A commonly claimed
Connection: storms and rainbows.
Yet which is more real?
Light beams conjure the
Rainbow, slicing water drops
a tempting cascade
of colored wonder
Cheshire Cat’s inverted grin
Vanishing as fast
And while we ponder
Nature’s bold magnificence,
The next storm gathers
On the horizon
Behind our glazed gaze, bringing
Unbridled fury.
At Sunset
He stares into his palm
Wonderment as a god
Embracing his own.
And I with equal wonder
Stare into what’s absent
Beyond the tangled hand.
So we remain side by side
Both convinced of that
Which is seen and unseen.
Agreement is irrelevant
For two bound by love
Which engulfs the distance.
He stares with wonder at the object I do not see. Who’s to say whose reality is worth more? There are many things I cannot see. The nurse comes to take him to dinner. He carries his object with him and I walk behind wondering what else he possesses that is lost to me forever.
I stared into flames
Until I saw nothing but
The cosmos’ first spark
It flared through my soul
Burning all but trace remnants
Of clay and scarred earth
Bits and pieces, shards
Of creation’s first fumbling
Skeletal and dry
Yet deep within the
Cavernous darkness a trace
Of moisture remained
Which defied the flames
And slowly seeped upward towards
Heat’s flickering threat
Defiant and bold
Quenching the thirst of ages
Until it engulfed
The ravenous flame
Now the glowing residue
domesticated
A Lost Dialogue
What brings you out ‘neath this tall pine, Socrates?
My legs, good Philiapoesis, and my desire for better thought.
I see, Socrates, you appear to be in good form.
I would be better to hear of your mind
for it is clear you are delighting in much pleasure.
I am doing what I do best. Writing a poem.
How wonderful to write a poem!
Yes, it is a gift of the gods. Do you write, Socrates?
No, the gods have given me different pleasures.
Would you read my poem? I desire your thought.
In a moment. Right now something else comes to mind.
What is a poem? Is its beauty in the sentiment or the form?
Ah, Socrates, the beauty is in the form!
I see. Form alone, this is the meaning of the poem?
I do not understand. What is on your mind?
Do you question the beauty of the form, Socrates?
If it is form alone, my friend, and not the heart and thought
of mind, could poetry reach the heights of true pleasure?
The discipline of restricting words to form pleasures
the mind. It is a puzzle—the words in their proper form.
It does puzzle me that you think thus—I would have thought
that beauty dwells in the structure and truth of the poem.
Do you find no truth in mere form, Socrates?
May I read your poem? Do you mind?
Not at all! What an honor to be understood by your mind.
Many of your words are repeated several times, like “pleasure.”
Those are the rules of the poem! Do you like it, Socrates?
What does it mean,? Reveal its truth, if you don’t mind.
Truth, Socrates? Follow the rules! That is the truth of the poem.
One shelves words like one shelves books? Is that your thought?
Well, perhaps I have not given enough thought
to the importance of the heart as well as the mind
So there is more than form to the good poem?
The form conveys to the heart and mind pleasures.
But beauty and truth may lie elsewhere than the form?
You may be right, Socrates.
We must try harder if the truth we seek is to come to mind.
Some other day, Socrates, right now I desire other pleasures.
Good day. I will give more thought to your words about a poem.
Peter, Paul, and Us
John 21:1-19, Acts 9:1-9
I don’t often remember my dreams. I seldom dream things worth remembering and never dream things worth mentioning in sermons. But I had a dream this week which I think has some bearing on one of our texts this morning. It was, perhaps, inspired by the text.
I do not remember all of the dream. But I remember the cats. And the dogs. It seems there was a family gathering of some kind joined with some other people and everyone seemed to have cats and dogs. I was given a kitten as a gift.
Now it is true that my family enjoys their animals. Everyone has cats and three of the four of us have at least one dog. Our family has but one dog and one cat which really makes us amateurs by Hawley family standards.
But back to the dream. Lots of cats and dogs. And, for some reason, in my dream, I felt responsible for taking care of them all. The image I remember vividly is opening the door to see a multitude of cats and dogs all wanting to come in, all needing something. I felt overwhelmed.
Now the reason I think this dream matters is because of Jesus’ statement to Peter about feeding his sheep. It is commonly understood that chapter 21 of John was not a part of the original gospel. It was added at some later time and, based upon its content, seems to have two purposes. One purpose is to clarify some later opinion concerning the disciple whom Jesus loved. That is not our concern this morning so we will bracket that concern. What is more to the point this morning is the rehabilitation of Peter’s image. Peter was a crucial leadership figure in the early church and there were no doubt detractors who preferred another’s leadership instead. It was Peter, after all, who denied Jesus three times. It is hard to get a job in the Church with that on your record. But John 21 sets everything right. Peter confesses his love three times—one for each denial—and is given his marching orders from Jesus. Feed my sheep. And that is what I think my dream was about. Feeding the sheep, and how hard it is to do that sometimes.
Remember Michael Dukakis? He was Governor of Massachusetts and the Democratic candidate for President in the year that George H. W. Bush was elected president. I remember Michael Dukakis because I remember the moment I decided not to vote for him. It was during a televised debate, something I ordinarily do not watch. Dukakis was opposed to capital punishment and the moderator of the debate, Bernard Shaw of CNN, asked the governor this question: If your wife were brutally attacked and murdered, would you favor the death penalty for her assailant? Dukakis’ answer was offered in a reasoned, level-headed, dispassionate way: “Why, no. I would not.” I do not remember what he said after that because I stopped listening.
I thought, "you lying fox." You see, I also oppose capital punishment. But if someone brutally murdered my wife I would truthfully want to remove their head with a spade. Which, I would argue, is why we need laws. We need laws to govern us from our passions. We need laws established in non-stressful times to guide our paths in the stressful times. It is understandable and permissible to feel certain ways. It is not always right to act based upon our feelings alone.
So when Jesus says “feed my sheep” we can certainly understand his concern. There are many sheep and they do need tending. But we must avoid the Michael Dukakis approach to this text. That approach would be to quietly, rationally agree and imply that nothing less is acceptable. But this is dishonest. Because there are times when we are worn out, exhausted, waiting to find out when it is our turn to be fed for a change.
My dream and this text are the tributaries that flow from my life circumstance right now. My mother will have knee surgery in ten days. My father will be admitted to the Presbyterian Manor in Lawrence. Mom cannot walk and Dad cannot understand all that is happening to him and around him. My brother and his wife are exhausted from all of the wonderful but difficult work they have been doing to assist my parents. My other brother and sister are exhausted from worry and tormented by academic schedules and responsibilities that make their participation in these events difficult. Amy and I are exhausted from living somewhere in between—somewhat helpful in Lawrence but also concerned that with all of our obligations it is hard to be more supportive.
And you know my point is not to focus on my particular condition. It is simply the condition about which I am most familiar. But I know many of you are also tired, exhausted, spent from the ways in which you are feeding the sheep in your lives.
This week at the Presbyterian Women Circle meetings we considered the next to last lesson on the book of Joshua. It concerned rest. Where to we find rest? For Joshua rest meant no one was attacking at the moment. Maybe many of us can relate to that. The author of the study also wanted to draw in Hebrews wherein rest is associated with the Sabbath. God rested on the seventh day and so shall we. And, naturally, there is the rest that comes at the end of our days. Our rest in the arms of God.
Where do we find our rest? But, what may be more on our minds, are we entitled to any? Jesus is full of mixed messages. Be perfect, he says, as your Father in heaven is perfect. If you do not feed, cloth, visit, water the poor then you will be cast into the outer darkness. If you love me, feed my sheep.
But Jesus also says do not worry. Jesus says that he loves us and we are to love one another. Jesus says God sent the Son into the world for salvation and not condemnation. And in the same gospel wherein Jesus says be perfect, he invites all who are weary and carry a heavy burden to come to him, for he will give them rest.
The companion piece to this morning’s John reading is the conversion of Paul by a vision of Jesus. Like Peter, Paul had issues. Principally his resume was full of church persecution. He was a Pharisee---a perfect one it appears---who had it in for this new sect of Judaism which followed the peasant Messiah Jesus. But when the peasant turned radiant king addressed Paul from the sky, Paul changed his mind and his ways and became the Church’s first great international ambassador.
But he didn’t change completely. Sometimes Paul can be as demanding in grace as he was in the law. He can be manipulative as when he coerces money out of the Macedonians for the church in Jerusalem. He can be judgmental, as when he orders a man thrown out of the church for sexual misbehavior. In short, he can be as much of a mess as Peter or you and I.
But why should Peter and Paul be any different from, say, Abraham who fathered a child with his wife’s maid (his wife told him to do it) and then cast her and her son out (again, his wife and God told him to do it—but still….) Or Jacob who stole his brother’s blessing with the help of their mother. Or David who fathered Solomon with another man’s wife and then tried to have that man killed. Or Solomon who made his own people slaves. Well, you get the point. God, for God’s own reasons, chooses over and over again to work out his purpose with a rag-tag group of folks who are far from perfect, far from entirely committed, far from saintly.
So if we are inclined to say, as I am from time to time, that I am not fit for the Kingdom of Heaven because I just don’t have the energy for it right now, then we are in good company. Jesus asked Peter if he loved him. Peter said yes. We have no reason to believe Peter lied. Then Jesus said, feed my sheep. Did he mean that very moment? Drop everything and go? Probably not. After all, think about the setting for this conversation. A breakfast which Jesus prepared. Not only has Jesus fried the fish, but Jesus made the catch possible. Jesus, in essence, feeds his sheep before he asks anyone else to feed anyone else’s sheep. And that is the part of the story we do not always remember. We hear “feed my sheep” as a command. And perhaps it is. But the command is never the first thing. Nor is it the last thing. It is the middle thing. What comes first is the love and sustenance which Jesus offers. The last thing is the assurance of everlasting life. What happens in the middle are our best efforts to balance the demands in our life—to offer assistance and aid where we are able—and to remember that we, too, are deserving of care and compassion.
Sun invited me
To dance in the shadows of
Crystal palaces
Moon invited me
To dance in the twilight of
Ancient cathedrals
Stars invited me
To dance past the threshold of
Time—infinite waltz
You invited me
To dance in hand-me-down-clothes
Alone in the dark
I said to the sun
The moon and the stars, thank you
My dance card is full
There were warm days, no doubt,
but I can only imagine the cold.
Stripped, scarecrow trees. Green leaves.
A stark memory none could remember.
Barren as puritan souls
feeding like ravens on carrion fear.
Did fear prompt those children’s taunts?
No doubt it was something more.
Remember the smell of importance
mixing with wet leaves.
Warm attention on a cold night.
They traded a soul for fifteen minutes of fame.
He preached soul's salvation—
Rev. Parris—vendor of fear and failure.
Happily made his fire with tinder of doubt
while the congregation remembered the cries
of teenagers, cries that frightened away
whatever reason remained in the cold winter.
Sarah stormed into that cold on Sacrament Sunday.
Her sister, Rebecca, kindest soul, accused.
They feared the devil himself. Sarah’s rebuke
gripped the village and no doubt they would
remember her outrage and finger her next.
Truth now brittle as December leaves.
The spectral evidence leaves little doubt
Sarah, Mary, and Rebecca chained in a cold
prison cell, a rope waiting for any who doubt
the teen’s fear, shrinking from specters
who pinched and strangled their souls.
None could remember a time before witches.
Sarah remembered years after the hanging
and cried for justice, to leave a mark on history
like the marks on the cold necks of 19 women.
Three sovereigns the judgment of the puritan souls
whose hysteria and fear, fed by the words
of young girls, who, other times, they would surely doubt.
Before leaving the story of fear
the poet remembered today’s puritan souls
who never doubt the other’s sin.
The summer before her 11th birthday my daughter waited for her letter from Hogwarts. In spite of my assurances that, as muggles, she stood little chance (not to mention that American witches do not go to Hogwarts, only English ones), she lived in optimism until it was clear that her invitation was not to be.
Muggle I may be, but had there been an American equivalent to Hogwarts than perhaps Jamie might get invited to attend. After all, her ninth great grandmother was a witch.
Well, accused of being one. But the context was far from the romantic imagination of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The time was 17th Century New England. The Place: Salem.
Years ago when we lived in New York, my wife and I made a stop in Salem. There are many interesting things to see in Salem. Although our schedule did not allow us to take in “Dracula’s Castle” or the “Horror Wax Museum”, we did stop at the House of Seven Gables, which Hawthorne made famous in his dark “romance” of the same name. We saw a film on Essex County presented by the National Park Service. We stopped at “Pioneer Village”, a facsimile of seventeenth century colonial life, where a blacksmith forged a nail for us with his hammer and anvil.
And there were witches. There were witches on street signs, witches on doorways, witches on cafes, taverns, and souvenir shops. Each witch recalled Salems infamous legacy; the witchcraft trials of 1692
My (8th) great grandmother, Sarah Cloyce, was among those accused of witchcraft. So were her sisters, Rebecca Nurse and Mary Esty. Although Sarah managed to avoid the gallows, Rebecca and Mary were not as fortunate. They were hanged, Rebecca on July 19 and Mary on September 22. I stood at the grave of the magistrate who officiated at my relative’s trials. What must he have been thinking? What were any of them thinking?
I have consulted “The Annals of Witchcraft in New England” published in 1869. It claims to be the first survey of its kind and is notably sympathetic to those accused. I found these entries regarding my (8) great aunts:
Mary Esty…appears to have been a meek and amiable lady, and the judges seemed somewhat staggered when in this character she stood before her accusers. But as yet the monsters (the children who accused her) had met with no check, and their testimony was believed by the imbecile court. After her condemnation, she made a most touching Petition to the judges in which she besought them “not for my life, but, if possible, that no more innocent blood be shed.” All availed nothing.
This entry concerned Rebecca Nurse.
“She was sacrificed in a manner too cruel for belief. The jury returned a verdict of not guilty, but the court, by the most barefaced perversion of her answers, sent the jury out again and forced a verdict of guilty from them! There is nothing more memorable, or lamentable, in all the trials and convictions than the case of this poor woman.”
Two hundred years later, history had begun to reinterpret who were the “victims” and who were the “monsters”.
Salem’s witchcraft hysteria is one of the first recorded instances of intolerance and persecution in the new Colony. Since then, the witch trials have served a symbolic reminders that intolerance continues. For example, is was the McCarthyism of the 1950s that prompted Arthur Miller to revisit Salem in his play “The Crucible”
Today intolerance continues to plague our society in many and varied forms. What will history say of us, two hundred years from now, concerning our failures to properly identify the “victims” from the “monsters”. History must live in the present to keep us from creating tomorrow’s shame.
I can’t find the seatbelt
You’re sitting on it
No I’m not
Is anyone burned?
Burned?
Yea, I’m reading a book on CPU and I can treat burns
No
Chemical burns, electrical burns… who has a chemical burn
I got a burn
How?
Church
How?
Steam
I don’t treat that…. What’ya do?
Put ice on it
That’ll work
Hey Sudoku!
That’s my book
Can I do one
Sure
You know how to do Sudoku?
No
Then why do you want to do it?
Its easy
How?
Answers on page 67
Where’re we going?
Fairgrounds
Oh, is that near my grandmother’s house?
How would I know?
Finished
What?
Finished the Sudoku
You know sometimes I don’t cheat
Me too
Hey a fortune cookie!
That’s mine
Why is your car so dirty?
What’s it say?
You will soon find love
That’s for you!
No it’s for you
Hey that reminds me
My sister’s boyfriend came over last night
Yuck
He wanted to take her to a disco stick.
A what?
A disco stick
Is that like a stripper pole
What’s a stripper pole?
Hey the Fairgrounds
Where are the toys?
Toys?
Yea like that big circle thing
That’s the fair you dork
Yea the fairgrounds
That’s in the summer
So what’s this
Why are we here
Hey we’re first
(sound of door opening)
Hey wait up—what’s a stripper pole?
Haiku From the Empty Tomb
Mary thought he was
The gardener, and he was--
Harvesting the sown.
Peter looked with doubt
Smelling dust and fragrant wisps
Left trailing behind.
Judas was irate
With the waste of precious oil
But the woman knew
To wait would be waste
For in the tomb the ointment
Would not be needed.
The stone was heavy
The angel was stronger still
He sat and laughed, laughed.
Angels in the tomb
Are scarier than angels
In a winter’s sky
Jesus is Risen!
Why will they not believe it
Even to this day
The Easter sermon, what could be easier? Surely if there is one Sunday of the year when the preacher’s task is easy, this ought to be the one. For there is an expectancy in the air. There is a contagion on our numbers. There is an enthusiasm in the music that lifts us all. And there is, no doubt, within us a longing to hear again the affirmation of resurrection life.
But the Easter message? That is another matter! For in spite of all of our obvious sense of expectancy and preparation, there is something within us that resists the message. As evidence I want to tell you about an artifact I preserve from my father’s many years of service at the Presbyterian Church in Salina, Kansas. There was a time when a group would meet after the service to discuss the sermon. To facilitate this discussion a text of the sermon was supplied prior to the service, for note taking and reference in the discussion. One Easter Sunday the title of the sermon was Death, then Life! What makes this particular sermon memorable is that in the act of transcription, the secretary of the church, whose habit it was to put the sermon title on each subsequent page, transposed these two words, death and life. So after page one the title of the sermon appears as a header in bold print: Life, then Death! Now I don’t know if it was my father’s habit to proof the transcript but I am not sure it would have mattered. You see, this is what is so deeply embedded in our human experience. On Easter we proclaim Death, then Life! But once we are back into the world, the message returns to Life, then Death!
But we are in good company, for the disciples were slow in heart to believe, which is all the more astonishing given the greater degree of evidence that seemed to have. We would expect each of the gospels to agree on key points of Jesus’ life; his crucifixion, his resurrection, and each indeed tells this story. But it might be more remarkable to us that in each gospel we have evidence of Jesus’ followers moving from death to life, and then right back again to life to death. The women of Mark’s tomb who say nothing to anyone because they are afraid. Thomas, the disciple in John who will not believe until he can feel the physical evidence. The disciples on the road to Emmaus who can tell the story with their lips but cannot embrace it with their hearts. Matthew tells us of those who told the story that Jesus was not really raised at all, but had his body stolen by the disciples.
A few years ago the Discovery channel showed a feature wherein the lost tomb of Jesus was supposedly discovered which included, presumably, his bones. Now it doesn’t take much to interest the public in areas such as this, but I wonder if part of our fascination, if there really is any, is that some part of us hopes that this is true, because it would make things simpler. Because we do understand, at some level, that if Jesus is raised from the dead that changes everything. It is not only a hope for our own resurrection and the comfort that death is not the last word, but it also means that if Jesus is raised than what Jesus said was true--all of it-- and that the kingdom of God has come with power. We are called to live in the world differently. That is why the Easter message, as distinct from the Easter sermon, is not as easy.
I knew of a man once who was very much like the disciples in Luke's story. He was fully immersed in the Gospel story, but he kept it on an intellectual plane. Finally the man admitted his true difficulty. “If I were to admit that Christ was Lord, then I would have to give up things I have done all my life. I would have to change the way I make a living, and I can’t do that." He had heard the call correctly, for he knew that in a very real way he would have to die first if he were to follow Christ. Jesus said those who lose their life for my sake and the gospel will find it. Those so save their lives will lose it. That is the preamble to the resurrection message.
For the gospel tells us that resurrection is not just applicable to our physical death. When we allow God to enter into our lives and lead us in the ways of the kingdom, we can expect a resurrection-like change. But it is often so hard. But when the alcoholic abandons drink for good, when the Meth addict kicks the habit forever, when the teenager on the path to self-destruction reunites with his parents who have themselves discovered a responsibility to love him or her, there is resurrection. When we are able to face the imperfections that limit and immobilize us, when we can face the demons that deprive us of the fullness of life, then we know that our life--and the lives of others-- can change for the better. In these moments we understand and know in our hearts that the God who can and does transform lives here and now, that the God who invites us to die now to the self-destructive behaviors that keep us from being fully alive, that God is the same God who will be there at our physical death. And the God that loves and cares for us in this life will not abandon us at our death. That is the Gospel promise and that is the message of Resurrection.
But change is difficult. We know that. We don’t like it. Psychologists have taught us that even positive change brings great stress. There is a scale that measures stress in points and many of the life events with the largest number of points are things we would consider positive. The psychologists tell us the body knows no difference. Whatever the change, no matter how welcomed in one way, produces stress on our bodies and minds. We resist this impact. We resist change. And what could be greater change than the resurrection of Jesus Christ?
The disciples must have felt that way. Maybe this explains why they seemed so blind to the good news that walked beside them. If they had stress tests back then, how many points would you associate with Roman Occupation? Man claiming to be Messiah? Death of a close friend? Resurrection of a close friend? How many points could that possibly have? No, we don’t need to feel badly if we are slow to embrace all the resurrection means to us and to humanity generally. It is a big change. It leads us to make many changes, to open ourselves up in scary ways. Jesus invited us to die so that we might live with him in the kingdom. He invited us to take up the cross as he did. He walks with us on the dusty road and opens the scripture to us, breaks the bread with us and, as we recognize him in all of his glory, leaves us to carry on in his name.
History, your history and mine, our individual histories and our common history are a part of God’s ongoing act of creation and redemption. This does not mean that just any change is welcome or useful. The change that is worth the trouble is the change that gives growth and vitality to human life, to the church, to society. This is the message of Easter; it is of the Gospel of God active still in the course of human events. For God is a God of life. He calls us to commit ourselves to Him. He calls us to seek our security in him, and as we are willing to let all else go, to seek our security and place our trust only in him, then we know the glory of the Resurrection. Out of death, life. That is our hope, that is our experience and the reason why, in the midst of whatever change, or threat, or death, we look confidently and expectantly past the empty cross, the empty tomb, the emptiness of Easter, to the life beyond.
