Psalm 88 "Dark Nights"

         I love a lot of modern and post-modern Christian music.  I love the idea of, at least sometimes, having more than one musical instrument in worship – even guitars and drums on occasion.  I think the positive and electric melodies and energetic rhythms are a marvelous addition to the moderate and often staid 21^st century church. 

         However, I do not like the endless praise choruses, week after week, choruses whose only theme is “Whoo!  Hoo!  Isn’t life good?”  You see, if your spiritual diet consists only of this bright and cheery side of the Christian faith, then you are most certainly undernourished.  What is more, you will be unprepared when you encounter the darker side of life, an experience that every one of us will have at some point. 

         If you have not faced it already, someday someone you love will have a health crisis, and you will know most poignantly how short life is.  Or you will lose your job and with it your sense of self-worth.  Or you will become estranged from a child or parent or sibling.  Or dementia will brutally claim a spouse.

         And when that happens, you are bound to feel so lost and alone.  If you have not faced it already, someday the rug will be pulled out from under you when you least expect it, and you will go crashing down – and you will feel like a broken pot, shards of you lying around helplessly.  Your life will be in shambles. 

         Because those dark and desperate times do happen to everyone, maybe that is the reason why the psalms of lament are included in our Bible.  These are the psalms of stress and spiritual sorrow. These are the psalms of desperation and grief.  These are the psalms of burnout and “I can’t go on”.  These are the psalms that give us permission to cry out into the darkness to ascertain if God is listening, if God is there at all.  Listen to this paraphrase of part of one of them.

Lord – where are you?!
I seek refuge in you.
I need you now more than ever.
Lord – can you hear me?!
I am slipping, Lord,
the ground beneath my feet has crumbled away.
My energy has been stolen,
my joy in my work has gone.
I feel trapped as a net closes around me.
I don’t know who to trust.
The people around me seem to only
want more and more of me.
I hear people whispering about me.
I’m sure that they have only scorn for me
behind my back.
I’m sure they are plotting to get rid of me.
Lord – save me!
I am exhausted!
My eyes struggle to see
my strength fails
my bones waste away.
I am losing myself in this misery.
I am sinking into a deathly emptiness.

              A pretty dark image, to be sure.  And yet, the Celtic tradition of blessing extends even to those times – those times of exhaustion and loss and that feeling of uncontrollable sinking that we often call the “dark night of the soul”.  How can that be? 

         How can we possibly find blessing in those most difficult of circumstances? How can we find peace in the midst of pain and despair?  How can we find God especially in times of struggle?    Surely those are some of the most fundamental – though often unspoken – spiritual questions, particularly unspoken by those of us who come to worship regularly and are supposed to be so certain of our Christian faith – even though the fact of suffering has always been one of the greatest challenges of the church because its distribution and degree seems so random and unfair.

         Face it, as blogger Bobby Valentine wrote, “The Bible is not glib about evil and suffering. Just the opposite is true. The Bible in fact is brutally honest about pain, misfortune, and the challenge it presents to faith.  (However), the answer the Bible gives is not always as clear-cut as we would like it to be. “

              Many years ago, I officiated at the memorial service of a dear friend who, after three optimistic years of affirming life died of liver cancer.  He left behind a wife and four children, his twin boys being close friends of our younger son, Tim - all three of them about to begin high school.

              A few weeks after his Dad’s death, one of the boys remarked to me, “I thought that after Dad died, I would know that God had deserted me.  But instead, I feel closer to God than ever.” 

              Pretty perceptive for a teenage boy!  Though he could not really say concretely why he felt as he did, I suspect it had something to do with knowing in his heart of hearts that even in the darkest of times, God had not been absent from his family but rather could be sensed now and again in the midst of their pain.

         There was once a farm that caught fire; the barns were completely burned down, and much livestock was lost.  After the fire, the farmer was walking around the property to estimate his losses and so was poking through the rubble. 

         When he came across the charred remains of a hen, he gave it a gentle kick to move it aside.  The dead mother hen fell over.  However, much to the farmer’s amazement, out came living chicks. The mother was sheltering them from the fire by covering them under her burnt wings. Those wings were the refuge for the chicks in time of danger.

         Most of the psalms of lament in our Bible begin as lament but end on a very direct note of hope and optimism – like the happy ending of the story of the baby chicks.  As Methodist pastor Geoff McElroy noted in his blog, “The place of lament is not the end of the story. Lament in the psalms usually makes a shift towards confidence and hope, looking towards the future that the psalmist anticipates that God will provide….

         ….Lament does two things simultaneously, two things that in many ways we have regulated as unable to coexist: anguish and hope. Too often we feel we can only exist in the dark places of life as one or the other; if we have hope, then we shouldn’t feel anguish. Or if we are in anguish, we don’t allow ourselves to see any hope. But the psalms of lament push us beyond this compartmentalization of grief and pain to a place where they can maybe coexist together….It’s not that you must go from complain to praise, but that maybe it is possible (though difficult!) to be in both places together.”

This direct connection between anguish and hope may be true generally of the psalms of lament. However, the connection is not so obvious in Psalm 88 that we read earlier.  This psalm stands alone in its darkness and is sometimes called “the granddaddy of all laments”.  Surely that label fits.  This psalm does not end by praising God – or even acknowledging God.  It ends like a door slammed shut.  It ends with a cold wind blowing across our souls.  It ends “with darkness as my closest friend.”

         Elie Wiesel, in his book, Night, comments on the evening he arrived at the concentration camp, Auschwitz, at the age of 15: “Never shall I forget that night, the first night in the camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. “  He asks over and over again:  Where was God in the face of such outrage?

         Later in his book, Wiesel describes the hanging of a young boy.  Two others were to be hanged as well.  They were screaming, but the little boy remained silent.

         “Where is God? Where is He?” Elie heard someone whisper as the prisoners were forced to walk by and look at the victims. Wiesel writes, “But the third rope was still moving; being so light, the boy was still alive . . .” For over half an hour they had to watch the little boy struggle for life.

         Then Elie heard the same voice ask, “Where is God now?” He goes on to say, “And I heard a voice within me answer him, ‘Where is He? Here he is — He is hanging on this gallows . . .’”

         Wiesel came to realize over time that even at Auschwitz, in the very darkest of nights, God was there.  As Bobby Valentine wrote, “In a way God did hang beside that little boy. God did not exempt himself from human suffering.  (After all, embodied in Jesus, God) too hung on the gallows. At Golgotha, in the Night, at the Place of the Skull …(Biblical scholar and theologian Walter) Brueggemann is right. Psalm 88 only makes sense in the light — or perhaps better — the Darkness of the Cross.

         Psalm 88 shows that God does not, in the comfortable surroundings of heaven, turn a deaf ear to the sounds of suffering on this fallen planet. Instead God has joined us, choosing to live among us — in circumstances of poverty and great affliction…..The Christian message – like our psalm 88 - encompasses the full range of anger and despair and darkness.  It offers complete identification with the suffering in the world. But it goes a step forward: it offers hope. That step, of course, is called Resurrection.”

       But, for us now – coming here today with our doubts and fears and all manner of struggles - perhaps it is enough to know simply this: God is not afraid of the dark. Perhaps that is where the blessing lies that the Celtic tradition holds dear. 

God is not afraid of the dark.  And perhaps it is in the dark that all the shards of our broken lives are gathered together – maybe never made whole in the way they were before the pain, before the loss, before the despair – but gathered together nonetheless – in the dark - and repaired by a love we can not ever fully imagine. 

Psalm 113 - "Celtic Praise"

         Once there was a preacher who was trying to sell his horse.  A potential buyer stopped by and wanted to try it out.  The buyer mounted the large animal and was all set to take off.                           

         "By the way, before you start," the preacher said, "you should know that this horse has been trained to respond only to certain instructions. Go is ‘praise the lord’ and stop is ‘amen.’"

         The potential buyer sitting on the horse said, “Well, that sounds easy enough.”  He patted the horse on the neck and said, "Praise the lord," and the horse started to trot, just as the preacher said it would. The man again said, "Praise the lord," and the horse started to gallop. 

         All was going well until suddenly the rider spotted a cliff a few feet in front of them and yelled "Amen!!!" The horse stopped just in time, right at the very edge of the cliff. The man let out a sigh and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow and murmured just loud enough for the horse to hear: "Praise the Lord."  Oops!

        Our relationship with God is grounded in praise – not because God is ready to trip us up and send us flying over some cliff or because God is vain and needs praise in order to build up sacred confidence and self-esteem.  No – we praise God because God is so worthy of praise.  Look around you!  What blessings abound!  God has done such wonderful things. 

         In fact, many of the Psalms that we find in our Bible do not merely suggest that we praise God.  They do not casually call us to an attitude of praise when we might feel like it.  They actually demand us to praise. 

         At least, Psalm 113 that we just heard does.  Read in the original Hebrew, that opening sentence – “Praise the Lord!” – is not simply a recommendation or a passing thought.  It is a command.  “Praise the Lord – you and you and you.  All of you!  All of us! Praise the Lord!”

         And then the Psalmist goes on to tell us just why God is deserving of such praise.  As Reformed Church pastor Scott Hoezee notes, “The message of the psalms is that if only we could see and understand God better, we would be naturally led to praise him. Unhappily, we don't see so well, and so the psalmists need to order us to do what should come naturally.”

         What is God like then to evoke from us such praise?  Well, the Psalmist has lots to say about that too.  In this psalm in particular, nothing is left in the abstract. 

         Hoezee goes on to note, “In this case the psalmist mentions two specific things for which to give praise: one has to do with the sheer splendor of God, the other has to do with the attention God pays to us in the mundane details of our lives. Why praise God?  Because (God) is exalted—(God) made everything there is. Not only that, however, this God's real splendor is that (God) takes care of the poor and is deeply concerned for the plight of childless women.” 

         And the Psalmist can say all that too because “the Old Testament makes consistently clear that God stunned the imagination of the ancient Israelites not just because of (God’s) awesome power but even more so because of (God’s) tender care…. this was a God who could spin quasars with one hand and lift up some nameless poor person with the other.  

This was a God who could make mountains smoke and who could at the same time tenderly smile on a childless woman.” 

         In short, the Psalmist paints a picture of God as a Sacred Being who spans past, present, and future, who connects the vastness of heaven with the mundane reality of life on earth.  Here is a God who encompasses the whole universe beginning at the moment of creation, but also focuses downward and inward in order to embrace and love, to be known to, and intimately be involved with, each one of us.  Here is a God – our God – who is, at once, super large and super small.

         Personally, I love Psalm 113, this short psalm of praise – and it is a perfect one on which to reflect as we acquaint ourselves with Celtic spirituality at the start of our new worship series.  By holding up this two-pronged nature of God – expanding infinitely outward as the universe unfolds while at the same time zooming intimately inward to the most mundane circumstances in our world community – this Psalm touches on several characteristics of Celtic Christianity.

         But, first off, who were the Celts, and what is this brand of Christianity that resonates with so many people today?  Though the word, Celtic, covers a whole culture that includes pagan and pre-Christian elements, we are drawn to the form of Christianity that developed in the British Isles through the missionary work of St. Patrick and St. Columba and St. Cuthbert among others.  It was an expression of Christianity that integrated some of the ancient beliefs with more orthodox Roman Christianity. 

         The word, Celt, comes from Keltoi meaning stranger or hidden ones.  The Gaelic word is “ceilt” and means “an act of concealing” from which our English word “kilt” is derived.  And you do not need to have watched even the first season of Outlander to know what a kilt conceals under it!

         In the centuries before Christ, the northern neighbors of ancient Greece and Rome were known as the Keltoi.  Over time, these wandering people were pushed to the outer edges of the Roman Empire – to Scotland, Wales, parts of England, and Ireland.  They were rural, tribal, nomadic people, so different from those in other parts of the Roman Empire where the church was predominantly centered in powerful cities.  Besides that, they were simply too far away from Rome to be incorporated effectively into that church.

         As Trevor Miller reflects in his “Beginner’s Guide to Celtic Spirituality”, “the Roman church was unsure how to respond to these people as they were relational rather than rational, inspirational rather than institutional.” 

         As Saints Patrick and Columba and Cuthbert and the others preached the Gospel message to these nomadic tribes, what emerged was a unique form of Christianity that was grounded in the native traditions of family and community, in the wonders of the natural world, and in the sacredness of all of life.  They embraced a God who connected the vastness of heaven with the mundane realities of the lives they experienced.

         Here then are five foundational characteristics of that Celtic Christianity.  First, Celtic Christianity was based on monasticism.  However, do not be imagining hermits or be thinking of singing monks shut off from the world.  On the contrary, an essential element in the Celtic church was living in community.  That is what monasticism meant.

         The role of the church was not simply to declare doctrine, but rather to live out the Gospel of Christ in the world, in community.  The central message was less on knowing and more on doing. It was personal and relational and so reflected Celtic culture.  It was seeking to be “at home” with Jesus.  It was as St. Francis of Assisi said, “Preach the gospel; if necessary, use words.”

         Second, Celtic Christianity was a sacred celebration of the ordinariness of human life and the world.  For Celtic Christians, nothing was secular because everything was sacred and nothing lay outside of God’s grace.  God could be seen – not in mystical visions or necessarily even in church – but God could be found in and through everything around the Celts – in what they saw, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched.  It all spoke of God, and it was incarnational living at its best. 

         As Miller writes in his Guide,  “There was no false divide between the sacred and secular. Where an integrated life, of body and soul, work and worship, wonder and ordinariness; prayer and life are the norm. A sacramental outlook that, because it sees God in everything, encouraged a reverence for God’s creation and a respect for the care of his world. An everyday spirituality of ordinariness accessible to all.”  The ever-dynamic presence of God was infused all of daily life, having the potential to transform it. 

In this interweaving of intimacy and awe, every little occurrence could be an encounter with God. 

         Third, Celtic Christians were committed to pilgrimage, in the very best sense of the word.  In Celtic Christianity, a pilgrimage might be a physical wandering from place to place – but never with a specific destination, as we might think nowadays.  Pilgrimage might also be an inner journey of the heart.  Either way, it was a pathway to connecting with people, building community, and exploring spirituality.  It was a living into (and out of) the story of faith. 

         In other words, for the Celtic Christian, all of life was a pilgrimage, “a journey without maps” (to quote Frederick Buechner).  It was a moving into the known and the unknown, following the nudge of a Spirit born out of the wildness of the British Isles, seeking God in both the excitement and the ordinariness of life.

         Fourth, Celtic Christians believed in hospitality of the heart.  They believed in welcoming God into their lives each day and welcoming others as well because, who knows, one of them might be the Christ.  It was an all-embracing welcome – not fettered by age, gender, or ethnic background. 

         Celtic Christians looked for the sacred soul in everyone.  It is as the ancient Irish rune declared: “I saw a stranger last night. I put food in the eating place, drink in the drinking place, music in the listening place, and in the sacred name of the Triune, he blessed myself and my house and my cattle and my dear ones. And the lark said in her song, ‘Often, often, often goes the Christ in the stranger’s guise.’”    

         Fifth, Celtic Christians were creation affirming.  They believed that God would redeem all of creation – all of it - through Jesus Christ.  They embraced the wonder of creation as well as their own immediate physical environment.  They maintained a strong sense of place and understood the importance of roots and identity.  

         They knew that God could be found in nature, especially in what they called “thin places” where the veil between the worlds was lifted.  Even time was a sacred dimension.  For Celtic Christians, time was not chronological with one historical even following another.  It was eternal time where past, present, and future were all linked.

         All those characteristics of Celtic Christianity we will be exploring the next four Sundays.  We will be like the three ancient Irishmen who were adrift on the sea from Ireland for seven days in small boats without oars. They landed in Cornwall in the west of England and were brought to the court of King Alfred.   He asked them where they had come from and where they were going.  They answered that “they stole away because they wanted for the love of God to be on pilgrimage, we care not where.”

         So it will be for us.  We too will be on a pilgrimage.  We too will be wandering and, in our wandering, we shall be wondering about Christ and where the Spirit might be calling us.

         Each Sunday, as we enter this sacred space and walk beneath the branches of the trees at the back, symbolically we will be entering a new world.  For some, it may be just another week in church.  For others, it might be a thin place. 

         Each week we will begin with visuals of the landscapes of Scotland, Ireland, or Wales.  We will see, as theologian John O’Donohue said in a public radio interview:  “The diversity of the landscape, the amazing kind of light that’s in it. There is something in the (Celtic) landscape that naturally anchors a spirituality which somehow reveals or discloses the eternal.” For all of us, this worship series will be an opportunity to praise God as we are commanded in the Psalms to praise God.  We will praise God through the Celtic melodies we will hear and sing.  We will praise God through the ancient and modern Celtic prayers we will pray.  We will bless one another with ancient Celtic blessings.  We will anchor our worship and praise in the notion that all of life is a blessing and that God can be found not only in great cathedrals but also in our little church. 

         As one blogger I read this week wrote, “We may not be able to travel to faraway places, but there is yet benefit in being a ‘heart’ pilgrim.  (That is,) having that nomadic approach to life that is always open to moving on, not getting stuck in a rut, open to new experiences, new relationships and understandings – open to the ever onward call of Spirit, (the Spirit that) Celtic Christians perceived as ‘the wild goose’!" And who knows, on our travels, we might even meet St. Patrick, St. Cuthbert, or St. Columba on the way.  But surely, somewhere, somehow, we will have an opportunity to meet the Christ.

Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30 "You Can't Please All the People All the Time"

“You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.”

         Though we often attribute that quote to Abraham Lincoln, he actually adapted it from an earlier writer named John Lydgate.  Lydgate was a 15^th century English monk and a prolific poet, turning out over 145,000 lines of verse over the course of his lifetime.

         Now, that fact is just a bit of historical trivia.  However, in those words he wrote is nestled an age-old truth.  Both Lydgate and Lincoln were right.  No matter how hard you try, you cannot please all of the people all of the time. 

         One of your children will forever dispute your parenting skills – particularly when he or she reaches the ripe old age of 13 or so.  Someone will always find the sermon boring or will dislike one or more of the hymns.  At least one family member will announce fault in the dinner menu and wonder aloud why you have to serve pasta – again.  Donald Trump will continue to be a divisive political figure, and Congress will be hard pressed to put together a health care bill that everyone raves about.

         Just as polarization seems to be one of our cultural norms, so it was for Jesus as well.  He also found himself in no-win situations, and his frustration over the latest one was apparent in the rant that began today’s Scripture passage.  I can just imagine Jesus throwing up his arms in disgust and lashing out at whoever might be listening.

“How can I account for this generation? You people are like spoiled children, a bunch of whiners: We played a merry tin whistle for you, and you would not dance.  We sang a maudlin funeral dirge, and you would not mourn.  What gives with all of you?”

         First there was John the Baptist, Jesus goes on to say, and people called him crazy.  He was too austere, what with the fasting coupled with his sackcloth and ashes approach.  And noshing on those locusts – even mixed with sweet wild honey? Ick!  And besides, he yelled too much:  “Repent!  Repent, you brood of vipers!”

         “Who wants to be labeled a snake and cow tow to a religion like that?” you asked.  “I would rather play golf.” 

         Be honest now! (Jesus says.) All of you reacted to John the Baptist with these unspoken words: “Dude, lighten up a bit.”  So – you pushed John aside.  Too much of the Chicken Little/the sky is falling mentality for your liking.

         Jesus was on a roll now, so he continued.  “And then I came, and you label me a glutton and a drunkard because I eat with the wrong sort of people and have been known to change water into wine.  I befriended tax collectors, whores, and miscellaneous minor sinners not unlike yourselves, and you label me a supporter of the riffraff – so far beneath you. 

         Just because I enjoy a good feast every now and then, you figure, well, if Jesus does not take this religion stuff seriously, then neither will we.  See – it is all settled.  I am off to play golf.

         There you have it.  Both John the Baptist and Jesus were regarded as irrelevant in their day and time. But isn’t that how it always works? There is always an excuse.  “You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.”

         That being said, as your pastor, I think this first part of our Scripture passage raises a couple of important questions for all of you sitting here in church.  In the week ahead, I challenge you to ponder the following: 

         What will motivate you to ever more readily interact with God, engage with the kingdom, and deepen your spiritual life? 

         What will inspire you to make this church a priority in your busy life? 

         What will motivate you to come to worship more consistently, learn from each other more intentionally, and participate more actively in the ministries of our church? 

         What will it take to move you from the inertia of doing only what you are doing now to the satisfaction of doing more in the name of Christ?

         One blogger I read this week summarized modern-day church commitment: “It's that people don't want to be tied down on Sunday, "It's the one day of the week I have to myself." Or, “it cuts into family time”. Or, "I'm not a bad person, why do I have to be told I'm a sinner?"
         (He went on to say:) To those who say it's the only day of the week you have to yourself, I would respond, "Everything you do during the week is ultimately for yourself." To those who say it cuts into family time, I would argue that this -- church -- has the potential of becoming an extended family capable of more support than you can imagine. And to those who don't think they're bad people, well, nobody is perfect.
         (Other) people claim that church is too boring or they can worship God just as well while hiking or fishing or hunting. Or they want to know what they will get out of it, as if church were there simply to meet their needs.
         To those who say church is boring, I remind them that church isn't there for our entertainment. To those who claim they can worship God on their own, I say, "You're right, but what are you learning? How are you living into the community of God's kingdom?" And to those who ask, "What am I getting out of it?" I ask in return, "What are you putting into it?"

         Our blogger is saying that the message of Jesus, which, of course, lies at the root of who we are as a church, is not about us - and our needs, but it is rather about them – and their needs.  The Good News of Jesus is to be discovered nestled somewhere in our feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, healing the sick, welcoming the outcast, and raising up the lowly. 

         “Oh, no, there she goes again,” you might sigh and whisper. “Why do we have to have a pastor who always seems to come round to talking about and challenging us to take action, to be part of the mission and outreach of this church, in short, to do something?  When do we get to rest?”

         And so we come to the second part of our Scripture reading. Jesus speaks it almost like a prayer, but it is really an invitation.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

“Come to me, all you who are labor and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

         To those laboring under harsh political systems and narrow religious structures, Jesus says, “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

         To those burdened by attempting to be a good parent under especially trying circumstances, Jesus says, “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

         To those caught in marriages that are disintegrating and relationships that are falling apart, Jesus says, “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

         To those so stressed out by caring for others whose health is failing or whose own health is wearing them down, Jesus says, “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

         To those in any kind of need that is hindering their ability to work for the kingdom, to live compassionately, to seek justice, and to be a peacemaker, Jesus says, “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

         Discipleship is not easy – whether it is practiced in our own families with a trying teenager or an aging parent, or practiced locally in our town, or even globally.  Jesus never said that being one of his followers would be a Sunday School picnic.  He never intimated that his would be the easy path.  Certainly we do need rest.

         That being said, Jesus might have abandoned us at this critical and uncomfortable juncture. He might have just said, “You’re on your own, dude.”  But instead, he reminded us that we would never be alone when we are trying to be his followers.  “Come to me, and I will give you rest.”

         Now, before you stop listening and figure that you have found a loophole (perhaps one you have been searching for), understand that, in this passage, Jesus is not saying that our burdens and problems will be taken away.  Much as we might long for such an easy solution, he will not be shouldering them all himself, so we do not have to. 

         That is why the image of the yoke is so fitting.  As you know, a yoke is a farm tool that is put across the neck or shoulders of two or more oxen or horses.  It allows them to pull heavy equipment that they could not pull nearly as efficiently as individual animals.  Yoked animals inevitably are able to work together, increasing their strength and effectiveness.

        And so it is with us and with Jesus.  He does not take away our burdens and problems.  The harsh political systems and narrow religious structures will not disappear.  The trying circumstances of parenting will not go away.  The marriage or relationship will not be miraculously saved.  Caring for the health of others and our own health will not suddenly be a piece of cake. 

         However, we will not be doing the caring and enduring and working and changing alone – and that should be both comforting and energizing.  It is like familiar story by Mary Stevenson:

         One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one only.

         This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints, so I said to the Lord, “You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always.

But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there has only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?”

         The Lord replied, “The years when you have seen only one set of footprints, my child, is when I carried you.”

         Jesus promises us rest when we find rest in him. And when we rest in him, he promises that we can learn from him because to rest in him is to be yoked with him. And when we are yoked with him, we will learn of compassion, learn of forgiveness, and learn of love – and it is amazing how learning and practicing those things alone will ease the burdens we carry. 

         And when we rest with him, we will find wisdom.  When we rest with him, we will find that we are yoked (or connected) to the one through whom God’s dream of mercy and grace is being made real.

         When we rest with him, we will find hope where once there was no hope, strength where once we were bone-tired, courage where once we feared only for the worst. 

We will discover a fullness where once we only felt emptiness coupled with a gnawing hunger for something that is missing.  And in that hope, in that strength, in that courage, in that fullness, we will find that, with him, once again we can work for the Kingdom, for the dream, for the vision of the world God intended – in our families, in our communities, in our world. 

         Personally I find the message of resting in Jesus a lot more to my liking than a bunch of religious rules and regulations – someone telling me what I have to believe.  As your pastor, that is how I hope I lead you in this congregation.  I hope is that together we are creating a community of faith that, as our blogger wrote, is “driven by the understanding that we are yoked to the one who danced; which, again, although restful and light, is still a yoke….(and so) we are required to think about the Other” and the least of these – even as we find our rest in him.

         However, I remember what John Lydgate and Abraham Lincoln both said, “You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.” And so there will be people who will not be comfortable with the path this community of faith has chosen to walk.  We will not be what they are looking for in a church.  And so they will go to other churches – or decide to play golf.

         But you are here, and your presence is a blessing.  You are not playing golf, and you are enough. So come and rest if you need to.  Come and gather strength and courage for whatever lies ahead.  Come and figure out just why you set foot here this morning – and go tell someone your reason – so they can find the rest and strength and courage they will need to help make God’s dream come true.