Ark Boarding
I’ve been thinking a lot about rain, flood waters, and the need for an ark. If you lived here, you would understand that it doesn’t take too creative a mind to be thinking as I am. We’ve had rain—lots and lots of rain. One local man commented this morning that we’ve had over ten inches in the past couple of weeks. The Kentucky River, which borders our county, and the Ohio just a few miles north of us are both above flood stage and rising.
Our town is one of the higher points in Henry County and our house sits on a rise in our town. Yet, this past weekend we had water standing around the house, not just in the low spots in the lawn. It’s wet!
Part of my thinking has carried me back to my childhood. I grew up in the southeastern portion of Missouri—an area known as the Bootheel. Prior to the late 1800’s, the area was a swamp. My dad had photographs from the period when the Corps of Engineers came into the area to build a series of canals—floodway ditches, we called them—to drain the area and make fit for human habitation. In spite of those canals, flooding remained a common experience in my childhood.
Our home and farm was not far from the Mississippi River to our east and the St. Francis River to our north and west. In the mid-fifties, we awoke one morning to our house totally surrounded by water—water as far as the eye could see. It was an adventure for me. My Uncle Rayvon Knapp rowed up to our house and Dad let me go with him and Uncle Rayvon in the rowboat. We traveled around the area, never seeing land or a road. We were in a world of water. The rowboat was one that Dad and Uncle Rayvon had built for duck hunting. It was made in part from old church pews—Cypress wood, maybe. I’m older now and flooding may still be adventuresome but it is no longer fun.
While our town is safe from major flooding, parts of our county is not. I posted on Facebook this morning the following message: “If you are not already on the ark, it may be too late!” A friend replied wondering which one of us would not make it aboard.
Like you, I’ve read the story of Noah, his ark, and the flood; but until my friend responded this morning, I hadn’t thought about what it must have been like to see the water rising and to finally decide that the crazy neighbor who was building a boat had it right, only to arrive and find the ark sealed and all boarding passes canceled. Some made it; most did not. Wow! To be saved only to see neighbors left behind. It’s a scene I’d rather forget.
My friend’s query gave rise to a new thought. There is a new ark and the rules for boarding have been changed. On the new ark all who come are welcome. Boarding passes have been issued for all. None need be left behind.
The rule change must have something to do with an empty tomb. Halleluiah!
Holy Saturday Meditation
Courtesy of FaithElement, FaithLab invites you to join us in these Holy Week meditations.
Good Friday Meditation
Courtesy of FaithElement, FaithLab invites you to join us in these Holy Week meditations.
Prayer of Anguish and Acceptance
by Bo Prosser
God of Heaven and Earth, of Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, of History and the Future.
How it must pain you to have us “celebrate” GOOD Friday. I know it pains me!
How could the death of a son, Your Son, ever be called good?
My heart breaks for you, God…and for me.
And, my heart breaks for all around me who’ve had children to die.
There is nothing good about death…especially the death of a child.
I know the eternal aspects, but must we go through Hell to reach Heaven?
If so, there is nothing GOOD about any of this. My heart breaks for you, God…and for me.
God, why wasn’t there a truly GOOD way for this to happen?
You could have achieved the same results without the pain and agony.
You could have done this in a way that really was a celebration.
I hate death, I hate the hurt, I hate the pain, I hate the loss, I hate the emptiness.
My heart breaks for you, God…and for me.
But, I also trust you, God. And so, if even on this darkest of days, you can say, “It is Good!” So be it!
But on this day of incomprehensible pain, my heart breaks for you, God…and for me!
Maundy Thursday Meditation
Courtesy of FaithElement, FaithLab invites you to join us in these Holy Week meditations.
Prayer of Doubt
by Bo Prosser
God, are you there? Are you here?
I sit here in my prayer closet hoping I’m not talking to myself.
God, are you there? Are you here?
I pour my heart out to you day after day, and I’m not sure if you notice.
God, are you there? Are you here?
I’m dying here, I’m crying here, I’m trying here…HEAR???
God, are you there? Are you here?
I pray so…
Living and Dying Holy Week
It’s called Holy Week! Eight days of drama from the entry into Jerusalem to an empty tomb.
On the day Jesus road a borrowed donkey into Jerusalem, it was also Holy Week; though there were a lot of unholy things going on back then. The crowds overfilled Jerusalem. Anybody and everybody wanted to be there that week. Those who thought a Passover without being in Jerusalem was no Passover at all paid any price to get there. Mom and pop and the kids piled into the old van and headed out. Most didn’t have reservations, couldn’t have paid for them if they had. Some came because not to be seen in Jerusalem on Passover might be bad for business. Some came to pick pockets and sell their bodies. Some came to see if those in charge stayed in charge and kept the festival pure. Holy Week found Jerusalem with too many people and too many animals and too much excitement and too much partying.
My, I do like Holy Week. I do like Holy Week and I will be part of it this week. From the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, which was anything but triumphal, to the Last Supper, to the Garden of Gethsemane, to the cross on Good Friday, and to the sight of an empty tomb on Sunday morn, I will be part of Holy Week. Holy Week offers us the opportunity to relive Jesus’ final week, to experience the drama day-by-day—hearing the cheers today, sharing the somber supper on Thursday, going with Jesus to Gethsemane later that night to pray for some escape, hearing before seeing the soldiers coming for Him, lurking in the shadows as he is tried, following from far back in the crowd as he is led to His crucifixion, sorrowing as a stranger takes his body and buries it, and finally hearing the amazing news: He is risen!
Most people, including most believers, will miss most of Holy Week. They will leap from waving palm branches to shouting, “He’s alive! He’s alive!”
There will be Holy Week services in our towns this week. Those of us who go will have to work at living the drama. Most preachers want to preach the Easter sermon; few seen willing to enter the pathos of the Last Supper and Good Friday. Even if they use the texts for the day, they just can’t leave us there—they refuse to let us feel something of what Jesus and the disciples felt as the week unfolded. I just want to shout to the preacher who leads the Maundy Thursday service, “Let me leave the Table baffled by what Jesus just did there. Let me follow him into Gethsemane and hear this Son of God plead with the Father for his life.” To the preacher of the Good Friday service I want to say, “Leave Jesus dead! Don’t raise him up before he’s three-days dead! Let me go home with a heavy heart mindful of His death and suspecting, if not knowing, I was to blame.” Then comes Easter . . . not before!
Holy Week is messy and crowded with all kinds of people. Both life and death are part of it, which is at it should be. Resurrection is not possible without death; and what is true for Holy Week is also true of our walk with Jesus. Shouting that we love Him doesn’t make us followers. Being a follower requires some dying.
Observe Holy Week. You just might get raised up.
Photo by FaithLab
My Head’s in Mississippi (Of Providence and Starkville)
I was born in and raised just outside of New Orleans; and when my sons were little, my family and I lived in the heart of Memphis. I dearly love both of these great cities.
Though I may have been born in and lived most of my life so far outside the state, the fact is that Mississippi runs all through my veins. As the great Top once said (as in ZZ…): “My head’s in Mississippi.” My heart is, too.
My mother and all her kin all hail from the Delta (just outside of Dundee, and when you’re from “just outside of Dundee” you KNOW you’re from DEEP in the country). My father and all his kin all hail from the southwest woods (just outside of Bogue Chitto, and when you’re from “just outside of Bogue Chitto” you KNOW you’re from DEEP in the woods).
So, when I was a kid and all my friends would go visit cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and so on – most of the time they just went a few houses down the street, or they may have to drive thirty minutes or so up along the river to a neighboring parish. When my sister, Becky, and me would visit cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents and so on – Mom & Dad would pack us up in the car and drive us back home … to Mississippi.
It was here in Mississippi – in the summer of 1984 – that I first truly fell in love. During my 11th grade year, I was certain I’d marry that Mississippi girl. But, since she lived in Tunica, and I lived a day’s drive away in St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, that relationship ended within a year (though we remain good friends to this day).
Of course I did fall in love again – even far deeper – and married another Mississippi girl. Jackson, Tennessee, may be where my wife lived most of her life before she married me, but Jency was born in Biloxi.
Although my parents left Mississippi to attend Tulane University, when it was time for me to face the fact that sooner or later I’d have to graduate high school and leave my beloved high school marching, concert and jazz bands, well … there was only one choice: to join the Famous Maroon Band and live on campus at THE Mississippi State University.
I absolutely LOVED every single moment of being in the bands at State, and I became close friends with people who, though we were only together for two short semesters, played a pivotal role in my life. But, something just wasn’t right.
I left after my freshman year and attended Union University in Jackson, Tennessee – a school with no marching band. I’ve never been able to comprehend why, in spite of all the true friends I was making via the band and the music fraternity, Phi Mu Alpha Sinfonia, and how much I loved everything about State, I was still lonely, isolated, and deeply depressed for most of my freshman year here. And so, my journey took me to other universities, other graduate schools, and other states.
In spite of all of the terrific places I’ve been and transforming experiences I’ve had since leaving Starkville in the spring of 1987, I’ve always had this deep, unspeakable sorrow that I just couldn’t manage to stay at Mississippi State.
One of the odd things about faith is …
one of the most frustrating things about faith is …
well, it doesn’t always make sense. I do not believe in predestination or anything like that, but I do believe in the Providence of God; I do believe that God’s hand moves us and guides us in ways that we cannot see, and in ways that we cannot understand.
I am still amazed that after over twenty years of yearning to have lived longer in Starkville, and to have been a part of Mississippi State University longer, I now live in Starkville and teach at MSU. My sons, who have spent most of their lives elsewhere – noticing my cowbell serving as a shelf decoration from house to house – now have their own cowbells. My wife, Jency, who has listened to me speak so fondly of Starkville and old MSU friends for over twenty years, now gets to experience it herself.
So, as I think about all the places I’ve lived, I can’t help but recall words I often heard while living in New Orleans from an MSU grad, her name is Julia: “I just loooovvvveeeee Misssissippi, don’t you?!”
And, for almost a year now, as I awake every morning in Starkville, Mississippi, surrounded by all things maroon and white, I am reminded of that famous quote from Dorothy in the land of Oz, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!”
This is an excerpt from Bert’s new book Psychic Pancakes & Communion Pizza (coming out in May from Smyth & Helwys Publishing), used with permission. Follow Bert on Twitter: @BertMontgomery.
Judaism, Death and the Afterlife
I recently reflected on the death and burial, first, of Sarah Imanu, Sarah our mother and then of Avraham Avinu, Abraham our father. Two great figures of the narrative of Bereishiet, Genesis, our founding ancestors, dead in a single portion. This has me reflecting a bit on death.
There is a wide range of views of death and the afterlife that might be said to lie in the authentic scope of traditional Judaism. Everything from the vague description of Sheol in the Tanach, to ideas of resurrection, reward and punishment: the garden of Eden and Gehennah, even reincarnation, which is widely found in the mystical chasidic literature. There are theories so specific as to laying out exactly how long a soul hangs around the grave site before moving on.
Yet, even with all of the above, we really do not talk much about death in most congregations that I know of in the Jewish world. Perhaps it was because of the years of slavery in Egypt, with the preoccupation with building even grander tombs and stocking them with the things to make the afterlife more comfortable, but it seems to me that we have always shied away from putting too much energy into speculations on the world to come or worrying about it. Even when stories are told, they seem to be mostly intended to teach something else.
For instance, Rabbi Elimelech of Lyahansk said:
When I die and stand before the heavenly court they will ask me if I had been as just as I should have.
I will answer no.
Did I pray as I should have?
Again I will answer no.
Did I pray as much as I should have?
This time too, I will give the same answer.
The the Supreme Judge will smile and say, “Elimelch, you spoke the truth. For this alone you will have a share in the world to come.”
This story is about many things, but death is not really one of them. It speaks to the mercy of the Holy One, the importance of honesty, especially with one’s self, and is imbued with a trust that G-D understands his creatures and their limitations.
Unlike some of our neighbors, our goal is not salvation. It is to be faithful servants of our Creator, honorable partners in the work of creation, diligent repairers of a broken world, and appreciative beneficiaries of the beauties and pleasures of the life we have been given.
Yet there is death. We must respond to it in at least two areas. How do we deal with the death of those we love and how do we respond to the inevitability of our own deaths?
As for the former, Judaism, in its wisdom, has a systematic way of helping us through the first year of mourning for a loved one. We can learn about that sometime if there is interest. Yet, even now, after the year of mourning for my father is over, I find myself saying to myself, “Oh, I should send this to dad.” or “Dad would find this interesting, I should tell him about it when I call this week.” Only, in each case, to be brought up short in the recognition that this sort of sharing can no longer be. I no longer have my wise counselor and firm supporter. Yet in these moments, there is surely still a connection, though it is not one that can be measured in megabytes per minute. It is the link of heart to heart that somehow endures. I do not need to grab on to a theory of afterlife that can never be proven to know that in this connection there is an intimation of eternity.
More selfishly, perhaps, when my father died, I also had a sudden sense of being on deck and waiting my turn. After all, when my father was alive, that meant that I was still young and death a word that was not connected to me. That illusion of safety and self deception that I was separated from mortality is now gone.
As we each grow older, the understanding that we are mortal grows from stage to stage. Yet, we have a choice on how we deal with it. We can obsess. We can convince ourselves that we believe some fixed theory of death and afterlife, cling to it and so be comforted. Or we can just decide that it does not really matter. The world, for all of its evils and horrors, can be a beautiful place. There is always more we can do to improve the world, to improve ourselves, to help people and so many, many things to appreciate and enjoy.
We can choose to hold on to life with both hands. Revel in its joys, feel keenly its sorrows, and act in way consonant with the will of The Creator to repair what can be repaired and, when we can not fix a problem, comfort those who can not be helped. It seems a better choice than worrying all the time about what might be in the future and, thus, miss the feast before us. One never knows what might be for desert, if anything. Enjoy the main course.
From a sermon given by Seth F. Oppenheimer, student Rabbi at Congregation B’nai Israel in Starkville, MS.
Letter of Hope
Dear Baptist Soon-to-be Women,
Dear Hope of a Women in Ministry Advocate,
Dear Daughters of the Church,
I write to you because you are who I think about. You are in my thoughts when I talk to female colleagues. You are in my thoughts when I have conversations about a woman’s proper place. You are in my thoughts when I am sitting in class, representing you. You are in my thoughts when I urge my coworkers to be mindful of gender pronouns. You are in my thoughts when I plan the next steps of Baptist Women in Ministry-Missouri. You are in my thoughts when I am in tears mourning the lack of opportunities for gifted women of God.
You are in my thoughts because I hope and pray that your journey is easier than mine. I hope that your gifts are being encouraged, that people refer to you as “the future pastor.” I hope that no matter the gender of your pastor (though at this point, I have to assume male) that you have seen women in the pulpit, preaching and ministering and delivering the word of God. I hope that you know ministry is an option for you. I hope that you have church leaders who see your giftedness and give you opportunity to develop it.
I hope that you are in class with others who look like you – and, of course, those who don’t. I hope that being a pastor can be a “back-up” option for you if you decide the academic life isn’t what you want.
I hope that it is assumed that you are what a preacher looks like. That you are seen as a valuable resource from the moment you step into the room. That you have a prominent role in local clergy groups.
I hope that you are addressed as Preacher and Minister and Proclaimer instead of speaker. I hope your classmates give you nicknames like “Rev” or “Doc” and ask for your insight on their projects. I hope that you can serve in the tradition of your choice and not have to think about whether your calling or denominational preference come first.
I hope Baptist Women in Ministry will be a group of women who enjoy hanging out and brainstorming together instead of a group advocating for a place at the table. I hope that your daughters wear heels and play church, preaching and serving communion and blessing the world.
I hope your voice is always compassionate and full of authority. I hope your voice speaks truth to power and seeks justice for all of God’s people.
And I hope that whatever you are called to be, that you see a way there. I hope that you don’t have to spend nights in tears wondering if there is a place for you.
I hope for you. I think of you. You are my prayer.
With love,
Jennifer
Read more from Jennifer at her blog.
Jesus Shares a Dipper
What are you going to do when Jesus doesn’t play by the rules . . . when he doesn’t behave like a good son of God should?
Well, the safest thing to do is to reshape Jesus into our image. It’s not all that hard to do. In spite of the Bible remaining a top-seller, it really isn’t read that much; and most people who read it just surface read. So to reshape Jesus you need merely to pick and choose your Jesus stories so that they all go together. When you have Jesus fashioned as you would like him to be, go forth and proclaim your jesus. Do it with gusto and with the sound of authority in your voice. Quote Scripture and pound the pulpit. If you don’t have a pulpit any surface will do, including the hard heads of persons who just can’t see your jesus. Do it long enough and others will believe. Even more astounding is that if you do it long enough you will come to believe in the jesus you created. Wow! You’ve become god. (Isn’t there a story about that in the first book of the Bible? It seems I recall those who wanted to be gods unto themselves didn’t fare well in the end. Never mind, you can skip that part of the Bible.)
When I was a child I had this toy that made music. There was a crank you turned. If you got your speed just right the music sounded really nice. I liked the little music box . . . except that periodically as you turned the crank, the lid would fly open and up would pop Jack. Turn the crank slower or faster or just right, it didn’t matter. Jack always escaped the box.
Go ahead and reshape Jesus so that he loves you particularly and hates all the things (and people) you hate. Shape a Jesus who will draw tight, wide-bordered circles that define who is in and who is out. Shape Jesus so that he always loves your friends and hates your enemies. Go ahead . . . but beware, like Jack-in-the-Box, the real Jesus will always pop up, always escape the box.
The church has been shaping and reshaping Jesus for a long, long time. We have a problem, Houston—Eminence, Louisville, Starkville, St. Louis, Chicago, etc. We can reshape Jesus. We can stick him in a box. We can so define him that he is found only in our brand of church. We can do all of this . . . .
. . . all of this and it will be to no avail. Jesus arose! Remember that little story? He arose a victor o’er the dark domain. He arose a victor over each person who tries to kill him again by reshaping him in his/her image. The music is playing and the real Jesus will pop up!
He popped up outside a Samaritan village at well being visited by a five-time divorced woman who was then living with another man without benefit of clergy! A reshaped jesus would have turned away. At the very least he would have run her off. Instead, he shared a dipper of water with the woman. His dry tongue’s thirst was quenched. The dryness of her soul was drenched.
I’m tempted to reshape Jesus into a more manageable Lord of my own image. I’m tempted; but, instead, I’m going to keep looking for this Jesus who shattered the proper image and shared a dipper of water with a woman others defined as unworthy. I’m thirsty. I don’t need my Jesus. I need JESUS!
Trav’lers on a Journey
When my parents first got married, my Dad was a college debate coach. One morning the team was gearing up for a trip, and Dad was scheduled to meet the van with evidence files. If you have ever been a debater or known any debaters, you know they each carry large tubs of files. And all of the files did not fit in his car. So my Mom, a loving wife, followed my dad to the debate tournament. Or more precisely, she tried to follow my dad to the debate tournament. Being the trusting woman that she is, my Mom failed to get directions, believing that her husband would guide her like a knight in shining armor to their destination. And that plan seemed to be working. She was driving along behind him just fine… until she began following the wrong car and ended up at a bar, not a school. Dad was gone. My somewhat directionally-challenged Mom was left stranded with no cell phone, no way to contact my dad and absolutely no clue where she was going.
That scenario is what I usually picture when reading that God invited Abram to pack his belongings, grab his family and go “to the land that I will show you.” Can you imagine coming home from work and saying to your spouse “oh, by the way, you should pick up some boxes tomorrow, because we are moving this weekend.” After the initial shock, your spouse might play along and ask “oh really? Where to?” You pause for a quick consultation with God… “I dunno… somewhere in that direction.” It doesn’t seem to make any sense. Those around you might try to have you commited. And what if we lose God somewhere along the way? Will we be stranded on the side of the road, asking gas station attendants if they have seen a pillar of fire go by?
And can you imagine more unlikely candidates? Abram is 75 and married to Sarai, who is barren. It is possible that Abram and Sarai have been caretakers of their nephew, Lot, who was apparently orphaned with his father’s death – we have no information on Lot’s mother. Abram has one remaining brother, Nahor, who is married to Milcah, who does not yet have children.
The great Hebrew Bible scholar Walter Brueggemann reminds us that barrenness means the end in the ancient world. “It is an effective metaphor for hopelessness,” he writes. “There is no foreseeable future. There is no human power to invent a future.” This family is done. They’ve given up. They have nothing left but each other. And God calls Abram and Sarai to leave. Leave your country and your kindred and your father’s house. Leave it. Leave it all. Leave those who are valuable to you. Leave those whose very survival depends upon you being there, providing. Leave those who help make sure that you, too, are provided for. And go where? “I will show you.”
Abram’s family lives in Haran, which is likely in present day Turkey. The Mesopotamian name for the city was “harranu,” which means “journey,” “caravan” or “crossroads.” While perhaps a nice literary nudge for a journeying family, this name also suggests that Haran was a major trading spot. The family stopped here originally because this was a good place to do business. A good place to live.
And now Abram is asked to head to the unknown. Likely to the less inhabited. Almost certainly to his death. That doesn’t sound like a good deal, does it? At the very least, Abram should be able to stay with his family and enjoy what is left of life. But then, God says something absolutely, totally, completely, utterly absurd. God says “I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse; and in you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.” Perhaps God hasn’t noticed the barrenness of Abram’s family.
Abram must have lost his mind at this point, because our text tells us that he went, as the Lord had told him; and Lot went with him. There was no uncertainly about what this meant – this was goodbye. There were no cell phones or long distance plans, no frequent flier miles and no reliable mail system. When Abram, Sarai and Lot walked out the door, they would be cut off from their family forever. And with that crazy step, there is a thread of hope. We are left with the paradox that leaving all security is the one chance for hope. The God who spoke the world into being is speaking again to end the barrenness that has consumed Abram’s family.
Abram’s call is an invitation for him to step into what God had intended all along – blessing. When Abram’s family stopped in Haran, they had been on the way to Canaan – a place we know as the Promised Land. The family was heading for
Trav’lers on a Journey
Promise, but stopped and took up residence in the Crossroads.
We are in the second week of Lent, a time that is often described as a Journey to the Cross. At the beginning of this Lenten Journey, Ash Wednesday, we were asked to consider our own mortality. “Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.” Ashes to ashes. In our religious tradition, ashes serve as a sign of mourning and despair. We begin a journey with no hope, because in our mortality, we, too are barren. And like Abram, we are invited to travel toward what must be certain death, because we have this sense that God is calling us elsewhere – calling us from a land of Crossroads into a place of blessing.
As we watch and hear the reports from Japan, we can’t help but doubt the blessing. With more than 7,000 dead, around 10,000 still missing and thousands more indefinitely displaced – either from loss of housing or from fear of nuclear disaster, we are overcome. And we naturally want to ask “why?” Why did this happen? Why didn’t God stop it? Why? Several have tried to answer from a religious perspective – claiming that the end of the world is nigh or that God is judging Japan. Neither of those responses sits well with me. The truth is – we don’t have an answer.
Adam Hamilton, author, and pastor of the Church of the Ressurection in Leawood, reminds us that the earth is made up of large plates that fit together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Those plates are always moving at a slow pace, and when they rub up against each other, we get earthquakes. But the way the plates work is what keeps the earth’s core from overheating – in other words, it is what keeps us alive. He suggests that we now know that earthquakes do not happen as God’s punishment directed at groups of people, but as the natural and necessary occurance of the earth’s design. For God to stop this activity would be to ensure the destruction of the entire earth from overheating. He’s right. And yet we look at the devastation and wonder if there might have been another way. Couldn’t God have slowed the movement of the plates? Or maybe placed them all on top of a soft, pillowy surface so that the movement wouldn’t be so violent? Doesn’t it seem easy to question how God runs the world when it seems to us something has gone drastically wrong?
The reality is we don’t have an answer for why so much suffering is occurring in Japan, and – due to our global-connectedness – why so much suffering is occurring in the world. Have we lost track of God? Did we make a wrong turn somewhere and just haven’t noticed that we are following the wrong car? Or might God be calling us into the barrenness of the world?
And of course, hopelessness isn’t limited to those who’ve experienced natural disasters. What about the unemployed? The grieving? Those overwhelmed by busy schedules or job pressures or family problems? God is calling us out of our barrenness, not for our own blessings, but so that we in turn can bless a barren world. God is calling. Are you ready to leave your Crossroads?
Read more from Jennifer at her blog.
Follow Us!