solstice

photograph by Yolanda Kauffman

Solstice

On this long night

snow fills the cracks in

the unscraped siding of my home—

tasks of long days

left undone.

Light fills the fissures and gaps

light of the town,

light of moon and stars

seeping through cloud,

light of my neighbors,

light of the stranger I just met

pulling his son down the street

on a makeshift sled.

Light reveals

what is unfinished is

now done.

Light shows

what is undone is

now complete.

Light illumines

In the beginning and It is finished are

now one.

drink the light of leaves

                                                                       photo: public domain



Drink the light of leaves
that paint the path of the wind.
Taste. See. They must fall.

Autumn, like each season, is a great teacher. She teaches the path of releasing life to give life, the path of dying to live. Wise teachers and traditions have taught the same thing that autumn trees teach: dormancy, dissolution, death and decay are integral parts of the great pattern of life. And more than this: some things must depart and die away so that the enlivening energies of the Spirit can be revealed.

Each day now I go to work and spend my days with elders, women and men who are living in the twilight years of human life. From one point of view, great losses and departures define their days. For a long time this was all I could see in the lives of elders, and it frightened me terribly.

I recall my grandfather's face--its deepening lines and especially his eyes--revealing the chronic pain that gripped his heart muscle during most of his waking moments. I remember my maternal grandmother's own heartache at the absence of my grandpa, and how it seemed to grow through her years of living alone, rather than subside (as I secretly wished it would). I remember her writing me weekly letters when I was away at college, and how I wrote only a few brief notes in reply. I was afraid of the pain and losses of my elders. And such fear defines our culture. We fear the losses that are an inevitable part of aging and dying. Our fear prevents us from seeing that in all of this there may also be gift.

The elders in my life right now are teaching me to release fear. They are teaching me to look deeper, and see the way in which deaths and lesser losses sometimes reveal a light that could never be dimmed with aging or dying. Like the wind-tossed leaves of autumn, the paths of their lives reveal the shimmering colors of the Spirit, the One who blows through all.

the gate of heaven is everywhere

The gate of heaven is everywhere...
 including at the heart of our being

At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us… It is like a pure diamond, blazing with the invisible light of heaven. It is in everybody, and if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun that would make all the darkness and cruelty of life vanish completely…I have no program for this seeing.  It is only given.  But the gate of heaven is everywhere.   
                                                            Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander

 

Abbot Lot came to Abbot Joseph and said: 'Father, according as I am able, I keep my little rule, and my little fast, my prayer, meditation and contemplative silence; and according as I am able I strive to cleanse my heart of thoughts: now what more should I do?' The elder rose up in reply and stretched out his hands to heaven, and his fingers became like ten lamps of fire. He said: 'Why not be totally changed into fire?'

                                                             From the Sayings of the Desert Mothers and Fathers

A friend once questioned a reference I made to "the heart of being," and my description of it as that place where God dwells in each person. She asked, "Where do you think that place is within us? Can you point to or imagine an actual physical location?" It was an interesting question and I realized that when I have spoken of this "heart of Being" I typically point to the left-center of the chest, that place where the human heart muscle beats away and pumps life-giving blood. 

The human heart has long been a symbol for the indwelling presence of God. The metaphor speaks on many levels of vitality, love, the flow of life within our flesh, and the flow of life-energy joining all beings. In the Hebrew scriptures there are many references to the heart. One of my favorites comes from the prophet Ezekiel who uses what seems to have been a common Hebrew notion of hearts growing "hardened," calloused by pride, self-seeking, and fear. Ezekiel speaks of the power of God to not only soften hardened hearts but, when needed, to grant us a new heart:

I will sprinkle clean water upon you, 

and you shall be clean from all your uncleannesses, 

and from your idols I will cleanse you. 

A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; 

and I will remove from your body the heart of stone 

and give you a heart of flesh. 

I will put my spirit within you...          Ezekiel 36 25-26

A spiritual "heart transplant," I suppose one could say. And who hasn't felt a need for that from time to time? I especially notice here that what is given is a "heart of flesh."  It speaks of a heart that feels, a heart that loves, a heart that expresses mercy and compassion, a heart that is vulnerable and open to love in this life and in this world. A heart that is willing to hurt and ache with love.

Another level on which the metaphor of the heart speaks is the fact that our heart beats without our own conscious effort. It simply happens, without our direction, unless otherwise impacted by injury or illness. It is a meaningful analogy for the movement of God's own Spirit at the center of our lives, flowing and bestowing gifts without our own conscious awareness, and well beyond our efforts to control it.

For our part, to practice bringing our awareness to God's presence at the heart of our being can profoundly transform the way in which we live our daily lives. To practice attentiveness to  that "point of nothingness" at the center of our being can deepen our capacity to live from this center, and to live from this heart of love. It is what can tip the scales of our lives toward compassion, wisdom, generosity and mercy. It is what I imagine Abba Lot means in the story above when he asks: "Why not be totally changed to fire?"

The ancient Gnostic worldview held that this inner spark or light of God demands release from the fallen, sinful, fleshy realities that come from being human. They taught that  this indwelling presence of the Spirit at the heart of our being is held captive by our physical being, and believed that there was special spiritual knowledge and practice that would bring about its rescue and release.

Jesus revealed a Way that was entirely different. He did not teach a separation between the spirit and flesh, or between the divine and the human. He taught and embodied the union of these realities. 

Jesus did not disparage embodiment. Instead, he showed what it looks like to live each moment from the heart of the God-presence within us, uniting our divine and human natures. He showed through his own acts of self-offering love what it means to see this same heart in others as we live. He excluded no one from this vision and understanding; he taught that such a life is possible for all. He proclaimed a "kindom" of God already present within us and among us, and the will of God "done on earth as it is in heaven."

Jesus made abundantly clear that it is possible for each person to live from this place, to live with such great love, just as he did. This is not something we have to achieve, or earn, or some secret knowledge we must learn. It is a gift already given. Our capacity for such fullness of life is already promised. We must simply be attentive and open enough to receive it and allow it to pass through us.

As Christians, we can and should go so far as to say that when we speak of "Christ" we speak not only of one historical moment and person--the full union of divine and human realities in the person of Jesus of Nazareth--but we speak of all those lives and historical moments through which this union is revealed. When we come to deeper awareness of what lies at the heart of our being--our "original blessing"--and receive the gifts God has already given us, we become one with Christ. Put even more directly, we become Christ present here and now. We may also then come to see, as Merton describes so beautifully above, that "the gate of Heaven is everywhere," including deep at the center of our lives.

becoming what we believe

window in the Church of St. Martin in the Fields (London)  by Yolanda Kauffman

Matthew 9:27-34

The Message (MSG)

^27-28 As Jesus left the house, he was followed by two blind men crying out, “Mercy, Son of David! Mercy on us!” When Jesus got home, the blind men went in with him. Jesus said to them, “Do you really believe I can do this?” They said, “Why, yes, Master!”

^29-31 He touched their eyes and said, “Become what you believe.” It happened. They saw. Then Jesus became very stern. “Don’t let a soul know how this happened.” But they were hardly out the door before they started blabbing it to everyone they met.

Become what you believe.  

What we believe holds great power, and exerts influence over the trajectory of our lives. If I believe I have worth only inasmuch as I wield authority and influence over others, I will very likely do whatever I can to gain power and control in my relationships. 

If I hold a fundamental belief that human beings are innately bad and broken at the heart of our being, I will be inclined to see my own faults and the faults and failings of others (usually those of others first!), and may have a difficult time trusting people's motivations and intentions. 

If I experience a great disappointment or setback in my life, the path leading on from that moment has much to do with what I believe about it. If I believe the setback is an unwanted intrusion and interruption in an otherwise desireable course of events, I will probably meet it with resistance and defensiveness. I will not allow myself to fully encounter and experience it. Very likely, I will look for someone or something to blame in order to explain why this has happened to me, and I may move into the future with a more guarded and wary spirit.

However, if I choose to accept a disappointment as an inevitable part of living, and even an opportunity for learning and growth, I will be better able to experience that moment fully and openly. Rather than getting wrapped up in patterns of blame, shame, and guilt, or trying to exert control over circumstances that are naturally beyond my control, I can choose to live from that moment in a more yielded, flexible and creative way. 

There is a powerful alchemy to belief, and Jesus understood this well. Perhaps that is why he asked people questions like: 

Do you believe that I am able to do this? (Matt. 9:28)

or

Do you want to be made well? (John 5:6)

And perhaps it is why Jesus often sent people off with the blessing, "Go, your faith has made you well."

I struggle sometimes with this word "belief." So often when we use it in religious circles we usually mean agreeing to certain doctrines and dogmas that have been established. "I believe in the virgin birth." "I believe in the resurrection." Either that or we cheapen its meaning by implying that it should somehow just magically be there if we say so. "You just need to believe!" 

When Jesus spoke of belief I sense he was pointing to something much deeper in our being, something more than giving rational assent to an idea, something more than the power of positive thinking, and certainly something other than thoughtless consent. Jesus was speaking of an orientation of one's whole self--mind, heart, body and soul. Belief, as he spoke of it, suggested trust and a certain amount of vulnerability before life. It implied an openness to accept and share love. It also has to do with a willingness to change.

As the gospel stories reveal, it is often the people who have suffered most deeply and feel most lost who come to understand this orientation of belief, and who discover what becomes of it. These are the ones who know, through their own experience, what it means to be vulnerable enough and open enough to know their own need for healing and transformation, and their own desire for love.

The two men who follow Jesus on the road to his home do not know what will become of this moment, but they believe that this is the man they must follow, this is what they must do in order to find hope once again. They have reached a point of total openness and vulnerability. And when they finally catch up with Jesus, they simply cry out for mercy. Love is able to do something healing with such openness.

Jesus also knew that so many people grow calloused and cynical as we live. We toss shrouds over the light of faith and love that can well up from our hearts and in the world around us. We have our well-guarded answers for "the way things are" and they often prevent us from seeing the possibilities of what could become of us, our neighbor, and our world. 

Perhaps this is why Jesus asks the two men to keep their experience to themselves for the time being. Others will not understand; they will either call it a hoax or some rare, super-natural miracle. Either way, they will continue to miss the transforming power that might well up in their own being.

give us a sign

Yesterday, while hiking into the high country of the Sangre de Cristo mountains of Colorado, I lost the trail. Admittedly, I had gotten a bit of "trail daze," which is what I call it when one is plugging along a clear path and simply taking for granted that the path is there, not paying attention to other important indicators that one is headed in the desired direction.

Rather than notice the trail crossing a log over a nearby stream, I assumed it went up an adjacent drainage which looked well-worn (it was, by water and not by human feet). I didn't go far before all signs indicated that I was no longer on the trail--the path grew treacherously steep and overgrown, then eventually ran into a sheer granite wall! A couple who had been hiking close behind me on the trail actually followed me up the drainage for a brief time, believing I knew the way. Nope! Surprise!

We backtracked down the slope (finding a bee's nest under a patch of willows en route), and with little trouble observed the stream crossing and the main trail clearly continuing on the other side. The signs were there, we just hadn't noticed them.

During this time of retreat I've thought about "signs" and the things I sometimes hope to encounter in the silence and solitude. I hope for indicators along the way that I'm on the right track, confirmations that I'm doing my time of retreat well, that God is present and pleased.  Again and again, I am invited to remember that sometimes it is a gift when such desired signs fail to appear. Sometimes it is in the absence that we encounter true Presence.

It isn't that confirming signs along the journey are "bad" or unhelpful. We hope and pray that there will be markers along the way to help us know whether our path is leading in a life-giving and faithful direction.  If we've committed to a spiritual community we certainly hope that the relationship brings nourishment and joys along with the inevitable challenges. If we commit ourselves to a meditation and prayer practice we hope that such practice will bear fruit through our lives and that there will be some noticeable signs of this fruit. If we join others in acts of service or working for justice it is natural to hope for signs that our labors are not in vain.

However, it is also true that we sometimes look for signs that will confirm our way of seeing the world, ourselves, and other people. We want to see things that affirm the viewpoints we hold, and perhaps disavow the perspectives we do not agree with. It is the natural inclination of our ego-self to seek such confirmation and consolation. It is tempting to see things the way we want to see them, and to craft the world, and others, and even God in our own image. Consequently, we miss much that is right there in front of us.

I think of the phrase that appears more than once in the first chapter of John's gospel: "Come and see." When the first disciples encounter Jesus and their curiosity is peaked they ask him where he's headed and he replies, "Come and see." When some of the disciples are talking with their friends who voice their doubt as to whether anything good can come from Nazareth, Philip replies, "Come and see."

Remain open, stay curious. Come and see.

Those who decided to "come and see" encountered quite a spectrum of signs along the way that indicated who Jesus was and what he was about. Most of those signs were unexpected and many were unwelcome. There were also those confirming moments of wonder and rapture, like Peter, James and John witnessing the transfiguration of Jesus on the mountaintop (Matthew 17:1-13). In that spectacular moment Jesus had to remind them that they needed to go further still, to go back down the mountain and see even more.

Consider, too, the utter vacuum of loss experienced by the disciples immediately following Jesus' death. There were no signs of confirmation whatsoever in that moment, and if anything the experience called into question everything they had experienced or thought they had understood up until that moment. It was a sign-less time. It was only through that terrible absence that they then came to encounter the fullness of Presence and the gift of the Spirit that was soon given.

There were others who met Jesus along the way who demanded signs, signs that would confirm how they had already labeled him: heretic, king, prophet, healer, wonder-worker. Jesus had little patience for this. To a group of demanding Pharisees he said:

When it is evening, you say, "It will be fair weather for the sky is red."
And in the morning, "It will be stormy today, for the sky is red and threateniing."
You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky,
but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.
An evil and adulterous generation asks for a sign,
but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah.*
Gospel of Matthew 16:1-4

In another story we hear of Jesus' return to his hometown of Nazareth. The people there have heard about his exploits but cannot believe that "the carpenter, the son of Mary," this man who grew up in their midst, could be capable of such powerful things. The story concludes with these words:

And he could do no deed of power there,
except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them.
And he was amazed at their unbelief.
Gospel of Mark 6:5-6

Sometimes we can see only the signs of what we expect to see. And sometimes, we are blind to the signs that are staring us directly in the face. The practice of maintaining a stance of openness of heart and mind, curiosity, and a listening spirit is vital.

Jesus did not leave his friends with a set of pat answers, and concrete signs that could be planted in the ground like some sort of claim-staking flag. Jesus did not form a new religion, nor did he leave behind any dogma or doctrine as signs to describe the path of faith. He wrote no scriptures. He did not leave a rule or creed. Jesus left his friends with the gift of the Spirit of God, the same Spirit that had animated his every word and action. He left his friends with a Way to live in that Spirit as we make our way through life.

For those who seek to follow Christ's Way, there will be signs helping find the path--many of them surprising and unexpected. There will also be sign-less times, desolating in their experience of absence. These we can be grateful for, too, because they connect us with our deepest longing for life and love. There, too, is God.



* The "sign of Jonah" is thought to be a reference to the three days that Jonah spent in the belly of the great fish and a signifier of Jesus' death, entombment, and resurrection.

this path

doorway in Santa Fe, New Mexico   by Yolanda Kauffman

This Path

From circumference to center

from center to circumference

we walk this path together

pilgrims all.

Traveling level ground—

none rise above

none fall below—

we make room for meeting.

Presence greeting Presence

Moving alone together

we greet and part, turn,

then circle round

and meet anew.

Pilgrims all

we walk this path together

from center to circumference

from circumference to center.

- Eric Massanari

Composed during a group labyrinth prayer walk at the 2013 Shalom catechism retreat.

I shared this poem with the Shalom Mennonite Church congregation this past Sunday, my final Sunday serving with them as a pastor. It was a Sunday filled with joy, grief, celebration, and gratitude for the vital, transforming way God's Spirit has led us through the years. My heart remains full and overflowing as I've now entered some needed time of solitude and retreat.

In the nearly fourteen years of serving this beautiful congregation I experienced such love, grace, mercy and compassion. It is a body of Christ that truly seeks to live the fullness of its name, Shalom. It is an ancient name, both for God and for a depth of encounter that we as human beings might find together in God, and it is not easily defined (as is the case with all sacred names). The Shalom Church sometimes sings a song that articulates at least part of the meaning:

Harmony, unity, wholeness and justice,
Peace and salvation,
All are Shalom!
(to the tune of Dona Nobis Pacem)

We now cross another threshold together. This time it bears the quality of an ending, a letting go, a death. Distance now enters the bonds of the relationships that have been formed. However, I know and trust that the bonds forged by God's own love, the bonds that make us one as Sisters and Brothers in Christ, remain and will remain forever.

The words of Luke's gospel that grounded the fullness of our worship and fellowship on Sunday included this message:

So, I say to you, 
Ask, and it will be given you;
search and you will find;
knock and the door will be opened for you.
For everyone who asks, receives,
and everyone who seeks, finds,
and for everyone who knocks,
the door will be opened.
Luke 7:9-10

alone with others, together with all

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, June 30, 2013 – Practicing Shalom

Texts: Psalm 139; John 6:16-21; Ephesians 4:1-6

Eric Massanari

“alone with others, together with all”

This is the time of year when we're invited

to “taste and see that God is good!” (Ps.34:8)

Tomato plants, peppers,

zucchini, squash, basil,

and so many other wonderful things

are setting on their delicious fruits.

It's amazing to watch,

and even more amazing to taste!

It makes me want to add a few more verses

to that wonderful song to the Presence

of God that forms the 139^th psalm...

I come to the Summer

and slice into the

ruby flesh of the melon,

and You are there!

I pick my hundredth zucchini,

and shred it for bread,

and You are there!

And in the dark of Winter,

I pull the jar of peaches from the shelf,

and even there is your light to guide me,

Your sweetness to nourish my soul!

Or, something along those lines.

There are many different messages

that call out from the pages of the Bible,

but one message that remains consistent

throughout its pages is the message that lies

at the heart of the 139^th psalm.

That message is this:

God is here.

And wherever you go, God is there, too.

God is here among us.

God is here within us.

This promise is present at the inception of all things,

in those great tales of creation in Genesis.

It runs like a unfaltering current through the

Hebrew scriptures, the Torah,

the wisdom writings, the prophets.

It is the very heart of the gospel of Jesus Christ,

Emmanuel, “God with us.”

I think of that particular moment when Jesus was asked

by a group of Pharisees when and where

the kingdom of God would be realized in this world.

And Jesus surprised them by saying:

The kingdom of God is not coming with things

that can be observed; you aren't going to

be able to say beyond all doubt,

“Look, I found it! Look, here it is!”

For, in fact, the kingdom of God is

already among you and within you. (Luke 17:20-21)

The Hebrew people called it God's Shalom:

the unity, wholeness, peace, well-being

that is of God, and that we come to experience

when we live with openness to God Presence.

It is the inherent blessing and goodness

that is found in and through all things.

The Shalom of God is already present and available.

No way, that's not possible, we may be tempted to say.

Just look at the mess of this world.

Look at that guy over there, what a jerk!

Just look at the mess of my life. 

No Shalom here either, thank you very much!

Long ago it was a message that was hard

for people to accept—the kingdom of God,

the goodness of God already here.

And, sadly, it seems all the more difficult

to hear and accept today.

The church itself, the community that

bears the very name of the Christ who

fully embodied this message,

has somehow turned the message

inside out and consistently preached

a message that would suggest that you and I,

and life as we know it, are inherently misguided and bad.

This is especially true in the West,

where we've developed doctrines like “original sin.”

We've taken the approach of presumed guilt

and fundamental immorality on the part of human beings.

And so the basic arithmetic of Christian

teaching in the Western cultures has been:

Humanity lacks an essential element of Godliness,

and left to our own devices we are hopelessly lost.

Therefore, we are in need of saving.

God provides the lacking element through Jesus.

If we add Jesus to our lives we will be saved.

What we believe shapes what we see and how we live.

When we view human beings as innately sinful,

and this world as an inherently fallen place,

how does that shape our understanding

of this earth,

of our neighbor,

of our own selves?

How do we learn to love fully

when we look at the world in such a way?

I've come to believe that one of the greatest gifts

the church today can offer this world

is to practice shedding such a view.

This isn't easy, of course, because

it has been woven into our psyches

and the culture in which we live.

We have become almost hardwired

for fundamental judgment of self and other,

and an ill-fated view of the world.

The worldview sets us up for fearfulness and loneliness.

Throughout Christian history there have been

those who have lived with a very different

sort of arithmetic of faith, one that

is more an arithmetic of subtraction, you might say.

This understanding of the Way of Christ

would suggest that we are called to a path

of peeling back the layers of fear, judgment and guilt

we have laid on ourselves and others,

in order to uncover the underlying

unity, wholeness, and goodness that lies within us.

We recognize that we do, as human beings,

have a capacity and sometimes it seems a propensity

for acting in self-serving and self-interested ways.

We learn that by practicing a deepened awareness

of this we begin to peel away the falsehoods

on which this is based and we uncover

the heart of goodness and blessing that lies

at the very depth of our being in God.

This message that runs throughout

the scriptures and the gospel stories of Jesus.

But we aren't meant to simply

take scripture's word for it

we are meant to practice it, and test it in life.

The practice of Christian discipleship

is a practice of ever-deepening awareness

of the truth that God is here. Shalom is here.

And when we see this, it changes how we

live in this world.

There is a story told about Abba Pachomius,

one of the early fourth century Christians who

went out to live in the desert land of Egypt.

At first, Pachomius thought he would go and live

there as a hermit, but then he

sensed a calling to invite others to join

him there, with a commitment to live in community.

One day a man came out to the desert

and approached Pachomius and said,

“I would like to join this community.”

When Pachomius asked him why, the fellow said,

“Because I would like to see God.”

“You're coming here because you want to see God?”

“Yes. What do I have to do? How many prostrations?

How many prayers? How many Psalms do I chant?

How much fasting do I need to do in order to see God?”

Pachomius answered him, “Listen, if you truly want

to see God you don't have to pray and fast.

You don't even have to join this community.

Just come along with me, and I will show you God.”

Pachomius took the man inside,

and he led him up to the meanest,

dirtiest, most demented of the brethren

living out there in the desert community

and he said to him, “Look, there's God.”

The man said, “You mean to tell me that's God?!”

Pachomius answered,

“If you do not come to see God in him,

you will see God nowhere.”

Look for the goodness of God

right here in the land of the living,

especially in the places and people you least expect it.

Practice looking for it,

trust it is there, live as if it is there,

and you will know the reality of Shalom.

I think of that image of Pachomius' community

as church: open, vulnerable, willing to take

in and welcome the straggler, the seeker

the troublemaker. A community whose soul

unifying principle was to proclaim the presence of God

and to share the love of Christ in the world.

And I hold alongside that image

an image of the typical church

in our Western culture:

a great building pointing skyward,

suggesting a God we have to

aspire to and reach for.

It houses carefully crafted liturgies and doctrines,

and in its halls can be heard great debates

over who's in and who's out.

I confess that after fourteen years of pastoral ministry,

my love for the church has deepened,

but so has my sadness over the fact that the church is so often

to be found denying, through word and action,

the most basic message we are given through Christ:

the message that we are loved and blessed by God,

we are bearers of God's own love

and we are meant to share it with one another.

The church is called to be a living sign

the Shalom of God right here,

at the center of our being,

at the center of our community,

at the center of all.

And because this is so,

each act, each word we speak,

each encounter we share with one another is sacred.

And most moments we live are sacred

in their ordinary everyday-ness.

The most basic practice of discipleship and prayer

is to do whatever it is we are doing right now,

with as much mindfulness and love as we can muster.

We are called by Christ to do what we are doing

for the love of God.

Recently, I listened to a recorded presentation

that was given by Thomas Merton sixty years ago,

when he was a member of the Trappist community

at the Abbey of Gethsemane in Kentucky.

Merton, by the time he gave this presentation

to the novice monks in that community,

had already become a well-known figure

speaking out for racial justice,

speaking out against the war in Vietnam,

and also through his teachings on

Christian prayer and contemplation.

However, here in this case, he was not addressing

heads of state or crowds of folks, he was addressing

newcomers to his monastic community

on the topic of renunciation, “letting go.”

As I listened to his presentation I had to laugh

because the first 10 minutes of his 30 minute reflection

were focused on how the novices needed

to take better care of the bath towels in the monastery.

He went into great detail (with no small amount of playfulness)

describing to them how they shouldn't just use a towel

and throw it immediately into the laundry.

They needed to use one towel then hang it to dry,

then use a second towel the next day, and

rotate through those two towels for a week.

That way the community wouldn't run out of towels.

It was a beautiful, simple illustration of renunciation!

The underlying message was about looking beyond

one's own needs and desires and taking into account

their fellow community members and their needs.

It was also a lesson on good stewardship of resources.

He was giving them a simple practice of Shalom.

It had everything to do with the towels,

and it had everything to do with God!

This community, this congregation of Shalom,

is the place for our own practice.

Here is where we are called to practice

a deeper awareness of the goodness of God

dwelling within and among us.

Most of our opportunities are found in the

very ordinary moments of our life together.

What we do with the towels is as important

as what we do here in worship on Sunday morning!

When you come here to worship on a Sunday

or for a supper on Wednesday night,

you are given an opportunity to practice Shalom.

You might do this by choosing to sit and connect with

people beyond your usual circle of friends and family.

Here you are given the great gift, time and again,

of moving beyond comfort zones

and expanding your community.

We practice Shalom here when we

take good care of this building and property,

remembering that all of it comes to us as gift

and is meant to be shared as gift.

Our connection in God is not just to people

but it is also to land and to place

and this shapes how we care for things.

To step beyond these walls together,

to join our gifts in loving service in the world

is another way we practice Shalom.

We practice going out into the world together

with an eye for what is good and what gives hope,

rather than focusing our vision on what we

denounce and dismiss as bad.

We practice Shalom when we choose to remain

with one another in times of struggle and conflict,

when we seek each other out rather than avoid

one another when we feel misunderstood or hurt.

We practice Shalom when we play together,

and when we remember not to take

ourselves too seriously.

And, when those moments arise when

seriousness is needed, and we must

struggle and search together through

great challenges and changes,

we practice Shalom as we listen together

for the One who is with us there, too.

Christ comes to us in stormy seas saying,

“I am here. Do not be afraid.”

With God's help, may this body of Shalom

continue to practice and proclaim the very thing

for which we are named.

We can do so trusting that

the goodness,

the blessing,

the unity and the peace

of God is already here

within us and among us.

it's just like riding a bike

Shalom Mennonite Church

Sunday, June 23, 2013 – Born With a Heart of Flesh

Texts: Psalm 90; Ezekiel 36:22-38; Matthew 18:1-5

Eric Massanari

“it's just like riding a bike”

It's just like riding a bike.

We say this to describe those skills and actions

which, once learned, are never forgotten.

We've practiced them so much

that they've become part of us,

imbedded in the memory of mind and muscle.

These are things that we simply know how to do

without giving them much thought.

For the carpenter, it's the hammering of a nail.

For the guitarist, it's the placement of fingers for a G-major chord.

For the accountant, it's hitting the right buttons on the ten key.

For a surgeon, it's pulling just the right tension on a suture.

It's just like riding a bike...

When you learn to ride a bike you learn

to balance your body on two wheels,

allowing gravity, and centrifugal forces

and the power train of your bone and muscle

to propel you forward.

You do this enough times and then

you simply know how to do it.

You throw a leg over the frame,

sit on the saddle, and go.

It's just like riding a bike...

Sometimes we say this and forget

all it took to learn how to ride a bike!

For most of us, learning to ride a bike

required a lot of practice,

some bumps, bruises and tears,

and a whole lot of courage.

I remember my red Schwinn cruiser bike

with the training wheels I couldn't wait to lose.

I saw my parents and the big kids

speeding around on two wheels

and I couldn't wait to join them.

I remember feeling frustrated

with the time, effort and concentration it took

to figure out how to actually do it.

I remember the thrill of that first trip

down the sidewalk all alone,

after my dad had finally let go of the seat

and stopped running along beside me.

And now, many years later, I get on a bike,

and I just know how to do it—I've got it figured out.

And because it's second nature, I sometimes forget

just what a gift and joy it is to ride a bike!

How easy it is to take such things for granted,

to forget what it took to learn them

and what it was like to be a beginner.

Sometimes it takes losing such an ability

before we realize what a precious gift it was.

It is good and healthy to have something in our lives

that invites us to be a beginner.

Especially in a society that so highly prizes

proficiency, competency, achievement and status,

Being a beginner means laying aside

the inner evaluator and judge

and relearning what it means

to risk, to learn, to be vulnerable, to wonder.

Being a beginner is usually a good lesson in humility.

Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?

It is a question of status and expertise.

Who has arrived?

Who has reached the pinnacle

of spiritual realization?

Who is the cream of the crop in God's eyes?

It's a question of judgment, too,

because if there's a greatest

then there must be a lesser,

and then, of course, a least.

So, who's the greatest? 

C'mon, someone's got to be greatest, right?

Jesus invites a nearby child to stand

in the middle of his disciples,

not unlike what we will do today 

as we offer a special dedication and blessing

for children and their parents here in the church.

Jesus draws their attention to the child and says,

“Unless you change and become like children,

you will not even enter the kingdom of heaven.”

Children were of low status in that culture;

they were considered little more than property.

So, the suggestion that his friends

needed to change and grow more child-like

would have been shocking and disorienting.

The implication here is that the gospel

is simply not about status in the eyes of the world.

It has nothing to do with

who is greatest, who is best,

who is most skilled,

who is most handsome, 

who is more popular.

who's "got it goin' on" according to 

the ever-changing standards of status in our culture.

In fact, the gospel of Jesus consistently

frustrates such ways of thinking.

To be concerned with matters such as

who is the greatest, one must spend

energy comparing and judging.

It tends to lead to very me-centered thinking,

leading one to think things such as: 

“Well of course I am the greatest!"

or “I'm the least, I'm no good, I'm worth nothing.”

It means living by comparison,

living by judgment and reaction.

And typically guilt, shame and blame

are close companions to this way of thinking.

Such concern with status has a tendency

to shrink and narrow our worldview,

and it leads to hardened hearts,

because we are usually to be found

carefully protecting something.

The “hardened heart” is an image that

is often used in the Hebrew scriptures

to describe living in this narrow way

of fear, status-seeking, and judgment.

The proud and the self-righteous

characters of the Old Testament

are often described as having “hardened hearts.”

The image suggests that

these are people who have lost a capacity to feel.

They have neglected the love of God,

and they are unwilling to respond

to the pain of their neighbor

with compassionate care.

Ezekiel uses the term to describe

the whole people of Israel.

Speaking to the Israelites on behalf of God,

Ezekiel says:

A new heart I will give you,

and a new spirit I will put within you;

and I will remove from your body the heart of stone

and give you a heart of flesh.

It is a promise of restoration and rebirth.

Everyone is of course born with a heart of flesh.

There's that wonderful heart beating

right inside your chest at this moment,

and it keeps you alive without your 

even giving it a second thought.

In the ancient Hebrew understanding,

the "heart" was the deep center and ground of our being,

it is that place that bears the image of God's own self.

Those ancient ones understood what remains true today:

our hearts can expand and soften,

or they can grow small and harden as we live.

The path our hearts take depends a great deal

on the choices we make as we live this life.

Will our hearts soften and expand?

Will they grow hard and calloused?

Ezekiel's message suggests that it is possible

for a whole people's heart--the heart of a community--

to grow hard and calloused as well.

The call here is very similar to Jesus

calling the disciples to be converted,

and to return to that quality of childhood

that is free from the need to

compare, judge and protect certain images

we hold of ourselves and others.

To live with the humility of a child,

to live with a heart of flesh,

is to live free of illusions of self-grandeur

or illusions of ones worthlessness.

To live with the humility of a child,

to live with a heart of flesh,

is to know our need for God and neighbor.

It is to know that love requires a high

degree of openness to new learning,

and risking, and vulnerability.

One never arrives on the journey of love.

One never gets to be called the greatest, 

or the lesser, 

or the least.

Such terms are meaningless

in the realm of God's love.

Not long ago, I was buying some books

at Eighth Day Bookshop in Wichita.

As often happens, I wound up in a conversation

with the proprietor of the bookshop, Warren Farha.

We were discussing a variety of events in our lives,

and after a pause in the conversation,

Warren simply said, “It's a textured life.”

It's a textured life.

Indeed!

Such incredible textures of living and loving

to be explored and never exhausted in this life!

To follow Christ into this textured life

is to do so with the wonder of a child

who is exploring those textures for the first time.

It means a willingness to be a beginner

over and over again, and having our sense

of awe and wonder constantly renewed.

When we know we don't have it all figured out,

it is much easier for us to welcome

the wisdom and gifts of our sister and brother.

To follow Christ into this textured life

is to live with a heart of flesh,

a heart that is able to expand with greater

and greater inclusivity, rather than constrict with fear,

a heart that is softened by the joy and pain of loving,

rather than growing stony and cold,

a heart that becomes an open channel

in this world for the Love that is God.

Following Christ into this textured life

is like learning to ride a bike,

not just once,

but again and again and again...