don't eat alone

It’s been years since I watched television news for more than a few minutes. This week I caught up, staying up late, waiting to see what was going to happen in these unprecedented days. Somehow, in the middle of it all, I managed to get a sermon written. Here’s what I had to say.

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Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, help me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn . . .

I have to tell you, working with our text for this week has made me rewrite what I wanted to say more than once. Jesus told a story about ten bridesmaids who had to wait longer than anyone expected for the groom to show up–so long that they all fell asleep. When they woke up only half of them were prepared for what came next.

Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light . . .

As this week has worn on, I have begun to feel more and more like one of the bridesmaids who didn’t have enough oil to last the night and get to the wedding. I was not prepared for what is happening and for the deep divisions that define us as a nation, not to mention COVID-19. Actually, I think if we put ourselves in a contemporary telling of this parable, all of the bridesmaids come up lacking. None of us is prepared for this, nor are we prepared for the days ahead–the years ahead—of trying to figure out how to live faithfully and compassionately–how to live together in an angry and divided world.

Jesus told the parable to his disciples, along with two others, while their world was crashing in around them. All three stories speak to how we deal with an unscripted life, if you will—how we respond to what life throws our way. The chapters that follow show how Jesus responded to betrayal, false arrest, torture, and execution, and how his disciples responded to disappointment, disillusionment, and uncertainty.

Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me home . . .

“All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare wrote, “and all the men and women only players.” I like the metaphor a lot, except that it might lead us to believe that life has some sort of script that we can follow. In his song “Beautiful Boy,” John Lennon sings, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans,” which is another way to say that our lives are not scripted. Somewhere, probably tucked inside a book, I have a card with a quote on the front that reads, “The story of my life has a wonderful cast of characters, I’m just not sure about the plot.” Rather than a set drama, life is improvisational theater: we make it up as we live, which means we have to try and prepare for things we can’t see coming—and what matters most are everyone else with whom we share the scene.

We are all the cast of characters—the supporting actors—in the drama of life.

One of my favorite improv actors is Wayne Brady. Many years ago, I saw him live. Before he came on stage, one of his associates stepped out with a big flip chart and asked the audience to give him words. We began to shout out random vocabulary and he wrote the words down, one per page, until he had about forty of them. Then he introduced Wayne, who walked out to a hip hop beat and then began rapping using the words we have given him. Each time he used a word, his assistant flipped the page. Brady never missed a beat. He demonstrated that improv is not just “making things up,” but preparing to be able to respond to whatever he was offered by those around him.

How we respond to our current situation will reveal how we have prepared, both individually and collectively. Are we prepared to be peacemakers, or have we prepared by being one of those who brings gasoline to fight a fire? Are we committed to the long haul of building meaningful community, or have we prepared to sequester ourselves and leave others to their own devices? Have we fostered courage in our hearts or fed our fears? Have we prepared with ourselves as the center of the story or as one of a cast of supporting players?

I am not saying that it’s wrong to feel afraid or anxious. These are uncertain times and both fear and anxiety are appropriate responses. In the story that follows the parable of the bridesmaids, Jesus told about a rich man who was going on a long trip and gave three servants money to invest or use while he was gone. Two of the servants had ideas for what to do with the money–they were ready to say yes; the third was so frightened of his boss or of failing that he dug a hole and buried the money so he could return it intact when his boss came back. When the master returned, he chastised the man for being captured by his fears.

Then Jesus told a third parable that was set at the final judgment when the nations will be divided into sheep and goats. The sheep are congratulated for responding to the needs around them: “I was hungry and you fed me; thirsty and you gave me something to drink; lonely and you included me . . .” The goats are chastised for not doing those things. Both groups ask, “When did we see you hungry or thirsty or lonely?”

Jesus answered, “When you met the need in the face in front of you, you met me.”

But here’s the thing that always gets me in this story: neither the sheep not the goats knew the impact of their behaviors. They all asked, “When did we see you?” They didn’t know. The difference between the two is the sheep had prepared to notice their fellow actors who were in need. They had prepared to be able to respond with food and drink, clothing and companionship. They saw themselves as supporting actors, as part of the cast. The goats didn’t.

I was in Harvard Square one day, back when we lived in Boston, and passed a man on the street who was holding a paper cup. He asked me for spare change. I learned from Ginger, my wife, not to give money to those who ask but to offer food, so I said, “I’m happy to buy you a muffin and a cup of coffee,” and pointed at the nearby coffee shop.

He thought for a second and said, “A Coke and a brownie?”

I thought, “Why not?” and walked into the bakery. The brownies looked so good that I got two of them and the man and I sat on the curb together, ate baked goods, and talked.

I love telling that story and I am also haunted by it because I wish I could say it had happened more than once. That day, I was prepared to support my fellow actor, my fellow character in the story of our lives. I wonder how many scenes I have walked by without catching my cue to offer support—without seeing Christ in the eyes of the person looking back at me.

As Jesus said, “When you met the need in the face in front of you, you met me.”

I recorded this sermon on Saturday, which followed three days in which we set daily records for the number of new COVID-19 cases. Some states were still counting votes, so the outcome was still unclear. Many folks are worried about how their businesses will survive both the virus and the winter. We are all malnourished in our hunger for human contact and community. As the old gospel song says, we are tired, we are weak, we are worn. All of us are hungry and thirsty and hoping for a place to belong.

Jesus’ parable about the bridesmaids has a troubling conclusion. The five who didn’t have enough oil went to find some, which meant the wedding was in full swing when they finally got there, but no one would let them in. How could they have the wedding without the bridesmaids? How, too, can we grasp God’s beloved community unless we prepare to include everyone, to include all of the characters in the story of our lives?

Take our hands, precious Lord, lead us home . . .

Amen.

Peace,
Milton

For All Saints Day, I preached at two churches, thanks to the magic of the internet and the reality of remote worship. One of the churches is working their way through the Acts of the Apostles, so I went with their scripture—Acts 6:1-7—for both groups. It is a collection of verses that isn’t in the lectionary cycle, as far as I can tell, but it had a lot to say to me. Here is my sermon “Pulling Ourselves Together” and Warren Zevon’s “Keep Me in Your Heart,” which felt like a good hymn for the day.

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Every time I come to the Communion table as we are today, even though we are doing it remotely, I carry with me a specific memory of a Communion service at a youth camp almost thirty years ago. My friend Kenny was preaching about the Last Supper and talking about Jesus’ words, “As often as you do this, remember me,” and asked, “What is the opposite of remember?”

“Forget,” was the answer that came from most of the young people.

“No,” he said, “the opposite of remember is dismember. Life pulls us apart. We come to the Table to remember–to put ourselves back together in Jesus’ name.”

As I pondered what to say on this Sunday, which is not only Communion Sunday, but also All Saints Day and the Sunday before our Presidential election, the memory came even more alive. Remembering, by his definition, is not just about memories, but is a crucial part of our daily lives. Whether we are holding the memories of those who have died, or trying to figure out how to take care of one another, or just how to get through these crazy days, we have to spend a good deal of our time re-membering–pulling ourselves together, don’t we?

Our story from Acts 6 is a story of re-membering, of pulling together. I think this little section could be titled, “Living Together Is Hard Work.”

After Pentecost, which we remember as the birthday of the Church, the followers of Jesus began to realize they were the ones who were going to have to make the word become flesh, which meant they had to learn how to live together. The people who came to Jesus were a mixed bag. They were not all alike. Many were not well-off economically. They were not mainstream. What they all shared was their love for Jesus. And they shared that they all lived under Roman occupation.

Then they decided to share everything with each other so that no one would be in need. After all, Jesus did say, “I was hungry and you fed me . . .” But it didn’t take long for things to fall apart, or at least for the new system of solidarity to stumble.

What does it mean to share everything, to hold everything in common?

One of their practices was to make sure everyone had enough to eat, which took time, resources, and effort.

One of the dividing lines in the church was between the locals–those who spoke Aramaic and had lived their whole lives in Palestine–and those who were also Hebrew but had grown up in the larger Mediterranean world. They spoke Greek; some even had Greek names. The issue was the Greek speaking group said their widows weren’t getting the same attention as the Aramaic widows. The apostles recognized there was an issue but said they didn’t want to spend their time sorting it all out. They were the Chosen Twelve—the ones responsible for the new and growing congregation; they didn’t think they should use their time waiting tables. So, they instructed the congregation to choose seven people to handle it. To minister. The Greek word is diakoneo, from which we get our word deacon. A few verses down it’s the same word used to describe what the apostles were doing. In fact, it shows up three times in this passage, each time translated differently: it can mean to serve, to minister, or to attend to—to wait on.

But even though they were using the same word, not everyone looked at things the same way. the apostles said, “It isn’t right–it isn’t acceptable–for us to set aside the proclamation of God’s word in order to serve tables–to minister at tables.”

Now, I have to say as someone who spent a decade of his life working in restaurant kitchens and who loves to feed people as much as I love to do anything, I have struggled to understand the tone in the apostles’ response to the problem. I’m not sure it’s fair to paint them as acting superior, but if I had been one of the ones preparing the meals, I might have taken it that way. As we said at the beginning, living together is hard work. They had to deal with expectations, responsibilities, different personalities, varying backgrounds, divergent political views, and money.

Any of that sound familiar? Pulling together, as we know, is not an easy task. And it is the task to which God has called us.

The theological term we use when we talk about the life of Jesus is incarnation—as John 1 says, the word became flesh and dwelt among us. I know enough Spanish to know carne means meat. In carne sounds like “with meat,” which is another way of saying real relationships are embodied, not theoretical. Whether we are talking about a marriage, a friendship, or a church community, pulling together means putting meat on the bones of love. Words alone are not enough. We have to have some skin in the game. The early Christians committed to share everything in common, which meant they had to struggle to figure out how to make sure everyone felt like they were being treated fairly. So, they chose seven people who would be in charge of making sure everyone was fed equitably and they went on with life together.

I started off talking about Jesus’ words at the Last Supper: “As often as you do this, remember me.” In many liturgies, we interpret the first phrase as meaning as often as we share the eucharistic meal, but I think it offers a wider reading. What if we were to understand Jesus to say, “Every time you come to a table, every time you sit down to eat, take the time to pull yourselves together.”

The Greek word for table can be translated to mean a dinner table or a money table. So how about this: as often as we come to the dinner table, the conference table, the coffee counter, the checkout line, or any other chance we have to be with one another, we have a chance to re-member ourselves, to put ourselves back together in Jesus’ name.

For me to say that life has a centrifugal force that throws us all to the edges is not telling you anything new. Pretty much everyone who is a part of this worship has been dismembered by circumstance, left broken-hearted by grief, struggled with disappointment and failure, wrestled with competition and comparison, even as we have opened our hearts to others and loved those around us. We know what it feels like for life to tear us apart and we know what it means to re-member. As we come once again to the Table on this Sunday filled with memories of those who are no longer here and with uncertainty about what lies ahead, let us choose, once again, to pull ourselves together in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Peace,
Milton

Sometimes when I have a chance to preach, I feel like I have a big point to get across. At other times, like this week, when the whole thing feels quieter—more of an observation or a remembrance than a proclamation. I followed Moses up the mountain to his death in Deuteronomy 34:1-12 and here’s what I came away with.

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If I were to say the words, “Once upon a time,” you would know I was beginning a story. Those words have pulled us in since we were children. Beginnings are wide open doors, whether we are being invited to explore the great outdoors or to come inside the house for a more intimate tale. Endings, on the other hand, are harder to deal with, or to do well. Life is a lot like a Saturday Night Live skit: it starts with a good premise but most of the time the ending never really pays off—and we have a lot riding on how a story ends.

I read an article in the Washington Post this week that asked, “What book has the most disappointing ending?” It was written by a book reviewer who made a point of saying they never give away the ending when they write about a book, but endings are what most readers want to talk about. It’s true for both books and movies: how everything wraps up has a huge impact on how we feel about the story. Though it is considered great literature, Romeo and Juliet isn’t the feel-good play of the summer. And we are still willing to sit through all the hard boxing scenes to see the triumph of Rocky enduring the fight and believing in himself, even though he didn’t win.

Yesterday was a big day at our house because the Hallmark Channel started showing their Christmas movies. Though it is still way too early for me to start watching them, I will admit I enjoy watching them. Part of the comfort they offer is you can see the ending coming from a mile away. About fifteen or twenty minutes before the movie is over, the couple that seemed destined to be together face something that pulls them apart. Then, with about ten minutes left, and after the last commercial break, they realize the mistake they made and find their way back to each other–the very thing we wanted Romeo and Juliet to do. There are lights and snow and love and, well, Merry Christmas. Imagine how the ratings would go if, after two hours of drawing the two people together, the credits started rolling right when they walked away from each other.

One of the observations that we make about the Bible is that it is more of a library–an anthology–than a single book. Or perhaps we would do better to call it a book of stories, some more connected than others, but all of them telling the Big Story of the relationship between God and Creation and how we keep trying to learn how to be human.

The Christian New Testament is interesting because Paul wrote most all of his letters before the gospels were put on parchment. Though the Gospels come first in the way we read the Bible now, they were the last to be written. Paul started by writing down ideas, but the early Christians realized what mattered most were the stories of Jesus.

The Hebrew Bible, on the other hand, is pretty much stories from beginning to end. The Torah, or the Books of Moses, where we have been camped out for a couple of weeks, are a five-part set that starts with Creation and ends with the Hebrew people on the verge of entering the land God had promised to them.

Today’s passage is the last chapter of the five books–the Big Finish–and it gives an account of the death of Moses. It’s quite a scene. The preceding chapter holds Moses’ final blessing to the people and then God takes him back up the mountain. Once again, it’s just the two: God and Moses. It seems Moses knew he was playing the closing scene. He had said what he had to say and then he started climbing. He already knew he was not going to get to cross over into the promised land. God had made that clear. The narrator says God “let him see” the land in every direction, which is not physically possible from the top of Mount Pisgah, so something deeply mystical is going on, not unlike the burning bush.

Why Moses couldn’t go into Canaan is unclear. Commentators offer many different explanations, but what matters most is that he wasn’t going to cross over. He had to live and die with that. For all that he had done and had seen God do, he was going to die before the story was finished. He got to make his big speech and bless the nation, but then he died alone on the mountain with God and was buried in an unmarked grave so the spot would not be remembered. The narrator closes the story by saying there never was another one like Moses.

I have to say one of the things that came to mind for me as I read Moses’ final scene was Martin Luther King’s speech to the sanitation workers in Memphis on the night before he was killed. Though he didn’t know he was going to be murdered the next day, he seemed to know the ending was always at hand. He said,

Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight that we, as a people will get to the promised land.

He was shot and killed on the balcony of the Lorrraine Motel the next morning.

Both Moses and Dr. King knew life had to be about more than checking off everything on our bucket lists. Moses lived a long life and King a relatively short one; neither were finished with what they hoped to do, and they both knew the story of their lives was a part of a larger, more epic tale. They are gone and we keep telling their stories because they are still a part of the larger story that has continued beyond their deaths—the story of what it means to be human.

The writer Anais Nin, in a quote she attributed to the Talmud, wrote, “We do not tell stories as they are, we tell stories as we are.” Poet and theologian Pádraig ÓTuama says that telling stories is the only way for life to become a verb. I recently published a book about the way grief connects us to one another called The Color of Together. One of the paragraphs I wrote says, “My father is dead, but my story with him is not over. I am still turning periods into commas and, sometimes, vice versa. I am still remembering our life together and revising how I think of him and of us as new insights arise.” The story of our lives is not over yet; we are still adding pages.

We are a week away from All Saints Day when we will be particularly mindful of those who died this year–and I know those losses are significant for this congregation. We know what it is like to keep telling the story or our lives after some of our most beloved characters are gone. The Hebrew people did, too. They buried Moses in an unmarked grave and went on to the Promised Land carrying his memory and adding to the story. Listen to Pádraig ÓTuama once again:

To live well is to see wisely and to see wisely is to tell stories and to tell stories is to tell of things that are always changing because even if the stories don’t change, the teller does, and so the story always moves.

I have two people in my life whose parents died this week, one from COVID-19 and the other from finally running out of gas at ninety-five. Death comes. Life ends. Things change. And through it all we keep telling the story of our lives to remember who we are, who we have been, and who we are becoming . . . once upon a time. Amen.

Since I am leading remote worship for the United Churches of Durham, Connecticut for the next three months, I have video of the sermon. The song that follows was a favorite my father and I shared:

I love to tell the story
for those who know it best
seem hungering and thirsting
to hear it like the rest

Peace,
Milton