Text: St. Luke 18:9-14
Theme: “Identity Crisis!”
The Thirtieth Sunday In Ordinary Time
The Twenty Second Sunday After Pentecost
October 24, 2010
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
The Rev. Paul R. Dunklau
+In the Name of Jesus+
In a recent edition of The New York Times, author Alex Kuczynski tells of what happened when he stopped at a CVS pharmacy on his way home. He needed to pick up some baby wipes and ointment. At checkout, he swiped his credit card and then paused before signing his name on the small screen with that little black wand thingie-ma-jig. Instead of signing his name “Alex Kuczynski”, he signed “Cher.” There were no problems. The transaction was completed without delay. He picked up his baby wipes and ointment, and off he goes. On another occasion at another store, he signed his name “Kim Jong-Il”. In The New York Times article, Kyczynski says:
I thought signing the name of a North Korean dictator — whose name clearly didn’t jibe with my Caucasian features — would stir some sign of life in the checkout clerk. Nothing. On other days, on other terminals, all over New York City and Long Island, I was ‘‘Benjamin Franklin,’’ ‘‘Hillary Clinton,’’ ‘‘Steve Wozniak,’’ ‘‘Zsa Zsa Gabor,’’ ‘‘Angelina Jolie.’’ In an appeal to the young clerks at my local drugstore chain I tried ‘‘Kid Cudi’’ and ‘‘Justin Bieber’’ in swirling, swooping letters. Nothing. And every time my charge was processed without a hitch. I don’t look at all like Lady Gaga, but if I sign her name, my credit card is charged. Finally, I even wrote in block letters, this is not my signature. It all worked. What a miraculous little glitch of technology!
Technology, being technology, could care less about your identity – about who you are. We don’t matter to technology, but oh how technology matters to us! We bump into this truth every time we can’t find the remote for the TV. Everything is increasingly high-tech! Similarly, technology doesn’t give a hoot about someone stealing your identity either. Technology has no moral frame of reference. For that matter, what is it that identifies you as you anyway? A scientist might say it’s your DNA. A police officer might accept your driver’s license. For other entities, institutions, businesses, and the IRS, a Social Security Number will suffice.
How important is identity? I’ve heard of folks who have lived for years and years in the same house without knowing the names of their neighbors two doors down. Charles Fox and Norman Gimbel put it into words, and Jim Croce sang it all those years ago:
Like the pine trees lining the winding road, I got a name; I got a name.
Like the singing bird and the croaking toad, I got a name; I got name.
And I carry it with me like my daddy did,
But I’m living the dream that he kept hid.
Moving me down the highway, rolling me down the highway.
Moving ahead so life won’t pass me by.
Long ago, a family coat of arms might identify you. The symbols on the coat of arms would say something about who you are – or, at least, what your family was all about. As we all know, the symbol of the cross or the fish identifies us as Christians. Nowadays, Facebook and MySpace and other social networking sites help us get our personal identity out there along with all those pictures we can upload. There are even privacy settings so that we can keep certain parts of our identity private and away from the gaze of strangers.
What if personal identity, like a digital picture, were something we could upload? After awhile, if we didn’t like the upload, we could delete it and upload something else. “I don’t like who I am, so I’ll try to be somebody else.”
Are you aware of your own identity? Are you okay with your own identity? Are you, as they say, comfortable in your own skin? If not, you may be experiencing – or have experienced – what psychologists call an identity crisis. A theorist by the name of Erik Erikson coined the phrase and believed it was one of the most important conflicts people face.
I offer myself up as Exhibit A. Fourteen years ago or so, I was going through some very difficult times in my life and sought counseling. I’ll never forget one visit to the psychiatrist assigned to my case, a certain Dr. Kennedy. On that occasion, he said: “Paul, you have many roles in your life. You’re a son, a husband, a father, a pastor, a golfer, a piano player, and you’re the diamond jubilee president of the local Kiwanis Club. That much you have shared. Now, I want you, in your mind, to step out of all those roles that you play, and I want you to answer this question: who are you? A period of painful silence followed. As tears began to brim, I shook my head; I didn’t who I was. “For years,” Dr. Kennedy said, “you’ve identified yourself primarily by what you do, and you’ve set completely unrealistic standards of perfection for every single role you play. In our sessions, I hope we, together, can discover who you are.”
In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus tells a story of two people who went to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other was a tax collector. These people, I assure you, are not the kind that would meet at Starbucks for a friendly chit-chat over coffee and biscotti. But my question to you, after having heard today’s Gospel, is this: which one – the Pharisee or the tax collector – should make an appointment with Dr. Kennedy? In other words, who appears to be having the identity crisis?
Both Pharisee and the tax collector say their prayers. They both look like good, solid, religious types! There is no reason to doubt the sincerity of what they say in their prayers. There is nothing to suggest that either one or both of them were lying. In addition, both of them were standing as they prayed. But this is where the similarities come to an end. One of them, the Pharisee, is standing up front. The other, the tax collector, is standing way in the back at a distance.
Up first is the prayer of the Pharisee: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” Pretty clearly, the Pharisee is identifying himself. He does it in two ways. First, he identifies himself by way of comparison to others. He considers thieves, rogues, adulterers, and even the tax collector standing in the back. His identity, in part, is that he is not like them. Compared to them, he is unique. It’s as if he is saying: “I am who I am because I’m not like you other people. I am exalted, in a class by myself. I’m just the kind of chap that God is looking for, and I’m reminding God of that fact. I’m unique.” He is grateful to God for this uniqueness. Why, if God ran Facebook (and not Max Zuckerberg), God should set up a fan page for this Pharisee!
Second, he identifies himself by what he does. Farmers farm; fishermen fish; bankers bank; and God’s people fast (go without food for awhile) and give their money. And this Pharisee fasts not once but twice a week. He gives a tenth of ALL his income – not just from his salary but from his investment portfolio too. The pious Jew was required to give a tenth of his or her produce. This Pharisee gave a tenth of EVERYTHING and not just what he produced in any given period of time. He had his roles to play – the role of one who fasts and the role of one who tithes – and he played them well. That’s who he was. That’s how he identified himself. His prayer to God is as self-congratulatory as anyone could ever imagine.
Meanwhile, way in the back stands the tax collector. Talk about a crisis! He’s having one! But it’s not because he’s confused about his identity. He’s only too aware of it. His head is down and he’s pounding his chest; it was a pitiful sight. There’s not much going for him, apparently. It was utterly futile to try and trot out his spiritual and/or moral resume before God because there was none. You can’t trot it out if it’s not there. He does not compare himself to others – as in, “God, I’m a pretty nasty guy, but I haven’t ripped people off and robbed them blind as much as Joe Schmoe up north in Kokomo.” Moreover, he does not identify himself by what he does or does not do. His identity is to him like a modern television is to us: it’s in High –Def! It’s as clear as you can get. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” he prays. In the original language, it’s not just “a” sinner, but “the” sinner. Elsewhere in the New Testament, the apostle Paul says as much. He describes himself as the “chief” of sinners.
In the end, neither of them really need to see a Dr. Kennedy; they are aware of who they are. Which one of the two do you identify with? Which one of the two do we identify with as a church? Now there’s something to talk about this week. But the biggest question, though, is this: which one does Jesus identify with? “I tell you,” says Jesus, (that) “this man (the tax collector) went down to his home justified rather than the other (the Pharisee); for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.
Being able to correctly and confidently identify yourself is not unimportant. But what is all-important is how God identifies us. God identifies us as sinners for whom Christ was willing to suffer and die for. All of that confusion and even crisis about who we are or who we are not pales in comparison to that love from God that would go through a cross for us. It is as the hymn-writer said:
Chief of sinners though I be, Jesus shed His blood for me, died that I might live on high, lives that I might never die. As the branch is to the vine, I am His and He is mine.
When we become more aware of who we are, the Gospel, the good news of God’s love and mercy, becomes all the more precious.
Speaking of identity, can you identify with the Texas Rangers? This past Friday night, a little bit more of the great state of Texas found its way into this Cornhusker heart of mine! The ballpark down in Arlington was rockin’, as well as fans across Texas, as the Rangers made it to the World Series for the first time in franchise history. Some said it was poetic justice that Alex Rodriguez, the ex-Ranger-turned New York Yankee, struck out to end the game.
It just wasn’t supposed to happen. The Yankees have this incredible organization with marquee players commanding a combined salary of over two hundred million dollars. In contrast, we had the annually disappointing Texas Rangers. There were ownership issues this year and personal problems for both management and the roster of players. And besides, by way of comparison, the combined salary was nowhere near that of the Yankees. But none of that mattered, did it? The Texas Rangers are baseball players; they went out to play baseball, and they won.
It all got me to thinking. First Presbyterian Church, like the Rangers, has been around for quite awhile. We’ve had little if any notoriety. Some might say that we are no longer what we once were. We don’t have the biggest church. Our organization might be somewhat balky and/or bureaucratic if not predictable. We have had, to be sure, some difficulties in our more recent past. We do not have the resources – human, financial, or otherwise – to do some of the things we’d like to do.
But what does that matter? I say, let’s take the field and play ball anyway. We are a company of forgiven sinners. We get to, as Jesus says, go “down to our home justified” – not because of who we are but because God is merciful toward us. The greatest victory of them all has already been won, and we are here because of it. We have heaven-sent resources and equipment we need: the Gospel and Sacraments of God! Lets take the field and play ball – not for ourselves, but for the glory of God and for the good of all the people that God loves so much! Is that something you’d like to be a part of? Can you identify with that?
Amen.
THE STRAIGHTFORWARD PULPIT
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Mercy Now!
Text: St. Luke 17:11-19
Theme: “Mercy Now”
The Twenty-Eighth Sunday In Ordinary Time
The Twentieth Sunday After Pentecost
October 10, 2010
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
The Rev. Paul R. Dunklau
+In the Name of Jesus+
Ask a group of Christians what their favorite Bible passage might be and, invariably, someone will mention the 23rd Psalm: “The Lord’s my shepherd, I Shall Not Want.” This beautiful piece of Hebrew poetry, penned by the great King David, has been set to music, sung, and performed in countless ways for literally thousands of years.
“The Lord’s My Shepherd, I’ll Not Want”, in the version of a hymn, was my grandma’s favorite. She loved to sing it from The Lutheran Hymnal of 1941. It was good old #436, and it was sung in the common meter to a tune called “Belmont” (whatever that means). It goes like this: (play verse on piano). That’s the only melody I knew for the 23rd Psalm – that is, until I was introduced to the Presbyterian version of the same hymn, set to a tune called “Crimond”, that goes like this: (play verse on piano). I first heard that tune in 1990 when I was twenty nine years old, and there’s a story behind it that I’ll get to in a bit.
Today’s Gospel reading – Luke 17:11-19 -- is the traditional Gospel for Thanksgiving Day. But here we are on the 28th Sunday in Ordinary time, a little over six weeks away from Thanksgiving Day. What’s up with that? I don’t know; it just says so on the Presbyterian calendar, so it must be right!
At any rate, all by itself, this day – and not Thanksgiving Day – is unique in its own right. It is the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the new millennium. Ten seems to be the number today. It even shows up in our reading, for there are ten lepers.
Lepers were people who had a horrible disease of the skin that caused awful sores to break out over the body. Today called “Hansen’s Disease”, it is named for a Norwegian doctor, Gerhard Hansen, who first discovered the bacterium that caused leprosy in 1873. A multi-pharmaceutical treatment basically takes care of it nowadays. But that wasn’t the case when Jesus lived. There was no curative regimen of prescription or over-the-counter medication, ointments, or what have you. Therefore, according to Jewish law, lepers were required to live “outside the camp” – as the law reads in Leviticus. If, somehow, they were cured of their disease (which was highly unlikely), the law said that they had to show themselves to the priests and then go through an elaborate ritual before they could be pronounced cleansed and return to their homes inside the camp.
We pick up with Jesus on His way to Jerusalem. He stops by a little border town between Samaria and Galilee. No Shell or Valero station there, but it might have been a good spot for one. It was a something of a dangerous place, however, because Samaritans had no dealings with the Jewish folk. And the Jews thought Samaritans to be inferior half-breeds. There was a saying at the time that went like this: “The only good Samaritan was a dead Samaritan.” Racial tension was a reality of life. But racism or not, the ten lepers approached Jesus. Their worries had nothing to do with race. And now I quote Luke: “Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’”
It was on account of their disease and the laws that surrounded it that they kept their distance. Others kept their distance from the lepers for the very same reasons.
This is the point, shifting gears, where I wish to tell you about where I first ran into the Presbyterian version of “The Lord’s My Shepherd.” I heard it on CNN in April of 1990. In the early afternoon, the cable network interrupted the regularly scheduled programming to televise a funeral. It was held at the largest Presbyterian Church I’d ever seen: Second Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis, Indiana. It was April 11th, Wednesday of Holy Week. Over fifteen hundred people attended the service, standing room only, which included Elton John, Michael Jackson, football’s Howie Long, Phil Donahue, and then First Lady Barbara Bush.
They gathered to remember the life of a nineteen year old young man by the name of Ryan White. He died from complications brought on by the Human Immuno-deficiency Virus/ Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome – otherwise known as H.I.V./A.I.D.S. He was infected through tainted blood from a transfusion. He needed transfusions to treat his hemophilia. Once diagnosed with H.I.V./A.I.D.S., he was given six months to live, but, beating the odds, he lived for four more years. And what a four years it was!
He didn’t want to go to Disneyworld, he simply wanted to go to school; his doctor’s said he could go to school for he posed no risk of infecting his fellow students. Nevertheless, the principal of Western Middle School in Rushville, Indiana, along with the local school board, caved in to the pressure from other students and parents and banned young Ryan from attending. He was to be, in a manner of speaking, kept “outside the camp.”
But young Ryan, feeling much better at the time, simply wanted a little mercy – in his case, mercy was the opportunity to go to school. A tense legal battle ensued, but later that year the local ruling was overturned and Ryan was allowed to go back to school. For a year, he hung in there at the same educational institution that had banned him. During that time, he and his family received death threats and a bullet was fired through a window in Ryan’s home. Man’s inhumanity to man just marches on, doesn’t it? After the year was over, they moved to Cicero, Indiana – only five minutes from where I lived at the time.
In August of 1987, a nervous Ryan began his first day at Hamilton Heights High School. He was greeted by the principal and fifteen smiling students who were unafraid to shake his hand. He was going to school; he was no longer “outside the camp”, no longer kept at a distance; he had received mercy and taught a country in the process. Less than three years later, at his funeral, some of the same friends who greeted him at school joined the congregation assembled and sang #170: “The Lord’s My Shepherd, I’ll Not Want.” Every time I hear that melody, I think of Ryan White. I think of how he was kept “outside the camp” and banned from school. I think of how he was treated – mostly by folks who were motivated by fear more than anything else. He never asked to be a hemophiliac. He never asked to be transfused with tainted blood. He never asked for celebrity status. He just wanted to go to school.
The ten lepers just wanted to be cleansed. This was the mercy that was unique to them: cleansing. So often, this story of the lepers is put to use by people like me – the preachers of the world -- to suggest that you might be more grateful for the blessings God has given you. In other words, be like that one cleansed leper who came back to praise Jesus and not like those nasty, ungrateful other nine. I’m not saying that gratitude isn’t important, but I can no more make you grateful than I can make my brown eyes blue.
Perhaps there are some with us today that aren’t necessarily feeling all that grateful. I remember hearing once about a worship service where the minister began with “Let us all stand up, turn to one another, and give each other a happy hug in the name of Jesus.” But, sitting in the back pew alone, was a woman who had learned in the past week that her husband of over twenty five years was given only a month to live. Do you think she was in the mood for happy-clappy-huggy gratitude? It has been said that gratitude is the least felt of all emotions, and that may be true. It’s quite possible that there are others here who are looking for something entirely different than a choreographed hug – like a little mercy for example, like some mercy now.
There stood those ten lepers – “outside the camp”, keeping their distance, and shouting out to Jesus. Was it fair that they had leprosy? No. And, unlike many in the world today, they didn’t ask for fairness. They asked for mercy.
Focus on the mercy, I say. Follow the mercy. See what the mercy does. And I suggest that you not overlook what is so often forgotten in this story: the very human side. Meditate on it, and use your imagination. Think of the family members and loved ones of those lepers. Those lepers would never receive a hug from grandpa or grandma, from a father, a mother, a sister, a brother, a daughter, a son, or a grandchild. There would be no kisses, no shoulders to cry on, no family dinners, and no chance to celebrate special occasions. No one could fix their boo-boos; no one could hold their hands. They were “outside the camp”; they always had to keep their distance. Part of us screams out: “That’s not fair.” No, it’s not, but they didn’t ask for fairness.
A song by Mary Gauthier captures the very human side to this story, our text. It goes like this:
My father could use a little mercy now.
The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground.
His work is almost over, and it won’t be long that he won’t be around.
I love my father, he could use some mercy now.
My brother could use a little mercy now.
He’s a stranger to freedom; he’s shackled to his fear and his doubt.
The pain that he lives in it’s almost more than living will allow.
I love my brother, he could use some mercy now.
Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now.
I know we don’t deserve it, but we need it anyhow.
We hang in the balance and dangle between hell and hallowed ground.
And every single one of us could use some mercy now.
Let me paraphrase the ten lepers: “Master Jesus, every single one of us could use some mercy now.” Jesus, seeing them, abruptly says: “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” He speaks as if the cleansing, the mercy is a done deal. He then orders them to follow the law. They go, and, on their way, they are cleansed. Yes, it is a done deal. By all means, go, go quickly; run as fast as you can. Do what the priests tell you; hurry up; soon, you’ll be able to hug your loved ones again, kiss them, celebrate with them, start living life again.
But one of them, a Samaritan we are told, does not do that. In fact, he initially seems to disobey the law and even the command of Jesus. He turns back. He falls at Jesus’ feet, which is one of the Biblical postures for worshipping God, and he thanked Him. With lips both cleansed and quivering, he says thanks. This is what the abrupt mercy did for that leper. It not only cleansed him; it prompted thanksgiving.
Jesus acts surprised. He says: “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then, likely with a smile on His face, He says to the cleansed Samaritan: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”
It all happened as Jesus was on His way to Jerusalem. Once there, He would break the bread and share the cup in giving us all He had: His body and blood. Mercy now! He was crucified to pay for everything that kept the world – with you and me in it – at a distance from God, outside God’s camp. Mercy now! He was raised to newness of life only to share it with His brothers and sisters, God’s children! Mercy now!
What does the mercy prompt you to do?
It prompts me to share. Sometimes you can hold on to things by giving them away. With God’s mercy, there’s always more. Try to spot the little mercies that come your way this coming week. I noticed yet more mercy this past week. I called my daughter Caroline on her birthday. (She is now the same age that Ryan White was when he died.) I want you to know that Caroline has “Pervasive Developmental Disorder” which comes under the heading – or umbrella, as its called – of Autism. Autistic children and young adults occupy a different thought world, a world that strikes more typical people as awkward. But every now and again, if you take the time, you may find yourself in that world for at least a little bit.
Caroline says: “Dad, know what Christopher Robin said to Winnie the Pooh? It’s my favorite part.” “No, Caroline, tell me! What is it?”
Promise me you’ll always remember that
You’re braver than you believe,
And stronger than you seem,
And smarter than you think.
“That’s my favorite part, Father,” she said.
Thank you, dear Lord Jesus, for Caroline, for her nineteen years, and for all the people here today, all of you today, who are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” Why? It is because of mercy – now.
Amen.
Theme: “Mercy Now”
The Twenty-Eighth Sunday In Ordinary Time
The Twentieth Sunday After Pentecost
October 10, 2010
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
The Rev. Paul R. Dunklau
+In the Name of Jesus+
Ask a group of Christians what their favorite Bible passage might be and, invariably, someone will mention the 23rd Psalm: “The Lord’s my shepherd, I Shall Not Want.” This beautiful piece of Hebrew poetry, penned by the great King David, has been set to music, sung, and performed in countless ways for literally thousands of years.
“The Lord’s My Shepherd, I’ll Not Want”, in the version of a hymn, was my grandma’s favorite. She loved to sing it from The Lutheran Hymnal of 1941. It was good old #436, and it was sung in the common meter to a tune called “Belmont” (whatever that means). It goes like this: (play verse on piano). That’s the only melody I knew for the 23rd Psalm – that is, until I was introduced to the Presbyterian version of the same hymn, set to a tune called “Crimond”, that goes like this: (play verse on piano). I first heard that tune in 1990 when I was twenty nine years old, and there’s a story behind it that I’ll get to in a bit.
Today’s Gospel reading – Luke 17:11-19 -- is the traditional Gospel for Thanksgiving Day. But here we are on the 28th Sunday in Ordinary time, a little over six weeks away from Thanksgiving Day. What’s up with that? I don’t know; it just says so on the Presbyterian calendar, so it must be right!
At any rate, all by itself, this day – and not Thanksgiving Day – is unique in its own right. It is the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the new millennium. Ten seems to be the number today. It even shows up in our reading, for there are ten lepers.
Lepers were people who had a horrible disease of the skin that caused awful sores to break out over the body. Today called “Hansen’s Disease”, it is named for a Norwegian doctor, Gerhard Hansen, who first discovered the bacterium that caused leprosy in 1873. A multi-pharmaceutical treatment basically takes care of it nowadays. But that wasn’t the case when Jesus lived. There was no curative regimen of prescription or over-the-counter medication, ointments, or what have you. Therefore, according to Jewish law, lepers were required to live “outside the camp” – as the law reads in Leviticus. If, somehow, they were cured of their disease (which was highly unlikely), the law said that they had to show themselves to the priests and then go through an elaborate ritual before they could be pronounced cleansed and return to their homes inside the camp.
We pick up with Jesus on His way to Jerusalem. He stops by a little border town between Samaria and Galilee. No Shell or Valero station there, but it might have been a good spot for one. It was a something of a dangerous place, however, because Samaritans had no dealings with the Jewish folk. And the Jews thought Samaritans to be inferior half-breeds. There was a saying at the time that went like this: “The only good Samaritan was a dead Samaritan.” Racial tension was a reality of life. But racism or not, the ten lepers approached Jesus. Their worries had nothing to do with race. And now I quote Luke: “Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’”
It was on account of their disease and the laws that surrounded it that they kept their distance. Others kept their distance from the lepers for the very same reasons.
This is the point, shifting gears, where I wish to tell you about where I first ran into the Presbyterian version of “The Lord’s My Shepherd.” I heard it on CNN in April of 1990. In the early afternoon, the cable network interrupted the regularly scheduled programming to televise a funeral. It was held at the largest Presbyterian Church I’d ever seen: Second Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis, Indiana. It was April 11th, Wednesday of Holy Week. Over fifteen hundred people attended the service, standing room only, which included Elton John, Michael Jackson, football’s Howie Long, Phil Donahue, and then First Lady Barbara Bush.
They gathered to remember the life of a nineteen year old young man by the name of Ryan White. He died from complications brought on by the Human Immuno-deficiency Virus/ Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome – otherwise known as H.I.V./A.I.D.S. He was infected through tainted blood from a transfusion. He needed transfusions to treat his hemophilia. Once diagnosed with H.I.V./A.I.D.S., he was given six months to live, but, beating the odds, he lived for four more years. And what a four years it was!
He didn’t want to go to Disneyworld, he simply wanted to go to school; his doctor’s said he could go to school for he posed no risk of infecting his fellow students. Nevertheless, the principal of Western Middle School in Rushville, Indiana, along with the local school board, caved in to the pressure from other students and parents and banned young Ryan from attending. He was to be, in a manner of speaking, kept “outside the camp.”
But young Ryan, feeling much better at the time, simply wanted a little mercy – in his case, mercy was the opportunity to go to school. A tense legal battle ensued, but later that year the local ruling was overturned and Ryan was allowed to go back to school. For a year, he hung in there at the same educational institution that had banned him. During that time, he and his family received death threats and a bullet was fired through a window in Ryan’s home. Man’s inhumanity to man just marches on, doesn’t it? After the year was over, they moved to Cicero, Indiana – only five minutes from where I lived at the time.
In August of 1987, a nervous Ryan began his first day at Hamilton Heights High School. He was greeted by the principal and fifteen smiling students who were unafraid to shake his hand. He was going to school; he was no longer “outside the camp”, no longer kept at a distance; he had received mercy and taught a country in the process. Less than three years later, at his funeral, some of the same friends who greeted him at school joined the congregation assembled and sang #170: “The Lord’s My Shepherd, I’ll Not Want.” Every time I hear that melody, I think of Ryan White. I think of how he was kept “outside the camp” and banned from school. I think of how he was treated – mostly by folks who were motivated by fear more than anything else. He never asked to be a hemophiliac. He never asked to be transfused with tainted blood. He never asked for celebrity status. He just wanted to go to school.
The ten lepers just wanted to be cleansed. This was the mercy that was unique to them: cleansing. So often, this story of the lepers is put to use by people like me – the preachers of the world -- to suggest that you might be more grateful for the blessings God has given you. In other words, be like that one cleansed leper who came back to praise Jesus and not like those nasty, ungrateful other nine. I’m not saying that gratitude isn’t important, but I can no more make you grateful than I can make my brown eyes blue.
Perhaps there are some with us today that aren’t necessarily feeling all that grateful. I remember hearing once about a worship service where the minister began with “Let us all stand up, turn to one another, and give each other a happy hug in the name of Jesus.” But, sitting in the back pew alone, was a woman who had learned in the past week that her husband of over twenty five years was given only a month to live. Do you think she was in the mood for happy-clappy-huggy gratitude? It has been said that gratitude is the least felt of all emotions, and that may be true. It’s quite possible that there are others here who are looking for something entirely different than a choreographed hug – like a little mercy for example, like some mercy now.
There stood those ten lepers – “outside the camp”, keeping their distance, and shouting out to Jesus. Was it fair that they had leprosy? No. And, unlike many in the world today, they didn’t ask for fairness. They asked for mercy.
Focus on the mercy, I say. Follow the mercy. See what the mercy does. And I suggest that you not overlook what is so often forgotten in this story: the very human side. Meditate on it, and use your imagination. Think of the family members and loved ones of those lepers. Those lepers would never receive a hug from grandpa or grandma, from a father, a mother, a sister, a brother, a daughter, a son, or a grandchild. There would be no kisses, no shoulders to cry on, no family dinners, and no chance to celebrate special occasions. No one could fix their boo-boos; no one could hold their hands. They were “outside the camp”; they always had to keep their distance. Part of us screams out: “That’s not fair.” No, it’s not, but they didn’t ask for fairness.
A song by Mary Gauthier captures the very human side to this story, our text. It goes like this:
My father could use a little mercy now.
The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground.
His work is almost over, and it won’t be long that he won’t be around.
I love my father, he could use some mercy now.
My brother could use a little mercy now.
He’s a stranger to freedom; he’s shackled to his fear and his doubt.
The pain that he lives in it’s almost more than living will allow.
I love my brother, he could use some mercy now.
Yeah, we all could use a little mercy now.
I know we don’t deserve it, but we need it anyhow.
We hang in the balance and dangle between hell and hallowed ground.
And every single one of us could use some mercy now.
Let me paraphrase the ten lepers: “Master Jesus, every single one of us could use some mercy now.” Jesus, seeing them, abruptly says: “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” He speaks as if the cleansing, the mercy is a done deal. He then orders them to follow the law. They go, and, on their way, they are cleansed. Yes, it is a done deal. By all means, go, go quickly; run as fast as you can. Do what the priests tell you; hurry up; soon, you’ll be able to hug your loved ones again, kiss them, celebrate with them, start living life again.
But one of them, a Samaritan we are told, does not do that. In fact, he initially seems to disobey the law and even the command of Jesus. He turns back. He falls at Jesus’ feet, which is one of the Biblical postures for worshipping God, and he thanked Him. With lips both cleansed and quivering, he says thanks. This is what the abrupt mercy did for that leper. It not only cleansed him; it prompted thanksgiving.
Jesus acts surprised. He says: “Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then, likely with a smile on His face, He says to the cleansed Samaritan: “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”
It all happened as Jesus was on His way to Jerusalem. Once there, He would break the bread and share the cup in giving us all He had: His body and blood. Mercy now! He was crucified to pay for everything that kept the world – with you and me in it – at a distance from God, outside God’s camp. Mercy now! He was raised to newness of life only to share it with His brothers and sisters, God’s children! Mercy now!
What does the mercy prompt you to do?
It prompts me to share. Sometimes you can hold on to things by giving them away. With God’s mercy, there’s always more. Try to spot the little mercies that come your way this coming week. I noticed yet more mercy this past week. I called my daughter Caroline on her birthday. (She is now the same age that Ryan White was when he died.) I want you to know that Caroline has “Pervasive Developmental Disorder” which comes under the heading – or umbrella, as its called – of Autism. Autistic children and young adults occupy a different thought world, a world that strikes more typical people as awkward. But every now and again, if you take the time, you may find yourself in that world for at least a little bit.
Caroline says: “Dad, know what Christopher Robin said to Winnie the Pooh? It’s my favorite part.” “No, Caroline, tell me! What is it?”
Promise me you’ll always remember that
You’re braver than you believe,
And stronger than you seem,
And smarter than you think.
“That’s my favorite part, Father,” she said.
Thank you, dear Lord Jesus, for Caroline, for her nineteen years, and for all the people here today, all of you today, who are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” Why? It is because of mercy – now.
Amen.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Adverbs and Adjectives
Text: Lamentations 1:1-6, 3:19-26
Theme: “Adverbs and Adjectives”
The Twenty-Seventh Sunday In Ordinary Time
The Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost
October 3, 2010
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
The Rev. Paul R. Dunklau
+In the Name of Jesus+
Earlier this week, I read the story of a pastor who gave a children’s talk and asked the kids a question. He said: “If the color red was good and the color green was bad, what color would you be?” A little girl raised her hand timidly and said “I’d be streaky!” I’d venture to say that you and I are streaky too! Some days we “trend”, as they say, toward red; other days we trend toward green, but, by and large, we’re pretty streaky!
Words like “good” and “bad” and “streaky” are words that describe. See if you can spot the word that describes in this sentence: “At my ordination, the FPC choir sang beautifully.” Of course, it’s beautifully. Here’s another: “At my ordination, the person being ordained was perspiring profusely.” Did you catch the descriptive term?
On one of the walls of Mama’s Daughter’s Diner in Dallas, Texas, guests will read a short prayer that goes like this:
Dear Lord, so far today, I’ve done alright. I haven’t gossiped, haven’t lost my temper, haven’t been greedy, grumpy, nasty, selfish, or overindulgent. I’m really glad about that, but in a few minutes, Lord, I’m gonna get out of bed and from then on, I’m probably gonna need a lot more help! Amen.
Now, alongside the humor, did you catch the descriptors? You heard words like alright and glad. And, of course, you heard greedy and grumpy and nasty and selfish and overindulgent. There you have a whole bunch of descriptive terms. A good descriptive term is vivid if not evocative. They paint pictures in the mind of the reader or the hearers.
Words, in short, are tools. Electricians have their wire; plumbers have their pipe; carpenters have their hammer and nails. We ministers have words. Words are the tools we work with. And words mean things. We use them to write. We use them to communicate. We use them to describe reality as we see it. The best use of words is when the words are God’s words, and they are given to us to proclaim.
Some of the words we use, as we learned in English class, are called adjectives; adjectives are words that describe. The same is true of adverbs. Take the sentence, “We made a quick trip to Gainesville.” “Quick” is the adjective that describes the trip. Use the same sentence and insert an adverb instead. It would go like this, “We made the trip to Gainesville quickly.”
Moments ago, you heard me read a selection from the book of Lamentations in the Old Testament portion of the Bible. For you wordsmiths out there, the core of the title Lamentations is the word lament. According to the folks at www.dictionary.com, the word lament means to express sorrow or regret. Read the book of Lamentations cover to cover on your new Kindle from Barnes and Noble, and you’ll see that Lamentations is chalk full of sorrow and regret. It isn’t exactly light or entertaining literature. The people of God, at the time living as refugees in a foreign land, were remembering the good old days. They ginned up some nostalgia, but they mostly mourned the loss of the good old days. They regretted what caused them to lose the good old days. Even today and even in churches, folks mourn and regret the loss of the good old days. You hear it when they speak of a more “simple” time that once was but is no longer. They remember the baseball, the hot dogs, and the apple pie. They remember when the most provocative thing on TV was when the “Do Not Disturb” sign was hung out of the hotel room door. But those days are gone, kaput. Now we are living ninety to nothing -- having forgotten how to slow down and only to wonder why our lives are passing us by so quickly. Farewell to the good old days. But, as Billy Joel sang in that song, “The good old days weren’t always good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.”
“How lonely sits the city that once was full of people,” says our text. Did you spot the adverb, the word with the “ly” at the end? Lonely is the word; it describes the city. Does it describe Denton? Does it describe you? Someone spoke once about being lonely in New York City. There are millions of people in and around in the big apple, but you can still be lonely apparently.
“She,” meaning the city of Jerusalem, “weeps bitterly in the night,” says our reading. The adverb is bitterly. It describes the tears. When was the last time you cried? Did you cry joyfully, or did it trend more toward bitterly? The people of God are not immune to tears.
“Her friends have dealt treacherously with her,” says our reading. I’m sure you spotted the big adverb there. It is one thing when your enemies deal with you treacherously, but it’s another when your friends do. Have you ever known someone you thought was your friend but wasn’t? Is there a person you know who was friendly with you and you discover later that they had an ulterior motive? If yes, then it’s reasonable to lament.
By the way, the author of the Old Testament book of Lamentations is, most likely, Jeremiah the prophet. He remembers how Jerusalem, the capital city, once was. But now he describes how he actually sees it at the time of the writing. The word he uses is “desolate.” Last summer, I looked out on the city of Albuquerque from the top of Mount Sandia. The view was incredible and breath-taking and stunning. Jeremiah did not see something rightly described as incredible, breathtaking, or stunning. He saw only desolation. Take a drive from Amarillo to Denton and you’ll go through a string of small towns. In most if not all of those towns, you will find businesses that are no longer businesses. They are only deteriorating buildings. They are desolate.
A number of months ago, Diana and I went to see a movie called “The Book of Eli.” Without giving the story away if you haven’t seen it, I can tell you this: the author and producers sought to portray what a post-nuclear war, post-apocalyptic America would actually look like. There was no vegetation, no growth; there were no vivid colors. There were only shades of faint beige and brown and gray and black. It was all barren trees, dead leaves, sand, and smoldering ash. The landscape, in a word, was desolate.
That’s how Jeremiah saw things; things were desolate. As you look around your life, what word would you pick to describe what you see? What would the adjectives or adverbs be? There’s something to think about this week.
After using loads of adjectives, adverbs, and descriptive phrases to describe what he saw, Jeremiah then gets personal. He looks inward. What does the desolation do to him personally? He says: “The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me.” In short, he’s hurting – and badly. He is a jumble of exhaustingly negative emotions.
His reality was one of desolation, affliction, and homelessness. Those are the facts “on the ground,” as they say. But what he describes now is not what he sees but rather the thoughts that spring from his soul as a result of what he sees. His thoughts are coming forth “continually”, he says. He said the thoughts were like “wormwood and gall.” What does that mean? Wormwood is a plant, actually. It yields bitter, aromatic oil. We have mint leaves out back. Roll a leaf between your fingers, take a whiff, and you smile. Do that with a wormwood leaf and you’d go “yuck”! Gall has to do with being vexed or irritated. For example: someone says, “That person just galls me.” There you have it. When you’re galled, if finds you saying that that person or situation just irritates the dickens out of you, the living daylights out of you – or something like that. The thoughts of the author were, therefore, continual (meaning non-stop), bitter, and irritating. It is not a very pleasant combination.
It almost sounds as though he’s depressed. Now how can a prophet of God or a minister of God be depressed? With the Lord there’s “fullness of joy”, the Bible says. Therefore, how could prophets, ministers, or faithful people of God ever be depressed? That’s not normal. Well, I’m here to say that normal is only a setting on your washer. I’ve been depressed; it’s not that hard. More than that, I’ve suffered from depression. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re depressed. But I can tell you this: the depressing thoughts are continual; when depressed, you think the depression will never end. And the depressing thoughts are bitter and irritating as well – like wormwood and gall.
Dear friends in Christ, when your reality, your situation in life, is or seems to be desolate; when your thoughts are bitter and vexing and irritating and irksome and ongoing, then, for starters, remember Jeremiah!
Yes, indeed! If your situation is desolate, remember Jeremiah! If your life – or even your home – feels foreclosed upon, remember Jeremiah! When friends deal treacherously with you, remember Jeremiah! When you look or even search for meaning and purpose in your life and you can’t seem to find it after umpteen tries, remember Jeremiah! When the trials and temptations of youth coming calling, remember Jeremiah! When the uncertainties and limits of advancing age pay their regular visits, remember Jeremiah! When life hands you a lemon but you don’t have any sugar to make lemonade, remember Jeremiah! When you say or even cry out “What in the world is this world coming to?” Remember Jeremiah!
You see, when you remember Jeremiah you remember to put another thought in your mind which gives hope. The externals of your life, what you see, might be awful. The internals of your life, what you think and feel, may be devastatingly disturbing. But you can put another thought in your mind that gives you hope.
Here’s Jeremiah’s thought, and I invite you to make it your own. Jeremiah says: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
Speaking of adjectives and adverbs, you can’t get much more descriptive than that! The Lord’s love is steadfast; it won’t budge. In a world of fits and starts, the love of the Lord never ceases. We may put fences around our houses and homes and heads and hearts, but you can’t put fences around God’s mercy. It never ends. The mercies of God are not yesterday’s news, for they are new every morning. His faithfulness is not average, above average, or good. His faithfulness is great. Great is the appropriate adjective.
And when it’s all said and done, what’s going to be my portion in life? Am I going to be counted in when it counts? Am I going to get my cut? Will I really, truly, genuinely, honestly have a portion of the never-ending joy I hear about? Yes, and it’s not going to be your externals (what you see) or your internals (what you think or feel). Jeremiah’s portion, your portion, my portion, our portion is the Lord! And therefore, we have hope. You’re in. You got it. Believe it. It’s yours!
This Lord – who is our portion and who is our hope – is the same Lord who suffered death on a cross to pay for the desolation of our sins; it is the same Lord who was raised from dead so that the last word is life! It is the same Lord who is among us now in the breaking of the bread and the sharing of the cup. It is the same Lord who has guided Susanne Wegner in her life and called her to serve as elder. It is the same Lord who may be calling some of you today – to a greater, richer, and deeper involvement with Christ and His church. We welcome you, and you are welcome to become a part of us today.
If the color red stands for God’s love and faithfulness and mercy, if the color green stands for desolation, I don’t want to be streaky. I want to join with you and celebrate the power of red!
Amen.
Theme: “Adverbs and Adjectives”
The Twenty-Seventh Sunday In Ordinary Time
The Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost
October 3, 2010
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
The Rev. Paul R. Dunklau
+In the Name of Jesus+
Earlier this week, I read the story of a pastor who gave a children’s talk and asked the kids a question. He said: “If the color red was good and the color green was bad, what color would you be?” A little girl raised her hand timidly and said “I’d be streaky!” I’d venture to say that you and I are streaky too! Some days we “trend”, as they say, toward red; other days we trend toward green, but, by and large, we’re pretty streaky!
Words like “good” and “bad” and “streaky” are words that describe. See if you can spot the word that describes in this sentence: “At my ordination, the FPC choir sang beautifully.” Of course, it’s beautifully. Here’s another: “At my ordination, the person being ordained was perspiring profusely.” Did you catch the descriptive term?
On one of the walls of Mama’s Daughter’s Diner in Dallas, Texas, guests will read a short prayer that goes like this:
Dear Lord, so far today, I’ve done alright. I haven’t gossiped, haven’t lost my temper, haven’t been greedy, grumpy, nasty, selfish, or overindulgent. I’m really glad about that, but in a few minutes, Lord, I’m gonna get out of bed and from then on, I’m probably gonna need a lot more help! Amen.
Now, alongside the humor, did you catch the descriptors? You heard words like alright and glad. And, of course, you heard greedy and grumpy and nasty and selfish and overindulgent. There you have a whole bunch of descriptive terms. A good descriptive term is vivid if not evocative. They paint pictures in the mind of the reader or the hearers.
Words, in short, are tools. Electricians have their wire; plumbers have their pipe; carpenters have their hammer and nails. We ministers have words. Words are the tools we work with. And words mean things. We use them to write. We use them to communicate. We use them to describe reality as we see it. The best use of words is when the words are God’s words, and they are given to us to proclaim.
Some of the words we use, as we learned in English class, are called adjectives; adjectives are words that describe. The same is true of adverbs. Take the sentence, “We made a quick trip to Gainesville.” “Quick” is the adjective that describes the trip. Use the same sentence and insert an adverb instead. It would go like this, “We made the trip to Gainesville quickly.”
Moments ago, you heard me read a selection from the book of Lamentations in the Old Testament portion of the Bible. For you wordsmiths out there, the core of the title Lamentations is the word lament. According to the folks at www.dictionary.com, the word lament means to express sorrow or regret. Read the book of Lamentations cover to cover on your new Kindle from Barnes and Noble, and you’ll see that Lamentations is chalk full of sorrow and regret. It isn’t exactly light or entertaining literature. The people of God, at the time living as refugees in a foreign land, were remembering the good old days. They ginned up some nostalgia, but they mostly mourned the loss of the good old days. They regretted what caused them to lose the good old days. Even today and even in churches, folks mourn and regret the loss of the good old days. You hear it when they speak of a more “simple” time that once was but is no longer. They remember the baseball, the hot dogs, and the apple pie. They remember when the most provocative thing on TV was when the “Do Not Disturb” sign was hung out of the hotel room door. But those days are gone, kaput. Now we are living ninety to nothing -- having forgotten how to slow down and only to wonder why our lives are passing us by so quickly. Farewell to the good old days. But, as Billy Joel sang in that song, “The good old days weren’t always good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.”
“How lonely sits the city that once was full of people,” says our text. Did you spot the adverb, the word with the “ly” at the end? Lonely is the word; it describes the city. Does it describe Denton? Does it describe you? Someone spoke once about being lonely in New York City. There are millions of people in and around in the big apple, but you can still be lonely apparently.
“She,” meaning the city of Jerusalem, “weeps bitterly in the night,” says our reading. The adverb is bitterly. It describes the tears. When was the last time you cried? Did you cry joyfully, or did it trend more toward bitterly? The people of God are not immune to tears.
“Her friends have dealt treacherously with her,” says our reading. I’m sure you spotted the big adverb there. It is one thing when your enemies deal with you treacherously, but it’s another when your friends do. Have you ever known someone you thought was your friend but wasn’t? Is there a person you know who was friendly with you and you discover later that they had an ulterior motive? If yes, then it’s reasonable to lament.
By the way, the author of the Old Testament book of Lamentations is, most likely, Jeremiah the prophet. He remembers how Jerusalem, the capital city, once was. But now he describes how he actually sees it at the time of the writing. The word he uses is “desolate.” Last summer, I looked out on the city of Albuquerque from the top of Mount Sandia. The view was incredible and breath-taking and stunning. Jeremiah did not see something rightly described as incredible, breathtaking, or stunning. He saw only desolation. Take a drive from Amarillo to Denton and you’ll go through a string of small towns. In most if not all of those towns, you will find businesses that are no longer businesses. They are only deteriorating buildings. They are desolate.
A number of months ago, Diana and I went to see a movie called “The Book of Eli.” Without giving the story away if you haven’t seen it, I can tell you this: the author and producers sought to portray what a post-nuclear war, post-apocalyptic America would actually look like. There was no vegetation, no growth; there were no vivid colors. There were only shades of faint beige and brown and gray and black. It was all barren trees, dead leaves, sand, and smoldering ash. The landscape, in a word, was desolate.
That’s how Jeremiah saw things; things were desolate. As you look around your life, what word would you pick to describe what you see? What would the adjectives or adverbs be? There’s something to think about this week.
After using loads of adjectives, adverbs, and descriptive phrases to describe what he saw, Jeremiah then gets personal. He looks inward. What does the desolation do to him personally? He says: “The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me.” In short, he’s hurting – and badly. He is a jumble of exhaustingly negative emotions.
His reality was one of desolation, affliction, and homelessness. Those are the facts “on the ground,” as they say. But what he describes now is not what he sees but rather the thoughts that spring from his soul as a result of what he sees. His thoughts are coming forth “continually”, he says. He said the thoughts were like “wormwood and gall.” What does that mean? Wormwood is a plant, actually. It yields bitter, aromatic oil. We have mint leaves out back. Roll a leaf between your fingers, take a whiff, and you smile. Do that with a wormwood leaf and you’d go “yuck”! Gall has to do with being vexed or irritated. For example: someone says, “That person just galls me.” There you have it. When you’re galled, if finds you saying that that person or situation just irritates the dickens out of you, the living daylights out of you – or something like that. The thoughts of the author were, therefore, continual (meaning non-stop), bitter, and irritating. It is not a very pleasant combination.
It almost sounds as though he’s depressed. Now how can a prophet of God or a minister of God be depressed? With the Lord there’s “fullness of joy”, the Bible says. Therefore, how could prophets, ministers, or faithful people of God ever be depressed? That’s not normal. Well, I’m here to say that normal is only a setting on your washer. I’ve been depressed; it’s not that hard. More than that, I’ve suffered from depression. Sometimes you don’t even know you’re depressed. But I can tell you this: the depressing thoughts are continual; when depressed, you think the depression will never end. And the depressing thoughts are bitter and irritating as well – like wormwood and gall.
Dear friends in Christ, when your reality, your situation in life, is or seems to be desolate; when your thoughts are bitter and vexing and irritating and irksome and ongoing, then, for starters, remember Jeremiah!
Yes, indeed! If your situation is desolate, remember Jeremiah! If your life – or even your home – feels foreclosed upon, remember Jeremiah! When friends deal treacherously with you, remember Jeremiah! When you look or even search for meaning and purpose in your life and you can’t seem to find it after umpteen tries, remember Jeremiah! When the trials and temptations of youth coming calling, remember Jeremiah! When the uncertainties and limits of advancing age pay their regular visits, remember Jeremiah! When life hands you a lemon but you don’t have any sugar to make lemonade, remember Jeremiah! When you say or even cry out “What in the world is this world coming to?” Remember Jeremiah!
You see, when you remember Jeremiah you remember to put another thought in your mind which gives hope. The externals of your life, what you see, might be awful. The internals of your life, what you think and feel, may be devastatingly disturbing. But you can put another thought in your mind that gives you hope.
Here’s Jeremiah’s thought, and I invite you to make it your own. Jeremiah says: “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”
Speaking of adjectives and adverbs, you can’t get much more descriptive than that! The Lord’s love is steadfast; it won’t budge. In a world of fits and starts, the love of the Lord never ceases. We may put fences around our houses and homes and heads and hearts, but you can’t put fences around God’s mercy. It never ends. The mercies of God are not yesterday’s news, for they are new every morning. His faithfulness is not average, above average, or good. His faithfulness is great. Great is the appropriate adjective.
And when it’s all said and done, what’s going to be my portion in life? Am I going to be counted in when it counts? Am I going to get my cut? Will I really, truly, genuinely, honestly have a portion of the never-ending joy I hear about? Yes, and it’s not going to be your externals (what you see) or your internals (what you think or feel). Jeremiah’s portion, your portion, my portion, our portion is the Lord! And therefore, we have hope. You’re in. You got it. Believe it. It’s yours!
This Lord – who is our portion and who is our hope – is the same Lord who suffered death on a cross to pay for the desolation of our sins; it is the same Lord who was raised from dead so that the last word is life! It is the same Lord who is among us now in the breaking of the bread and the sharing of the cup. It is the same Lord who has guided Susanne Wegner in her life and called her to serve as elder. It is the same Lord who may be calling some of you today – to a greater, richer, and deeper involvement with Christ and His church. We welcome you, and you are welcome to become a part of us today.
If the color red stands for God’s love and faithfulness and mercy, if the color green stands for desolation, I don’t want to be streaky. I want to join with you and celebrate the power of red!
Amen.
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