
and invites me to think more deeply
and live more intentionally.
It is love.
And in all of this, we are reminded that Church is not a place we go.
It is who we are.
We are the Body of Christ,
with each other,
for the world.

And so today we celebrate the past and rejoice in the present and we do both of these things on behalf of what will be.  Because the church is always about the promise of God that is coming, and even already is.  It is about living from the fullness we can’t yet get our arms around, and loving with the depths we can’t quite get our mind around, and standing in our place in the stream of hope with all the saints, those before us and those after us and recognizing and joining hands with those around us right now in this life we’ve been given and this community we get to build and be. 
And this little part of the Body of Christ is strong and faithful, and it’s real and honest, and it’s vulnerable and generous, and it is truly being rooted and grounded in love. 

And I wish I could hear what they’ll look back on and say of us in another 90 years - I can make guesses at some of the stories they’ll tell of the our shenanigans and spirit.

But mostly I get a little giddy at the thought of people I will never know, long after I and all of you are gone, sitting together in all of their own struggles and joys, trying to do this life the best they know how, just like we were, so long ago, also living from the promise of God’s future that holds us all, and sharing what they have for the good of all, and breaking bread and eating food with glad and generous hearts, and praising God and having the goodwill of all the people. And being church.
What a wondrous thing to be part of. Truly.

Amen!





Sunday, September 2, 2012

On life lost and saved, and the big question's invitation





My sister was telling me about a job interview she had this week, during which she was asked the question, “What would people who know you say that they do not like about you?” 
When she told me this, as someone who knows her, naturally, a handful of things immediately came to mind. But the question so threw her in the moment she was wondering about what she had answered. And it made me wonder if I could answer it about myself, if I would dare to answer it about myself. 
What do people who know me not like about me? What do they like about me? Who would they say that I am? And is that who I truly am?
What summarizes a person?

Jesus asks a question and throws his friends for a loop.  He starts by inviting them to describe stories, report rumors, recap the buzz.  Who do people say that I am?  Fun game, ok!
Some say this, others that, you know.
But then he asks them what must feel like a frighteningly vulnerable thing- both to ask and to be asked, “Who do you say that I am?”
Imagine asking that of your spouse, your brother, your close friend, your daughter.  Who would you say I am?
Not even, How would you describe me? What are my defining characteristics, my strengths and weaknesses? 
But, in your words, who am I?

Perhaps the deepest and most difficult question most of us spend a lifetime with, is, Who am I? And just when we think we have a grasp on it, we keep changing, slippery old us! and we have to keep wrestling with it anew.
Who am I, now that my partner has died?
Who am I, now that I have this diagnosis?
Who am I with this newfound freedom? 
This person to love?
This job that inspires me?
Who am I now that I am suddenly responsible for this tiny new being? 
Who am I when I’ve done something so horribly outside what I thought I was capable of?
When I can’t take back those words, when I can’t repair that breach?
Who am I when who I thought I was has changed?
Who am I? is a scary question, and not one we often invite others to contemplate with us.

So Jesus opens up his chest and asks them to peer inside?
Who am I, would you say?

And right away, Peter, who has been waiting for this chance, who has been mulling this question in those moments of deep thought before sleep creeps up to deliver you, who has given up a perfectly stable career to follow this guy around because the question has so intrigued and compelled him and now he’s finally ready to issue his conclusion, and, frankly, is thrilled at being asked, answers, “Why Jesus?! You are the Messiah!”
 
And oh, it feels great to say it! To say it outloud because it summarizes everything Peter has longed for and all that he hasn’t put words to until now.  God is saving us! Before my eyes every day I see the promise made real – in his words, in his healing, this is it! He is it! We are being delivered from all that is broken, the fulfillment is here and I am ready to declare it!
So face beaming in confidence and trust, he delivers his pronouncement. Most likely he is expecting a hug. Or some kind of praise for his astute observations.  Affirmation, at least. Yes, Peter, you hit the nail on the head, YOU. *nuggy*

But not this. Not this diatribe about suffering, humiliation and death.  Not this ideological whiplash.
What you say is true. I am the Messiah. But I do not think it means what you think it means.  Messiah means I’ll suffer. It means I’ll die. It means that as hard as all this is, it’s going to be doubly hard on me and on those who follow me.

And Peter is rattled. Jesus, what are you saying? I’ve seen what you are; you are here to save us all!  Stop this crazy talk!  You’re stepping way outside the definition of you that I’m comfortable with.
And then Jesus sharply rebukes him (which had to sting), and he then calls the crowd around him and tells everyone what Messiah really means.

Who am I?
Not your hero, after all. Not the fulfillment of all your wishes and dreams, who ends your distress and solves all problems and make everything better. I am not the one who saves you out of this.  I am the one who joins you in this.

I was at a wedding last weekend, and if anything involves asking who people are and what it’s all about, it’s weddings.

Who’s that?
Groom’s mom. 
Friend of the bride’s dad. 
She comes from money. 
He’s a professional hockey player.
She’s in the middle of an ugly divorce. 
He drinks a little too much. 
She’s really nice. 
He owns a small farm and dabbles in investments on the side.  And in one or two words, a line or so, we summarize and totalize each person who drifts past and finds their seat.

Even the couple standing there looking at each other, ready to give each other their whole lives – how completely do they really know one another?  How completely do we really know ourselves?

I would love to be at a wedding sometime and hear a preacher tell it like it really is.  Eyes twinkling, opening jokes aside, he’d lean in and catch their gaze and hold it.  Then he’d say, perhaps a bit sternly, You two love each other; that’s good. You’re really going to need that. Because this thing you’re about to do is a lot harder than it looks. And sometimes you are going to want out.

He’d ignore the uncomfortable shifting of the people in the pews, and plow onward, speaking only to the couple on the brink of this life commitment.

And there are things about yourself you are going to wish you could change, and this other person is going to see all of that over the years.  And you are going to watch them change in ways that you like and in ways you don’t like so much, and also they’ll stay the same in ways you might secretly be hoping will change.  The point is, it’s messy. 
And it isn’t going to be easy loving, choosing to love, every day, being who you are, accepting who they are.  You will be surprised again and again, and drawn into deeper mystery, fresh discomfort, and new discoveries.

And guess what? Your life doesn’t really belong to you anymore.  You’re losing it. From now on, you are his; she is yours. Car crashes, cancer, heartbreak and breakdowns – when they come, you will carry hers far heavier than your own, and when he suffers great loss, it will carve you out inside.

And now we would all be silent, not a cough or wiggle among us, watching the couple watching the pastor, taking it all in, weighing his words.

And if you have kids, when they come you’ll lose your life all over again – all the things you thought made you you, all the freedoms you enjoy and the capacity to worry just about your own self and each other- that disappears – your life belongs to them now. You will worry about them and shape your days and your nights around them, and you’ll sacrifice for them and see them and love them for who they are in ways that will break your heart over and over again.

But please hear this: in losing your life, you will gain it. Because to belong to another is the most precious thing there is. You are theirs.  They are yours. In all this vast world, the mystery of this other is a gift to belong to, and you give to them belonging as well. This is the power of love – it takes away your life and gives it back in breathless beauty and shocking suffering that is shared and given and known.  And this, my dears, this is what it means to be truly alive.

And maybe for a moment, before the evening disintegrates into nostalgia and schmaltz, we will all feel a little awed at what it is to be blessed human beings, gifts to each other, sitting here together in all our messy and mysterious glory and need.

Jesus looks at his beloved disciples, and at the crowds of people gathered around and he wants them to know, this Messiah gig is not all it’s cracked up to be.  He doesn’t get to swing into this life and rescue people out of it without touching down.  Every single place of grief and separation boring into our gut he shares with us, every single breakdown of trust, loss and tragedy wrought between us, every person who goes to bed hungry, angry or painfully alone, he is there, holding it with us, joining us in it.  His life is already entirely lost for our sake.

Yes, I’m the Messiah.  That means I belong to the world, to each and every one of you, and in me the whole world has its belonging.  And so to follow me means opening up your heart as well, to all the world, and to every beloved, befuddled mystery of a person made in the image of God.  

It means feeling the suffering they feel, taking on each other’s burdens, standing with and for one another when the going is hard, accepting being misunderstood, getting angry but loving anyway. Sticking it out as a person who belongs to many others and to whom many others belong.

This is not an easy life, being the Messiah.  And neither is it easy following the Messiah.  This is a real life you’re signing up for, Jesus wants them to know.  It’s not romantic escapism, or a religious formality, it’s agreeing to the raw and often painful, a life lived wide awake and open. 

Remember when we began the summer of faith? And we listened to the question of faith that confronts us when the person of Jesus confronts us- however he comes – the question when the disciples stand with him in the aftermath of a storm calmed – Who then is this?
Who then is this - who calls us to follow him into the heart of suffering, the very heart of love?
Who then is this – who confounds our definitions and draws us ever nearer?
Who then is this - who pulls us away from answers and conclusions, and invites us instead into mystery, and belonging, and the power of love to take away life and give it fully all at once?

And we, with our own who am I?s - our relentless seeking is lifted to the One to whom we belong, the One in whom our selves are found and never lost, and we are invited to venture that trembling and vulnerable inquiry – What about you, God? Who do you say that I am? 
Because I want to be that. How you see me.
If it is generous and brave and forgiving,
if it is daring to love and open to life and risking for others, I want to be that

And I want to live the life of faith, where Jesus brushes aside what everyone else says about who he is and asks me himself, Who do you say that I am?

And I don’t want to be afraid when the answer surprises me, or makes me uncomfortable, when it isn’t as clean and pristine, or as strong and invincible as I had hoped. I want to be drawn in to try to answer it again and again each time I see God’s love and grace, and not to foreclose and accept how others define God for me, or how I think things are supposed to be.  I want to step into the vulnerable place to be asked by God, invited by God, Are you willing to follow where I go?

What summarizes a person?  
Who would you say that I am?
In a thousand years of living you couldn’t completely answer this question about even your own self, let alone sum up the deep mystery that is another human being.  You could dance around the margins, and plumb the depths here and there, but even in a lifetime of loving someone faithfully, the vastness of their being will remain something of a dazzling mystery.  But the invitation to discover others, to let others begin to know you – this is sacred indeed. And that God would invite us into this conversation, would welcome us into this endeavor? Well, that is something else altogether.
That is soul ripping open to the world’s pain and beauty in each precious fellow child of the Divine.  That is love taking hold, and belonging setting in. That is watching your life become both utterly lost and joyously saved.
Oh, may we bravely entertain such an invitation!  
And may we courageously follow wherever the question leads!
Amen.

Another version of this sermon on this text, adapted and updated, was preached 2/21/16, and can be found here.

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