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[  A sermon given at John Calvin Presbyterian Church, Henrietta NY, on 11/11/18, based on Ruth 4:13-18 and Mark 13:38-44.]

 

Perhaps all border crossings are dangerous. Will the border officials receive us or reject us? If we make it across the border, will the citizens of the country on the other side welcome us or distrust us? Perhaps they will resent us, thinking we have crossed the border for devious purposes. To steal their jobs. To do violence.

 

Crossing a national border can be dangerous. I have visited many countries, but I have never crossed a border on foot as a refugee or immigrant. My mother did, though not on foot; it was in a ship from her Italian birthplace to this land of opportunity. She was not quite seven years old. On the Atlantic crossing, her mother got violently ill. Her children and friends protected her, because they knew she might be rejected at Ellis Island. My grandmother didn’t want to tell anyone or see a doctor, for the same fear. And she didn’t speak English. When they arrived at Ellis Island, others schooled her to look healthy and say as little as possible. A kind agent gave my mother’s family passage to this new world. Border crossed. My mother loved to tell me that story and I loved to hear it.

 

The border before us in Ruth is an ancient one: the border between Israel and Moab. These two little middle eastern countries don’t like or trust each other. The border between them is the lower Jordan River valley, dominated by the Dead Sea, the lowest place on the planet. It is a barrier more daunting than any wall. Yet, in desperate circumstances, people will cross such a border.

 

It is a desperate time in Bethlehem. There is a famine in the land. One father and mother decide, perhaps for the good of their two sons, to make the dangerous border crossing to Moab, where there is no famine. Their names are Elimelek and Naomi; their sons are Mahlon and Chilion. It is not an easy or safe walk, but they make it. Moab is a land with a different language, culture, and God. Yet they find a place there. They are welcomed. Then Elimelek dies. Naomi is a widow in a strange country, with two sons. She makes a home there. In a decade, her sons grow to manhood. They fall in love with Moabite women. Mahlon marries Ruth and Chilion marries Orpah. Naomi is pleased. And then, like lightning striking three times in the same place, her sons die in the foreign land where her husband is already buried in a non-kosher cemetery.  Her grief is palpable. Her heart is broken. Her security is vanished.

 

She hears that the famine has ended. She makes a bold decision for a single woman. She will return to Bethlehem by herself. Her two daughters by marriage walk a ways with her. She thinks it is to say goodbye. But, no, they want to go on with her. She implores them to turn back to their homeland. She reasons with them. Orpah heeds her wisdom, says her teary goodbye, and returns to her home in Moab. Ruth, however, will not go back.

 

That leads to the most memorable and quoted words from Ruth:

“Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you!
Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge;
your people shall be my people, and your God my God.
Where you die, I will die;  there will I be buried.”

 

Those words are often read at weddings (they were at mine), but the context is far from a wedding. It is a widowed young woman from one country speaking to a widowed old woman from another.

 

On Naomi and Ruth go to cross a national border, always a dangerous thing to do. Bethlehem welcomes back Naomi. They recognize her. They embrace her. They don’t know that she is grieving, but she makes it clear to them.

–“And who is this young woman with you, Naomi? When you left, you had two sons, but no daughters.”

–“You remember right. This is Ruth, a Moabite who married my son Mahlon. But he too is now dead, buried by his father in Moab, as is the other son. Ruth is now a daughter to me. She insisted on coming with me, even when I told her to stay in her homeland.”

–“Then we welcome Ruth, a woman of character and heart. If you accept her, we accept her.”

 

The famine is over, but people must work in order to eat. Ruth goes to work in a field. She works hard and her work is noticed. The owner of the field, a good man named Boaz, asks about this hard-working young woman in his fields that he doesn’t know. He is told that she is Naomi’s daughter by marriage and that she is a Moabite who is taking care of the old widow Naomi.

 

Naomi realizes that Boaz is a relative of her dead husband. Boaz is a man of standing, a man of honor. Naomi devises a scheme for Ruth to get Boaz’s attention as more than a good field worker.

–“Ruth, wash up, put on Oil of Olay, your best makeup and perfume. Wear your best outfit. When Boaz has his fill of good food and wine and is sleeping, go to the foot of his bed and rest there. You will get his attention.”

 

Ruth obeys and Boaz notices that she is more than a good field worker. More than a Moabite who is incredibly kind to the old widow Naomi, who was once married to his relative, Elimelek. It didn’t take long before Boaz took Ruth the Moabite as his bride. It was as good as Captain VonTrapp marrying Maria.

 

Soon after, Ruth, who had borne no children through Mahlon, is pregnant. She bears a son and they name him Obed. When Naomi welcomes her grandson, all the women of Bethlehem rush to rejoice with her. The family name will live on, with thanks to a young Moabite named Ruth. And Obed grows and becomes the father of Jesse. And Jesse grows and becomes the father of David. And David becomes the great King of Israel. And 28 generations later, the line of David produces a son named Jesus. When we go to Matthew 1, there is a genealogy of Jesus the Savior. And in that genealogy, is the name of a Moabite, Ruth: an outsider, a foreigner, an other.

 

That Jesus, the one born in Naomi’s hometown, Boaz’s hometown, and Ruth’s adopted home, has arrived in Jerusalem, just five miles from Bethlehem. After being born in Bethlehem, he, a toddler, is carried across a border into Egypt, because of the violence about to break out in Bethlehem. Like Moab centuries before, Jews and Egyptians don’t like or trust each other. It is a dangerous border crossing for a young Jewish couple and their little son. Yet they are welcomed by Egypt. Our Lord Jesus was once a political refugee, an alien, perhaps an undocumented immigrant. When the violence in Bethlehem has ended, they return to Israel, but north to Nazareth. That probably means crossing the dangerous border into and through Samaria. Jesus knows that well. Telling about who our neighbor is, he makes a Samaritan the model for being a good neighbor. He once stops at a well at midday in Samaria and has a conversation with a woman with a checkered past. That conversation changes her life. Jesus once crosses the northern border of Israel into Phoenicia and a Gentile woman with a sick daughter finds him. She begs Jesus to heal her daughter. Jesus does and their lives are changed.

 

Now Jesus is in Jerusalem at the Temple. Here is what happens (Mark 12:41-44 from “The Message”:

“Sitting across from the offering box, he was observing how the crowd tossed money in for the collection. Many of the rich were making large contributions. One poor widow came up and put in two small coins—a measly two cents. Jesus called his disciples over and said, ‘The truth is that this poor widow gave more to the collection than all the others put together. All the others gave what they’ll never miss; she gave extravagantly what she couldn’t afford—she gave her all.’”

In front of the religious elite, she might as well have been crossing a border as she walked forward with her measly offering. Unlike the religious leaders of that day, this poor old widow is a model for faithful living. Like Naomi and Ruth.

 

This Gospel, this Good News, is all about God sending Jesus to cross dangerous borders to welcome and embrace others. In a time in which the others in our land and in our world are increasingly feared and demonized, God embraces the others. Like Moabites. Like Gentiles. Like Samaritans. Like grieving widows. Like refugees, aliens, and immigrants. Like us.

 

We have met three unforgettable widows today: old Naomi, young Ruth, and an unnamed poor one. Three widows and one Lord who uses old widows, young widows, and even Moabites in the great story of the Good News of Jesus. Three widows. Three unlikely players in God’s great drama. God in Christ is ever making dangerous border crossings.

Last week was a horrendous week in the United States, leaving me with a jumble of emotions.

 

It began with pipe bombs sent through the mail, our postal service, to over a dozen Democratic politicians, Trump resisters, and the CNN offices in New York City. The list included two former presidents and two former cabinet members.

 

That was followed by the shooting and killing of two black Americans at a Kroger Market in Kentucky.

 

At week’s end a man armed with an AR-15 and three handguns entered the Tree of Life Synagogue in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh during a sabbath morning worship service and killed 11 worshipers and wounded a handful of others, including several police officers.

 

These crimes were acts of hate toward:

• Democrat and liberal-leaning Americans.
• Black Americans.
• Jewish Americans.

 

Whatever our political leanings and convictions, it is sobering that hatred is so strong in our land at this time. Some might argue that hatred and violence have always existed in our nation. Of course, they are right. But we are living today and these acts of hatred occurred in the last two weeks—this is our time. While last week’s pipe bombs were sent to Democrats, last year’s shooting of members of Congress practicing for the annual Republican-Democratic softball game was directed at Republicans, seriously wounding a high-ranking Republican Congressman. Hatred goes both directions; indeed, hatred goes all directions. Hatred has a pervasive nature to it.

 

One of my preaching students included these words in her in-class sermon earlier this week:

“Because of the enormous injustices against people, especially black males, I feel helpless. When my fourteen-year old son asks me why so many black men are being murdered without justice, my heart sinks.” She is a black American. Her experience is not unique to her; it is shared by millions of black Americans. My heart sinks with her heart and I, too, feel helpless.

 

That experience is also shared by Jewish Americans. In my previous home, in nicely suburban Brunswick NY, our wonderful Jewish neighbors had anti-Semitic words and symbols spray-painted on the street that went just past our yard to their front yard. It happened a number of times. It was ugly and despicable.

 

Anti-Semitic acts of violence rose about 57% in 2017 over 2016. That is an unprecedented leap from one year to the next. Yet what happened in the Tree of Life Synagogue is virtually unprecedented. The perpetrator made clear that he did it intentionally out of hatred for Jews. But something like it happened a few years ago in a Black church in Charleston, South Carolina. Hatred has a pervasive nature to it.

 

There is a fear of the Other in our land. That Other may be from the other political party, the other skin-color, or the other ethnicity. That fear of the Other too often leads to hate speech, which leads to outright hatred for the Other. It is not a large leap for that hatred to lead to acts of violence and terror toward the Other.

 

The other political party is not the enemy. Political opponents need not be enemies. Republicans and Democrats are not enemies. The press and media are not the enemy of the people. The nation needs a free press. People of other skin-color or other ethnicity are not the enemy. We share the same humanity. People born in other countries are not the enemy. We share the same humanity. People of other religions are not the enemy. Our nation favors no one religion over other religions. People yearning for freedom and opportunity are not the enemy.

 

Those of us who follow Jesus are under orders to love all others, including even those that were once our enemies. “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you….’” (Matthew 5:43-44).  Jesus came for the Other and gladly welcomed Others all through his earthly ministry. That hasn’t changed. He is still doing it when his Church welcomes the Others. Sometimes he is doing it beyond his Church, when his Church isn’t doing it.

 

In the midst of turbulent times, times of too much fear of and hatred for the Other, there is a better way, a higher wisdom. Mr. Rogers liked to quote his mother’s words to him when he was frightened as a youngster. She said that in scary times, always look for the helpers, for there will always be helpers.

 

In Pittsburgh last week, we saw helpers emerging from all over the city and beyond. The Islamic community in Pittsburgh has raised over $200,000 so far for the Tree of Life Synagogue. People have been lining up to visit the police precinct in Squirrel Hill from which the wounded officers came to thank the police. After all, Mr. Rogers and his family lived in Squirrel Hill, just three short blocks from the Tree of Life Synagogue. In the midst of the hate-filled horror of last Saturday, I think Mr. Rogers, even in his tears at what happened, would be smiling at how his neighborhood is responding.

I have written before that the one aspect of pastoral ministry that I miss most is serving at funerals (including being with the immediate family beforehand and after). A few months ago, Betty asked me to serve at her funeral, as she knew that she moving into her last days among us. Betty was a member of a church I served in a temporary part-time way about three-four years ago. I said that as long as the one now serving as pastor of that congregation invited me with his blessing, I would be honored to serve.

 

Last week Betty died. Her son called and invited me to serve at her funeral. The current pastor graciously consented and I said yes. It was serving in three parts. First, I met with the family at the funeral home for their private time the evening before the service. Second, I served at the funeral on Monday morning, with the current pastor present and participating. Third, later on Monday, I met with the family at the graveside for the final words of committal and commendation, those solemn and beautiful words.

 

To be asked to serve in this way is an honor I don’t take lightly. It humbles me and touches the chords of my heart. I didn’t know Betty all that long, but I enjoyed our friendship during those months and appreciated her welcome, support, and encouragement.

 

All went well Monday morning and afternoon. Betty had left detailed instructions for her family. She selected all the music and scripture readings. Those choices were thoughtful and helped me to arrange my thoughts. When we met at the graveside later in the day, it just happened to be a beautiful mid-autumn day with sun and clouds and cool, crisp air. When I finished saying those brief words that I have long since memorized, each of us took a rose and placed it on the coffin. We shared hugs and expressions of gratitude and left.

 

Later that day when I arrived home, I found out that Eugene Peterson, a mentor in my pastoral life and work, died the same morning. I wondered if Eugene may have died while I was serving at Betty’s funeral.

 

Facing the reality of death—honoring good rituals and hearing and pondering good words—is one of the healthiest things we can do for our souls. I am profoundly grateful for last Monday.

 

Rest in peace, Betty and Eugene. You never knew each other, but I had the privilege of knowing both of you and experiencing glimpses of God’s grace through you.

 

[Note: I read today that Eugene Peterson has entered into hospice care. That brought to mind Eugene’s influence on my work, thinking, and being. Below are some words about Eugene that I wrote over a decade ago. Of course, we don’t know when Eugene will exit this earthly life; from what I gather he still has some time left, as best the hospice workers and medical team can determine. Hence, this is a tribute to one whose influence on me has been significant and deep, an offering of my gratitude to God for Eugene.]

 

I don’t know just how it was that I happened onto to the writings of Eugene Peterson.  Once I did, it seemed his writings were everywhere.  He was a long-tenured pastor of a Presbyterian Church in Maryland.  Once I started reading Peterson there was no turning back.  He wrote with deep biblical insight and pastoral authenticity about the spiritual life and the rhythms of pastoring and congregational life.  There were no charts or statistics in his books; just penetrating thoughts about long-term obedience to the Lord of the Church.  His paraphrase of the Bible, “The Message,” is my favorite paraphrase.  I love its playfulness and depth of insight; I frequently use it in sermons to add shades of meaning to a biblical passage.

 

I like church growth.  Seeing a congregation growing in spirit, vision, and number of people served, especially new believers, is a good thing.  Some Christians make it something of a cottage industry to condemn churches that grow numerically.  I am not among them.  The New Testament picture of the Church is all about growth.  The Acts of the Apostles, the first and most amazing book about Church growth, is not shy to count converts and disciples.  If we’re going to take Jesus seriously about making disciples in all nations, then we will take numbers seriously, if those numbers refer to people.  And there is a book in the Old Testament named Numbers.

 

In the 1970s and 80s, the early years of my pastorate in Brunswick, I came under the influence of people committed to understanding and promoting Church growth, especially C. Peter Wagner of the Church Growth School at Fuller Seminary.  His books were filled with statistics, charts, and stories of Church growth overseas and on the North American continent.

 

I began to tell people near me that I kept Peter Wagner whispering in one ear and Eugene Peterson whispering in the other.  Wagner was whispering, “Let the church grow; reach more people with the Good News; be a faithful and fruitful pastor.”  Peterson was whispering, “Attend to your soul; don’t sell out to methods and techniques; be a faithful and godly pastor.”  I wanted to be a faithful, fruitful, and godly pastor.  I was well served by listening to both Wagner and Peterson, rather than listening to just one of them.   Through with the years I found myself reading more of Peterson and letting him introduce me to other authors (and reading less of church growth, though not giving it up entirely).

 

In 1989 I took a two-week course on spirituality and ministry led by Eugene.  It was offered by the same Fuller Seminary that employed Peter Wagner.  (That is one of the reasons I have become so fond of Fuller—it has a broad view of evangelical Christianity and refuses to settle in one rut.)  That course took place at Rancho Capistrano, a retreat setting in Orange County, California.  It was nestled in dusty hills, though not far from the ocean and the interstate, with a pond, walking trails, and lovely buildings reflecting the Mexican heritage and culture of southern California.

 

I was not disappointed by the two-week experience.  Eugene made sure that the 20+ of us got to know one another by first names and become friends, even if just for two weeks.  Eugene laid down one ground rule:  We were not to ask each other the size of the congregations we served or volunteer that information. From being in other courses, seminars, and conferences with pastors, I knew that the size of congregation was often the second question asked of a pastor, after what church do you serve.  That often made me uncomfortable.  If I told the size of the Brunswick congregation it could make me seem very successful to some and not so successful to others.  It could feel like the answer to the “how many question” determined if you were successful.  It tended to create a pecking order.  The big church pastors would hang out together and tell big church stories.  Small church pastors could readily feel intimidated. That never happened in our two weeks together.

 

Eugene took us deeper into a number of the classic disciplines for developing the inner life.  Though I knew of most of them from previous readings and experiences, some of them were not my natural home.  I was acquainted with them, but not at the deepest levels.  On the last day of the course, as we were seated in a circle in our meeting room, Eugene asked us, “Wouldn’t you like to stay here?”  We all understood the question, at least so it seemed to me.  Wouldn’t we like to leave the rat race that modern pastoring has become: endless administration, church growth charts, attention to everything but one’s soul?  A number nodded or said yes.  I quietly said no.  I wanted to get back to my pastorate.  I also wanted to have experiences like this, to know retreat settings, and to have friends—both living and literary—that spoke to me as Eugene did.  But I am more of an activist.  I like to do things, to respond to challenges, and to see churches growing.  I am not spiritually wired like Eugene—I could sense that an hour into our first day.  I could be jealous of him or choose to ignore him.  Neither option was acceptable or right for me.  Eugene is at comfort in his own skin.  He is not against church growth, but he rightly sees that it is not the point and can become unhealthy, like a cancer, growing irresponsibly.  Eugene told us that BelAir Presbyterian Church in Maryland, where he was the founding pastor and pastored for well over two decades, grew mainly because some developers bought up beautiful farm land and built ugly new suburban neighborhoods.

 

Eugene helps me to know who I am and to be a better follower of Jesus and a better pastor.  Sometimes I wish I were wired more like Eugene, but I am not.  He continues to whisper in my ear.  When I am wise I listen.  And respond. I pray for him a peaceful transition from this life to the next.

 

 

It was two years ago today that my mom fell getting into the elevator at Villa Sorrento in Torrance, CA, on her way to breakfast. She broke four ribs. I was driving home from teaching an adult class at a church in Canandaigua, NY, when my old cell phone rang. I pulled over and Rachel told me that Villa Sorrento had just called her with the news. When I got home the cross-country phone calls started.

I already had flight reservations for a few days later, to be with her on her 101st birthday. After getting assurances that I needn’t change the flight plans, I flew out. During that visit, I arranged for her move from the hospital to a nursing facility, which I knew immediately was substandard. The next day I found one that was far better. It was the one that her mother, my grandmother, had lived in during her last days. We got her moved later that day. She was immediately more comfortable, though still in pain, and I was relieved.

But she never recovered from the fall. She was well cared for, but the shock of the fall was never overcome. She died there peacefully on Oct. 26, just nine days after her 101^st birthday, which the nursing home celebrated, though she wasn’t in much of a celebrating mood. For the rest of my life Oct. 9-26 will be etched in my heart and mind.

I can’t adequately explain her influence on my life and faith. While I don’t necessarily think about her every single day, I think of her frequently. With the Dodgers doing well in the playoffs, I know I would be on the phone talking  baseball with her. And talking about life and family and politics. She was interested in politics all her years and, with my father, put that interest in me. She was keenly interested in the national election that was a few weeks away.

She was always a Dodgers fan and loved Dodger Dogs. The last time we took her to a game at Dodger Stadium, she couldn’t wait to get her Dodger Dog. She liked the game; she liked the ballpark food even more. That was about 18 years ago, when she was in her 80s. I remember that because my first grandson was there and she was thrilled to see that toddler rooting for the home team and enjoying his first Dodger Dog. (Indeed, my dream World Series, Dodgers vs. Red Sox, could happen this year, though it is far from certain. She would be happy about that, though not fully understanding that I might like the Red Sox as much as I like the Dodgers.)

It is Oct. 9, a beautiful late summer-like day, and I am mindful of this day two years ago. And my heart is filled with gratitude.

 

 

George Washington set a long-held precedent by leaving the office of president after two terms, though he almost certainly would have been elected to a third term and possibly more. Washington held the conviction that the presidency must not become too powerful by unlimited tenure, making it distinct from European monarchies. He did not want the young nation to have an imperial presidency. He retired to a modest life. Post-presidency, there are ample opportunities to pursue national and global goals or simply return to private life and serve the common good in that way. That held until 1940, when Franklin Roosevelt ran for a third term after serving two full terms, and won. Then he ran again in 1944 and won a fourth term, which he barely started before his death.

 

In 1951 the Twenty-Second Amendment to the Constitution was passed, limiting a president to two full terms, and not more than 10 years aggregate, should the president have entered office through succession rather than election. I think that serves our country well.

 

In light of the problems, real and perceived, swirling about Congress today (indeed, all three branches of our federal government), I propose that senators and representatives be limited to 18 years of service, which would be three full terms for a senator and nine full terms for a representative. After fulfilling the allotted 18 years in one chamber of the Congress, whether consecutive or interrupted, the person could run for the other house. In any case, the limit would be 18 years in either chamber of the Congress.

 

Further, I would like to see Supreme Court justices, including the chief justice of the United States, limited to 18 year appointments. The justices would serve in staggered terms, perhaps with one seat open every two years. This would take away the chance that one president could pack the court and another get to make no appointments, and would more evenly distribute the power of appointment to the highest court in the land. There may be a better system of rotation; I am just offering this one as a conversation starter.

 

The point I am making is that if term limits work well in one branch of the federal government, they should work just as well in the other two branches. A vibrant democracy is well served by having new people involved in governing regularly. Like President Washington, those that govern should return to private life after their service in Washington D. C.

 

Would these changes solve all of Washington’s problems? No, of course not. But I think they would help government be more responsive and our elected and appointed leaders be more free to do what they deem right rather than working at preserving their status and seniority no matter what the cost. It might even promote more bi-partisanship in Congress.

 

 

I watched the testimonies of Christine Blasey-Ford and Brett Kavanaugh gavel to gavel last Thursday. Being retired allows me to arrange my days in ways I couldn’t a few years back. It was a full week: teaching Tuesday night, preparing to preach on Sunday, and helping my wife after her recent hip replacement surgery. But I was able to commit over eight hours to watching the Senate Judicial Committee hear the statements of and question Blasey-Ford and Kavanaugh.

 

I don’t like watching TV for that long. Binge watching doesn’t appeal to me. We have the technology to pre-record and watch later, but I felt compelled to watch this event in real time. Normally I am on my feet every 20-30 minutes for brief walks, exercises, and snacks. But the only times I got up was when they took breaks.

 

I have my views on how the two witnesses did, but I am not writing about those views here. I am writing about what happened the next day, Friday. On Thursday, the partisan split was obvious. The Democrats were affirming of Blasey-Ford’s courage in coming forward as she did and asked their questions. The Republicans used a woman skilled in sexual offences work, Rachel Mitchell, to speak for them in the questioning of Blasey-Ford and for a short while Kavanaugh.

 

In the second part of the day, when Judge Cavanaugh was on the stand, things got contentious among the senators in partisan ways.

 

On Friday morning everything seemed to be moving to a vote along party lines without any senator breaking ranks. Then something unexpected happened. As Senator Chris Coons, a Democrat, finished pleading in a careful and cogent way for a no longer than one-week FBI investigation into the allegations, Senator Jeff Flake, a Republican, got up and slowly moved over to the other side of the panel and motioned for Sen. Coons to leave the room with him. Coons and Flake, while generally holding different political convictions, are friends. When they returned, Sen, Flake, in his measured way, agreed with Sen. Coons that a one-week FBI investigation would be appropriate, even as Flake said that he was inclined to support the Kavanaugh nomination. Before the day was over, President Trump directed the FBI to begin a one-week investigation into the allegations made against Judge Kavanaugh.

 

In a time of heightened partisan politicking, Senators Flake and Coons rose above the fray to serve the common good. Both compromised a bit to find common ground. This was courageous on the part of each. They belong in that category sometimes called “profiles in courage.” May their tribe grow.

[A sermon delivered on Sept. 9, 2018, at John Calvin Presbyterian Church, Henrietta NY, based on Mark 7:24-37 and James 2:1-9.]

 

Who would be on your spaceship? An exercise has been used by some middle schools to provoke the students to think about their views of diversity. They are given a list of people, not named, but described by their race, gender, ethnicity, skills, etc. The students are told that they can take, say, eight of them on a spaceship away from earth, because life on earth is about to end. The spaceship will take them to another planet, where it will be safe to settle and start the human race again. Whom would we take on our spaceship? Would there be much diversity or would they look pretty much like ourselves?

 

When it comes to admitting to racist tendencies, almost no one wants to admit guilt. Yet white supremacism is on the rise in our country. Incidents of racial violence are on the rise. One of the ways we resist admitting to racism is by framing it only on the individual level. As an individual, I can easily say that I am not racist. Yet, when I admit that I am white, middle-class man, I also admit that I benefit where minorities do not and sometimes at the expense of minorities. As a white, middle-class adult, I am privileged. If I am driving a newer model car, police do not pull me over and ask to see my ID and registration. Black people driving newer model cars are routinely pulled over and asked to show their ID and registration. How do I know that? Not first-hand, because I don’t look suspect. Senator Tim Scott of South Carolina, a black Republican, was pulled over by police seven times in one year, though he was not speeding or breaking any laws. He was a black man driving a newer model car. That made him look suspicious.

 

One of my students at Northeastern Seminary a few years ago is a distinguished black pastor in Rochester. He told me, and the class I was teaching, that he schooled his teenaged children never to leave home without at least two forms of ID and never do to anything in public that would call attention to themselves. My parents never told me those things. They didn’t need to; I was a privileged white kid.

 

Am I a racist? I believe that I am not, at the individual level. But there is no question in my mind that as a white-privilege person I have benefitted by being in majority status in a society in which racism still exists is systemic ways.

 

That helps you understand why today’s lectionary passages grab my attention. I trust that they grab yours too, whatever you skin color and ethnic identity. That was a time of racism too. Jews didn’t like or trust Gentiles and Gentiles didn’t like or trust Jews. Jesus is doing some serious breakthrough ministry as he heads north for a respite. “From there he set out and went away to the region of Tyre. He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there. Yet he could not escape notice….” That opening to our Mark passage says a whole lot. Much of Jesus’ ministry is happening in the Galilee region, north of Jerusalem. It is demanding ministry. He gets tired, just as we do when working hard, especially in public. He sneaks off for a few days to the north, where the weather is more temperate and crowds aren’t likely to find him. He leaves the border of Israel for the only time we know in his earthly life. He goes into hiding, probably for a needed few days. “Yet he could not escape notice, but a woman whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately heard about him, and she came and bowed down at his feet.” He could not escape notice. His message of good news could not be hidden.

 

Who is this bold woman? Can’t she tell that he is getting away for a needed break? Can’t she wait and give him a break? Aren’t a couple disciples guarding the door, so Jesus can rest? “Now the woman was a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin.” We know well, we church folk, that Jesus often reaches out to women and to the outcasts of his society. She has two strikes against her before she speaks: she is a woman and a Gentile. Add strike three when she approaches Jesus so boldly. “She begged him to cast the demon out of her daughter.” There is a desperation in her voice as she senses that this is her one and only opportunity and she will not let it go by because of social niceties. Jesus seems unable to resist moments like this. But what he says is puzzling, at the least. “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”  

 

As a white-privilege, middle-class, old American man, I struggle with what he says. Is he merely quoting a proverb that most people back then knew? Or is he trying to get rid of her, at least today, so he can get some rest? Have here come back on Wednesday! Or is he testing her resolve, to see if she really means it? We don’t know. Because of what we do know about Jesus, I want to believe the third option, that he is testing her resolve and really wants to do what she asks. But I don’t know. What I do know is that she is undeterred. She is not put off and will not go away gently. Because she loves her daughter and wants her daughter well, she fires right back: “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

 

Now we know the rest of the story. He listens to her. He hears her. He listens to her and he hears her. There is often a gap between listening and hearing. I think men like me are often guilty of listening without really hearing. I can listen to someone, while my mind is a thousand miles away. Jesus listens to her and he hears her. He is present for her. She wins the day. “’For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.’  So she went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone.” She gets his attention. She puts his vacation on hold. He listens to her and hears her. He hears her heart for her daughter. Connection is made. Her daughter is healed. Her world changes, because Jesus listens to her and hears her.

 

I don’t know if he gets the rest he seeks up north of the border, but it is time to return to Galilee, which takes him through a Gentile-dominated region. A deaf and speech-impaired (here is another “two-strikes-against-him” person) is brought to Jesus. We don’t know if this is the deaf man’s idea or whether his friends simply do it. There he is, face-to-face with Jesus. “Be opened,” Jesus says, and the man is healed. “Then Jesus ordered them to tell no one; but the more he ordered them, the more zealously they proclaimed it. They were astounded beyond measure, saying, ‘He has done everything well; he even makes the deaf to hear and the mute to speak.’” We don’t know with certainty why Jesus says not to tell others, but I am persuaded that his intent on not becoming known as a side-show magical healer. There were plenty of those around then, as there are now. Jesus was not and is not one of them. When he does a miracle, it is a sign pointing to a greater reality. The reality in these two healing stories seems clear: Jesus, the Lord of glory, the heaven-sent Savior of the world, has time to listen to and hear people, even a Gentile woman with no sense of propriety, a woman so intent on getting her daughter healed that she will be not be silenced by traditional order. Even if it interrupts his needed vacation. He has time to listen to and hear the friends of a deaf-mute man in Gentile territory. The circle of grace is widening every day. The borders are being extended to new territory every day. The walls that have long stood between people groups are falling every day. The kingdom of God is advancing every day.

 

We live in a day in which there has been so much progress. Yet, we also live in a day when too many people are not listened to and heard. The #MeToo movement is giving voice to women that have been abused and violated by men in power and have not found the justice system just. The church that bears the name of Jesus must be listening to and hearing these too-long muffled voices.

 

By most projections, in 20-25 years the United States will be a minority-majority country. That means that no one skin-color or ethnic group will be a majority. My group, white-privilege, will no longer be in the majority. Many that are now in the majority are frightened by this demographic wave. I welcome it. I take my marching orders from Jesus, who ever listens and hears the voices of the voiceless. I take heart from these words from James:

“You do well if you really fulfill the royal law according to the scripture, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ But if you show partiality, you commit sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors.” Jesus ever shows us the way of grace that listens and hears, that welcomes and includes the other, that shows no partiality.

 

 

Now almost six years into my retirement from being a full-time pastor, what do I miss most about that wonderful calling? It’s not easy to give just one item. But the answer I most give, when asked by others or myself, is funerals. By that, I mean more than just the funeral event, though I certainly mean that, too. I miss being called to be with dear people when their loved one is moving close to death. I miss walking with the grieving family in planning the funeral, talking about the grieving process, selecting scriptures and hymns, and sitting in silence. I miss standing at a graveside and saying those final, solemn words of blessing and committal. And I miss the funeral services. A funeral service for a believer is a powerful witness to many realities, the resurrection of Jesus at the head of the list. Every funeral service is a reality check for the living.

 

In my retirement, I still get to participate in these life passages on occasion, but not with the frequency I once did, and not as the called pastor I once was. Now when my presence is requested, I consider it a high honor.

 

Hence, when appropriate, I go to funerals and sometimes I watch funerals of national significance on television. I still brief the obituaries in our local newspaper and the New York Times every day. On August 31 and September, 1 I watched the funerals of two great Americans: Aretha Franklin and John McCain.

 

In life and in their farewell services, Franklin and McCain were vastly different. One black, one white. One female, one male. One an entertainer, one a politician. One from a family headed by a pastor, one from a two-generation Navy family. Their services reflected some of those differences.

 

The funeral service for Aretha was in the sanctuary in Detroit where her father had once pastored. John had two services, one in a Baptist church in Phoenix and one, the one I focus on here, in the National Cathedral in Washington, D. C. Aretha’s lasted over seven hours (I didn’t watch all of it, but much of it). John’s lasted about two and a half hours. Both had many eulogists. Both had glorious music, but oh so different. One reflected the black Christian tradition and one reflected the mostly white Episcopal tradition. Not only in length, the services were very different in just about every way. Yet both were genuine, both were real and fitting.

 

One had a former president of the United States speak, the other had two former presidents speak and another present. Of note is that McCain personally invited the two men that beat him in his two tries to serve in the highest office in the land to speak. Both George W. Bush and Barack Obama spoke with dignity and grace. I find it encouraging to watch former presidents of both parties and their spouses to be so at ease together on occasions that transcend partisan politics. The cameras caught Bush handing a mint or candy to Michelle Obama in a smooth no-look way, then gently breaking into a grin as she received it in a no-look way.

 

As I preached in a local church yesterday, I felt as if it were the third worship service I had attended in the same number of days, one in Detroit, one in Washington, D. C., and one in Rochester. One was black Baptist, one was national Episcopalian, and one was Presbyterian. I appreciated the unique authenticity of each tradition. In the Presbyterian one, there was a goodbye to a dear couple that, after 21 years in that congregation, are moving to Florida. It wasn’t a funeral, but it was a kind of farewell, with some laugher, some tears, and touching words of tribute and celebration.

 

Increasingly, Americans are choosing to stay away from churches. I understand some of the reasons—some of those reasons are solid and have my respect—but I long for those people to return or come for the first time. To come before there is a funeral that demands their attention. To come and find life in the midst of broken and flawed people.

 

The three services of the weekend past, two for great Americans and one at a local church, remind me of what gathered worship means to me. Farewell and Godspeed, Queen Aretha and Senator McCain. Thanks for your considerable contributions to the common good of our nation and our world. And safe traveling to your new home in Florida, Lew and Judy. Thanks for your service to Parkminster Church.

 

And soon I begin preparing to preach in another gathering of saints on Sunday coming.

On a family trip to southern California to celebrate our 50^th anniversary, Rachel and I, with family, went to Disneyland, after an absence of 20 years or so.

 

I was eight, almost nine, went Disneyland opened. While there were amusement parks back then, there was nothing like Disneyland. Walt Disney envisioned something new—a multi-themed park that would equally appeal to all ages. There was considerable doubt that his vision would work. That doubt was quickly answered as thousands poured into Disneyland on July 17, 1955, and thousands have been pouring in every day since.

 

Because I was born and reared in southern California, I got to go there many times. Our relatives from all over the country began booking trips to visit us for one main reason: to visit Disneyland. In a sense I grew up with Disneyland. Multiple trips a year were common, always with relatives eager to visit “the happiest place on earth.” And no one was ever disappointed.

 

An unforgettable moment happened when I was 10 or 11. My aunt took my cousin and me for the day—no out of town relatives this time. We were sitting at an outdoor restaurant in Adventureland having lunch. One of the old topless cars that slowly cruised Main Street came around the bend, where it shouldn’t have been. In the raised back seat was Walt Disney himself, smiling and waving to everyone in sight. I smiled and waved back at Walt Disney. This happened to literally thousands of people, as Walt loved to walk and ride through Disneyland, enjoying it as much as any child ever did.

 

I think my lifelong fascination with Abe Lincoln began when “Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln,” the first audio-animatronic Disney creation, came permanently to Disneyland from the New York World’s Fair. I went to it again last week—and wasn’t disappointed. From Disney’s major contributions to that World’s Fair also came “It’s a Small World,” which has never enthralled me, perhaps putting me in a small minority. I didn’t go to it last week.

 

How has Disneyland aged? Very nicely, indeed. Many new rides and attractions have come in these 63 years, including the four thrilling “mountain” rides. We went on three of them; the Matterhorn bobsleds were closed for routine maintenance. The original borders been expanded as much as possible. Many of the restaurants and concessions have changed sponsorship. Yet the old park feels much the same and works exceedingly well. Adventureland feels much the same, but with new rides. New Orleans Square has been a fine addition. Frontierland is very much as I first experienced it, but with major additions. Fantasyland blends the original children’s story rides with many new touches. Tomorrowland has been most changed, because the envisioned tomorrow arrived earlier than expected. While I love Space Mountain, Tomorrowland is my least favorite land. My favorites are Adventureland, New Orleans Square, and Frontierland because they are so evocative and faithful to what they were designed to do.

 

Disneyland seems smaller now, even though it has grown. The trees and shrubs have matured, making some walkways narrower. The many additions and improvements have enhanced the experience. The original A-E ride tickets gave way to one admission pass to all rides. The original parking lot has become the California Adventure Park. I miss the tram rides in that original parking lot, but California Adventure is a great addition.

 

After we watched the fireworks show above Snow White’s Castle, we were walking behind a little girl in full Minnie Mouse outfit, head to toe. Next to her was her mother, in full Muslim garb, clothed head to toe in modesty, at the end of what was a very warm day and night in Anaheim. I saw more of the world at Disneyland than I remember as a child. I heard any number of languages being spoken. Yes, Disneyland is aging well.

 

When one is in Disneyland Park (now the official name), one is in the only Disney park anywhere that Walt Disney actually walked in and enjoyed. That is reason enough to visit it whenever the opportunity arises. You don’t need to go on the rides to enjoy the ride.