Likes and Friends and Followers

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

07.12.2015;  Rev. Dr. David Williams

Scripture Lesson: Mark 6:14-29

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I spend a fair amount of time on the internet, what with blogging and tweeting and emails and Facebook posts, part of the endless cycle of connectivity that seems to link us together these days.

I find social media in particular to be fascinating and peculiar, perhaps because it’s such a new phenomenon.  We take it for granted, just part of the background hum of being now, but it’s a remarkably, strikingly new thing.

Twenty three years ago, for example, it did not exist, except perhaps in the fevered sci-fi imagination of William Gibson.  That’s a non-random number, a number I pick because this week my wife and I celebrated twenty three years of marriage.  It’s one of those anniversaries, that, while it might mark a significant chunk of time, wouldn’t really have been worth doing all that much about in prior generations.  Silver?  That’d be another couple of years.  Gold is still a ways off.  This one, having looked it up, was the “Imperial Topaz” anniversary, wedged right in between spinel and tarzanite.  

I honestly haven’t paid much attention to those traditional annual gifts, which is probably a good thing.  According to the list of recommended gifts I googled recently, I was supposed to have bought my wife copper plate last year, which I totally managed not to do.  But the twenty fourth is supposedly the “musical instrument” anniversary, so I’m sure I can make up for it by giving her a copper kazoo.  

So we went out, had a nice dinner, and watched a show, and it was the kind of date one has for a anniversary of modest significance.  As part of that evening, the big guy took a couple of pictures of us for posterity.  Twenty three years ago, such a thing would have been normal.  But then, my wife asked: “Hey, are you going to share those on Facebook?”  Which I started to do, but then I thought, um, “Why?  Aren’t we on a date?”

I mean, sure, it’d get likes.  Anniversaries and birthdays and videos of puppies with the hiccups are like-magnets.  But, well, why should I want that?  Ten years ago, that wouldn’t have been an expectation, couldn’t have been, because Facebook didn’t even meaningfully exist.   And if I’d tried to do everything I do now on Facebook with everyone I know?  I mean, seriously.  Translate this into the analog era.  Let’s say this was the distant, distant past, the year two thousand and two.  Every single day all of you received in the mail from me a package containing pictures from my last week, little sayings, and a DVD containing a montage of pictures and videos of my dog.  Also included in that package would be a return envelope with check-boxes to indicate whether you liked that day’s mailer or not, along with space to write a comment.   How’d that have felt?    “Please stop sending me this,” I think you’d write in the comments box.

And yet that’s the thing we’re doing, socially, and on a vast scale.  We’ve gone from zero to one point four billion human beings using Facebook, and more using other social media, all within a decade.   It’s a new and completely different way of being together socially, and yet we human beings aren’t any different than we were twenty years ago.  We’re still the same complex, social, smart, and frustrating bipeds we were just a blink of an evolutionary eye ago, and we still deal with and respond to social cues in more or less the same way we did before this new strange magic swept over our consciousness.  We have Facebook and twitter and pinterest and instagram, vine and youtube, each clamoring for our attention, each creating forms of interactive community that demand instantaneous, reflexive responses.

Human beings in social groupings become different creatures than we are individually.  We look to our neighbors for cues about how to act, about how to live, about how to treat one another.  And social interaction shapes our neighborliness, shapes how we look to those around us for approval...or disapproval.  And I wonder, looking at this new thing, what that might be doing to our souls, to the essence of who we are as persons and to how we live together.

Because social cues aren’t always the best guide to life, as we hear in the story of Herod and John the Baptist this morning.   This Herod is not Herod the Great, but Herod Antipas, tetrarch of Galilee and Perea, not to be confused with his brother Herod Philip, Tetrarch of Batanea, Auranitis, and Trachonitis.  I think I had trachonitis once, but antibiotics cleared that right up.

It was a thicket of social demands and relations that got Herod into some ultimately mortal trouble with John the Baptist, as the story is told by Mark.   John had been challenging Herod’s tendency, one he inherited from his father, to have unworkably messy relationships.  In this case, it was marrying his brother’s wife Herodias.  

This said, Mark presents Herod not as a cartoon cut-out villain, but as a human person trapped in a social mess.  It’s funny, for Mark, who usually doesn’t bother with emotional niceties and just goes bluntly barrelling through the Gospel story, but apparently, that detail is important.  Herod is presented as a flawed human being, but a human being nonetheless.

Despite John’s attacks on Herod, Mark makes a point of saying that Herod was strangely drawn to him, both fearing his connection to the people and “liking to listen to him.”   John, or so the story is told by Mark, was protected by Herod.

But that protection proved nowhere near enough, as Herod is socially obligated into giving the order to kill John the Baptist.  As king, his power lay entirely in the relationships he had with others.  If he made a public statement, that statement radically defined his identity as Tetrarch.  If he made a commitment, he was forced to stick with it.  A king is no more powerful than their social connections, without which they’re just a single, solitary, and very vulnerable human being.  If those social connections fail you, it’s Et Tu, Brute time.

Herod would have known this, known it with a deep anxiety about his place in the world.

And then, at her mother’s bidding, the daughter of Herodias did her legendary poledance for the royal court.  Herod, watching his stepdaughter slash niece ---ew--- was so entranced-- ew--- that he told her she could have whatever she wanted with a grand flourish.

What did she want?  She wanted the head of John the Baptist on a platter, and Herod was trapped in a web of social commitments.  

As the story goes, even though Herod was completely aware that serving up John the Baptist’s head would be wrong, he was compelled to follow through and fulfill the request.   Driven by his relationship to the community in whose power his identity lay, Herod acted in a way that both preserved his social integrity and shattered his personal integrity.

Each of us faces similar pressures as we participate in groups that share our basic worldview or interest.  But now, with our social awareness changed, it feels as if that has been intensified.

If we understand our identity is shaped by Jesus, it’s not how God works.  Our integrity as created beings, as sentient living and aware parts of God’s creation, that integrity rests on an entirely different foundation.  That foundation is our capacity to be just, even if it is to our detriment.  That foundation is our willingness to be gracious and kind, particularly if that grace and kindness is being shown to someone who opposes us.  This is fundamental to the Christian way, the absolute moral and ethical ground of the teachings of Jesus.

The argument could be made, of course, that this is unrealistic.  The only way to get anything done is to cling with a deathgrip to the beliefs of your group, and to never for a moment waver in your commitment to your social identity.  Your every tweet and post and pin needs to reflect the will of the gathering.  Those likes and friends, those followers and retweets, those things take a dominant place in our identities.  And in that, there can be real social consequences.

I’ve watched that play out, through twitter-mob-shaming and the forced expulsion of harmless individuals from groups by self-appointed purity police, by the endless predatory pursuit of offense and the stirring of reflexive desires and angers.

If social media is a place where you live and spend time, and if the teachings of Jesus are something that matters to you, then it deserves watching--and checking--just as any social groups demands on our ethical imagination require checking.

Let it be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

Setting Aside, Holding Fast

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

Rev. Dr. David Williams; 07.05.2015

Scripture Lesson:  1 Thessalonians 5:12-28

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Summer has rolled around again, meaning that the battle against clutter in my house has again reached a fever pitch.  During the school year, there’s a respite, as the kids are off at school and there’s a moment or two to catch your breath.  

But in these weeks of summer, with two teenage boys around more of the time, the house--and their rooms--descend into a deeper chaos, one that they attempted to remedy last week with a huge cleanout.  Meaning, of course, that all those boxes full of stuff that they no longer need are gone from their floors and closets, and now inhabit the storage room in our basement.

Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

As fiercely as I try to get stuff moved out of that basement storage room, it seems to remain filled with the things and the memories of a lifetime.  Every few months or so, we go through, and clear stuff out.  Some things continue to have meaning, and so back they go into boxes and crates and storage bins.  Other things no longer carry any of the weight of identity, and so we set them aside.

Some of those memories are older than others.  Like the little brown workbook that I come across, every time I shuffle back through one particular box filled with old letters and school records.  I hold on to it because it’s the oldest written thing I have, the first record I have of my having taken pencil to paper.

And I remember having written it.  I was four, or maybe five, and attending the Riverside Farm Nursery School in Nairobi, Kenya.  Once a week, I needed to produce a journal of my thoughts for that week, along with drawings that represented the events described in that journal.  I remember that it was a big production, a significant amount of work, a huge assignment.  I remember being stressed out as I tried to come up with words enough to fill the journal.

Meaning, I needed to write a single coherent sentence, which typically was shorter than the one I’m reading to you right now.  And that, looking at that little page, is what makes it so bizarre.  That’s me.  I remember it as me, and remember writing it as me.  I remember padding out my word count by adding in a clause about how many weeks it would be before I traveled back to America.

But looking at it now, at the haphazard spelling, that memory seems bizarre.  That was me, writing that out.  I remember it as a thing that I did.   And sure, my handwriting isn’t much better now.  But it is clearly a small child writing, in language that is that of a child.

But that’s the reality of how we are, as we grow.  We add to ourselves, bit by bit, piece by piece.  We both change and do not change, with the change more easy to measure than the spirit of our not-changing.

The dynamics of change and identity are a vital part of understanding the nature of love, and the nature of every person and every community that hopes to live out its best identity.

Paul’s first letter to the small church at Thessalonika is all about a community that had figured out how it was supposed to be.  It’s an important letter, because in many ways it is one of the earliest memories of the Christian movement.  1 Thessalonians is the first of the written records of Christian faith, at least the earliest one that remains.  Paul wrote it somewhere between 40 and 50 CE, making it at least ten and maybe twenty years older than the oldest of the Gospels.

I really like this letter, because it’s not abstract theology.  It’s kind of a love letter, between Paul and a community he really cared for.  It’s consistently positive, hopeful, and practically affirming, a letter that shows a deep and personal connection between the Apostle and those to whom he was writing.

It’s enough of a personal letter that it acknowledges that even though they’re a lovely little gathering, they’re not perfect.  At times they get lazy, and at times they just can’t, really, they just can’t.  Paul knows this, and he loves them anyway.  Have patience with yourselves, Paul says, from the heart of the patience that is grounded in love.

So here, as Paul wraps things up, a sweet letter of encouragement and support to a community that got it, he pitched out a batch of maxims and sayings about how to live, each of which rests on the radical compassion that is so central to the Gospel.

Those moral orders begin before the passage we just heard, as Paul gently but firmly challenges those who heard him to push themselves, to hold themselves to the standard he saw in Christ.  He presents them with maxims, plain and simple measures of what it will mean to live out the life that Jesus taught.

“Be at peace among yourselves.” “Never pay back evil for evil, but show good to one another and to all.”  “Give thanks in all circumstances.”

More than anything, he challenges those he loves to do two things.  First, to always challenge themselves, testing everything against the goodness that they know.  That part of faith is essential if we’re going to grow in faith.  It’s the part of faith that the ancient church knew as metanoia, which we translate as repentance.  Healthy, growing personhood is not a static thing.  It involves continual self-assessment, a testing of ourselves against the transforming, radiant love of God.  Those things that stand opposed to our ability to love one another need to be set aside, and given no power to guide our lives.

Second, in that testing, to know that there are parts of ourselves we should hold on to, things that are worth carrying forward with us.  Those good things are moments in our story of ourselves that help develop us, help build us up as persons, that give a gracious integrity to our story.

Finding that balance is essential if we are to have healthy souls, if those souls are to exist at peace together, and if, together, we are to continue to grow.  That goes well beyond our learning how to spell, or to string together sentences.  It reaches deeper into us than that inevitable clearing out of the clutter of material stuff that fills our lives.

(IT BEING THE FIFTH OF JULY AND ALL, I WANDERED OFF INTO A SEMI-RELATED REFLECTION AT AROUND THIS POINT, ABOUT WHAT IT MEANS TO REALLY LOVE BOTH OTHERS, A COMMUNITY, AND A NATION. WROTE IT UP LATER, AND YOU CAN FIND IT BY CLICKING THE LINK)

Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

Shaken Together, Running Over

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

Rev. Dr. David Williams; 06.28.2015

Scripture Lesson: Ecclesiastes 3:16-22; Luke 6:27-38

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Everything is interconnected, or so the saying goes, and as much as that’s become a truism, it remains something worth reminding ourselves of every now and again.

We hum along to that old Beatles song, at least those of us who remember who the Beatles are, knowing that in the end, the love we take is equal to the love we make.  We hum along to the Lion King, which we watched so many times on DVD when our parents needed an hour of quiet time, about the circle of life, how it ruuuules us aaaaalll, through despaaaair and hooooope, through faith and luuuuf.   It’s a thing we’ve heard so many times we don’t even think about it, or what it means.  

Because we forget that, we do, in the way that a people do when everything is neatly divvied up and packaged for us.  Oh, we think we’re connected.  We think we’re as connected as human beings have ever been.  Here we are, in an age when we can see whatever we want, and have whatever we want, so long as our credit is good.  It arrives two days after we click a button on our trackpad, neatly bubblewrapped in a brown box on our doorstep.  Anything at all, anything in the world, right there whenever we want it.  Want a GPS mount for your new motorcycle?  Boom.  Want a vintage analogue synth?  Want any book ever printed, or any movie ever made, or the seeds to grow anything?  We can have it, right now.

And yet the reality underlying that sense of instant industrial interconnectedness is that we are personally oblivious to the material things that flow through our consumer lives.  We do not build them.  We do not see them built.  We do not know what goes into their production.

They just sort of appear, as if they have been conjured up by some peculiar magic.

This can be neat, I suppose, but in some circumstances, it is rather less so.  Like, say, with the stuff we eat, and in particular the creatures we consume.  I was reflecting on this reality on the afternoon of Father’s Day, as I sat by the grill and prepped the food for my gathered family.

I love grilling, love the primal character of it, love the fire and the smoke and the scent of it.  I remember, hard as it is as a vegetarian, that the reason Cain was so made at his brother Abel was that God liked the smell of burning meat more than the smell of veggies.  

There my little protein circlets and zucchini cutlets sit grilling away, as the rich flavorful incense of burning beef fat and barbecue sauce mingle and rise to the heavens, and I have to give YHWH that one.  

Still and all, it’s a little weird for a vegetarian to be out there at the grill cooking up chicken and burgers, because there’s something I know.  Those boneless thighs and breasts, those sizzling patties, they all came from somewhere.  They did not magically appear, neatly plastic wrapped and prepared, having been vat-grown in some huge facility.

And as I cook, and that scent rises up to heaven, I think about the formerly living beings that I’m cooking, about the specifics of what they are and were.  I consider their existence, their lives, as known to God as my own.  

Having read my Bible for the last forty years, I wonder at how my connection to the creatures we consume plays off against what I know from my faith about my bond with all being.

I accept, because it resonates, the ancient teaching from the book of Ecclesiastes.  Last week, we heard some of the sayings from the Book of Proverbs, laying out the essence of Wisdom, as she teaches us how we are to live in ways of quiet, ungrasping righteousness.  Ecclesiastes is traditionally ascribed to Solomon, Mr. Big Wise Wisdom himself, the most discerning of the kings of ancient Israel, but the book itself seems to draw provenance from a later period.  But the book is coy about authorship, telling us only that the author’s name is Qohelet.  In the Hebrew, that means either “The Teacher” or, more exactly, “The One Who Assembles.”   That works for teaching on so many levels, frankly.  

So this week, words come to us from the Teacher, the author of this taut little book of deeper wisdom.

The little passage we heard this morning is a peculiar one.  On the one hand, Qohelet is the great cynic of scripture.  He knows that, where Proverbs claims that the righteous prosper, being good often yields suffering, and the evil can do quite well for themselves.  “Meaningless, meaningless, all is meaningless,” he sighs in an accent that could be French, while leafing through his dogeared copy of The Stranger and furtively smoking an unfiltered cigarette.    But while it’s intended to be a stone-faced reflection on the mortality of humanity, of how we are but creatures of earth just as the animals around us are creatures of earth, I’ve actually found it to be one of my go-to comfort passages in a very particular instance.

Because we all have loved animals, at least, the ones we’ve gotten to know.  And when that tiny shy little puppy grows up into a reserved dog, we don’t love them any less.  And when that old cat dies, well, we feel the loss.  They’re family, and we don’t just say that, we feel it.  We mean it.

So when I am asked, by mourning children or sorrowful adults, what happens to our animals after they die, I can point to this passage, and say from the deepest wisdom, their breath is like our breath.  They return to God, just as we do.  And we take comfort in that, we do.

But then I also know a truth from elsewhere in the great story of scripture, one that hums oddly when I try to harmonize it with that truth.  That truth comes from the very heart of the teachings of my own Teacher, from Jesus himself as his story is told in Luke’s Gospel.

It’s from a section of scripture known as the Sermon on the Plain, the shorter, tauter version of the Sermon on the Mount that appears in Luke.  Where Matthew gives us three full chapters, Luke encapsulates it in 29 verses, starting in verse 20 of chapter 6 and running through verse 49.  All of the core teachings are there, with the radical moral imperative to show grace, mercy, love, and justice to all standing like the sure foundation under all of it.

It is an immense and fiercely challenging teaching, calling those who’d follow Jesus to commit themselves to proactively seeking healing.  The Way Jesus lays out is the path of transforming love.  The Christ follower is asked not just to passively receive hatred, but to to push back hard against hatred with grace and mercy, doubled down.

Right here in these words is the moral core of all Christian faith, the ethic that guides how we are to act in this world.  And it ends with verse 38 words that sing out an image...a feeling, really...of what God’s justice looks like.

“A good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap; for the measure you give will be the measure you get back.”

It’s that truth again, only less passive. Jesus presses it down to intensify the flavor, mixes it up, and then pours it out over us.   We are connected to all things, and our every action will be returned to us.

Which is why, when I look at the reality of how we eat, and the reality of how most of the meat we consume gets to our grills and our tables, I’m a little reluctant to be a part of that thing.  Because most of our meat -- the remarkably affordable packaged bulkmeat that fills the fridges at Harris Teeter, the meat in our fast food burgers, the meat in our Banh Mi sandwiches -- comes to us through the miracle of modern mass production.

When I was a boy, I remember taking field trips to factories, you know, back when they used to have factories in America.  I remember, on one tour, watching musical instruments being manufactured, trombones and trumpets and tubas.  Big machines and workers, and it was really cool.  Years ago, when my wife and I celebrated our fifteenth wedding anniversary with a week of Vermont bed and breakfasts, we stopped in at the Ben and Jerry’s factory and took the tour.  We saw every step of the process, and got to taste some weird new flavors.  Elderberry Snapple Crunch, or something.  That, let me tell you, was pretty awesome.  Those factories stirred in me an appreciation for production.  I felt proud to be part of such a thing, in my small way.

But a tour of a modern factory farm or industrial scale slaughterhouse would not feel quite the same.  I don’t think Mr. Ramsey’s fifth grade class would ever quite recover.

Because we are part of the systems that sustain us, and their reality, shaken together and running over, is the measure we will be given.

What these passages in conjunction ask us to consider is the depth of our connection to the Creation of which we are a part, and over which we are meant to exercise care.  As we move further and further into systems that isolate us from the reality of how things are made, it’s important that we keep the knowledge of our connection front and center.

Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN.

The Fool and the Road Ahead

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

Rev. Dr. David Williams; 06.21.2015

Scripture:  Proverbs 3:13-14; 27-29; 10:4; 17; 25; 11:28; 12:1; 15; 24; 13:11; 14:31; 15:16; 16:8; 21:17;  27:12; 23-24

LISTEN TO AUDIO HERE:

It’s been almost thirty years since the first time I threw a leg over a motorcycle, and over the last week and a half, I’ll admit that I’ve felt just as giddy this last week on occasion as I did way back when I was eighteen.

Of course, I’m not exactly the same person I was back then, though I carry those memories with me.  On the one hand, I was twenty pounds lighter and substantially less creaky.  On the other, well, let’s just say I didn’t always make the wisest of choices.

Like, say, some of the choices I made around that very first motorcycle.  It was a snorting beast of a bike, a ratty old semi-maintained Honda CB750, whose swept back four-into-four exhaust had rusted out in a couple or three strategic locations.  Meaning, it was waaay louder than it needed to be, which meant, as far as eighteen year old me was concerned, that it was just exactly loud enough.

Back at that age, maintenance wasn’t really front and center on my list of priorities.  Giving rides to girls?  Sure.  Tearing around the bucolic back roads of Albemarle county horse country, or taking a beautiful late spring afternoon to go snarling around the Blue Ridge?  Those were my priorities.

Paying attention to other things wasn’t a strength.  Like, say, remembering to always reset the fuel petcock when I gassed up.  You see, that first bike wasn’t like the Big Tan Motor Chicken I’m riding now.

Being a creature of the information age, the Motor Chicken is a font of information, with an onboard computer that tells me current fuel consumption rates to the second, average consumption for the current tank, and range to empty.  It has a fuel gauge, a digital one, which has alerts that flash with increasing levels of urgency as I get closer to running out of go-juice.

But that old Honda was state of the art 1973 motorcycling, meaning that while it looked cool riding with bell bottoms and feathered back hair, it’s a little less information-driven.  It didn’t even have a fuel gauge.  How did you know you needed to get to the gas station?  You ran out of gas.  Seriously.  That was the protocol.  That big ol’ air cooled four would start to stumble and sputter, and that meant you--still moving--had about half a click to reach down with your left hand, fumble for the petcock, and switch it to reserve.  That gave you access to the lowest portion of the tank, and meant you had about thirty miles to get gas.

Unless, of course, you’d forgotten to switch back to the main tank as you filled ‘er up.  Then, well, that stumbling and sputtering meant you’d be walking soon, son.

As, in point of fact, I did on a number of occasions in Charlottesville.  “Hey man,” I’d say when I arrived late and on foot.  “I totally ran out of gas.  Can you give me a ride?”   Which I did more than once, because, well, I was a young fool, as opposed to being the older fool I am today.

It’s a characteristic of fools, and I know this from ongoing personal experience, that we tend not to take a good hard look at what it is our current actions are actually going to accomplish.  Instead, we act on our impulse, on our big feely feels in the moment and the now.  We assume that just because we believe it to be so, it must be true, and that somehow we’re the special one who will be the exception to the rule.

The Whitman’s Sampler of verses that we’ve just tasted our way through comes to us from the great ancient collection of Hebrew Wisdom literature, the Book of Proverbs. In Proverbs, Wisdom is seen as more than just the ability to make a lucky decision, like buying ten thousand dollars worth of bitcoin in August of 2010 and selling it all in November of 2013.  Wisdom, in so far as we allow ourselves to receive it, shapes how we live in the world.  It is fundamentally practical.

As it manifests in the book of Proverbs, expressed in pithy little nuggets of moral guidance, taut little sayings and maxims and aphorisms, all of which point in the general direction of how to live a life that’s less messed up.  They don’t provide any guarantees, but what they do is this: they make it much more likely that you will not fail.

Within ancient Wisdom literature, there are a number of core themes, all of which play around a sane and appropriate use of the world around you.  The wise do not seek wealth above all other things, because wealth is not the goal.  The wise know that the hunger to possess destroys.  The wise listen to criticism and concern, and adjust accordingly.  The wise know that God loves the poor and the rich equally, and that when wealth is created on the suffering backs of the poor, God will hold the powerful to account.  

Wisdom looks at the world, and carefully considers every action.  The wise know--more than anything else--that chasing after the desire of the now can compromise the life you hope to live tomorrow.  Because nothing is more foolish--in the Biblical definition of foolishness--than being so blinded by one’s own hungers and self-justification that you can’t see the harm you’re about to inflict on yourself and others.

Which, quite frankly, is why I’m so fuddled as to why any person who’s spent even a moment of time around Wisdom literature and the Proverbs in particular would feel motivated to resist doing something about our wildly out-of-control and self-destructive consumption of the earth’s resources.

We know, for instance, that remaining supplies of fossil fuels will last the world just about exactly as long as I’ve been alive.  If we take the span of time between 1969 and now, and push it out into the future, that’s roughly when it’ll all run dry.  It could be a few years earlier.  It could be a few years later.  But that’s the ballpark.

Now, one can always question those estimates.  Someone out there might have an agenda.  But coming as they do from the wild eyed liberal tree-huggers at British Petroleum, I think it’s safe to say that this is an...um…”conservative” estimate.

So we know, we do, that the entire energy basis of our economy will be gone in what I hope will be the last few years of my lifetime.  

We also know, we do, that if we just keep blundering on down the path of endlessly increasing consumption we’ll do lasting and potentially irreparable harm to our delicate little jewel of a world.  The byproducts of our endless devouring choke the landfills of the world, and are changing the entire biosphere we inhabit.  We are changing the earth for the worse, altering the climate, strip-mining our seas.

And sure, there are those whose ideology prevents them from seeing this reality.  To be honest, as someone who has been both, and is still on occasion, there’s no functional difference between an ideologue and a fool.  Both get so lost in their dreams and their stories that they can’t see the reality they inhabit.

I read, this week, through that little essay released this last week by Pope Francis.  A Papal Encyclical, it’s called, and for our Catholic sisters and brothers, it is a teaching with authority.  For we Protestants, it’s not quite the same thing.  It is, for me, a document written by another pastor, a brother in the faith, one with a kind heart and a church that’s just a tiny bit larger than ours.

It’s worth the read, all hundred and ninety-eight carefully footnoted pages of it.  It’s a profoundly Catholic document, carefully constructed, paradoxically both progressive and deeply traditional, open to the insights of science and the ancient insights of our faith.

It’s been criticized, of course, by those who’d suggest that faith needs to focus on spiritual things.  Stay out of the world, they say, and focus instead on matters of the soul.

Which, if you understand the Bible at all, is completely wrong.  The Bible speaks consistently and directly to how we are to live and order our lives, right here in this world.  It is the whole and entire point of prophetic literature, and it’s also the heart of Biblical wisdom.

So what do we do?  Here we are, barrelling along the road, loving--as Proverbs 21:17 puts it-- both our wine and our oil.  We are riding into darkness, into a wilderness we do not know.  We know that it’s going to be hard, and that we’re getting close to reserve.  Assuming we remembered to switch the petcock, which we may or may not have done.

Wisdom asks us to step back, and really consider our actions.   Wisdom asks us not to cling to either our pleasure or our preconceived notions, and to be willing to change our actions to match reality.  Wisdom asks us to be prepared, both individually and as a community, for the very real demands ahead.

We have the information we need, right in front of us.  Whether we are fools on the road, or wise, will depend on how we respond to it.

Let wisdom be your guide.

Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN.  

Good Kings and Queens

Poolesville Presbyterian Church

Rev. Dr. David Williams; 05.31.2015

Scripture:  Genesis 1:1 - 2:3

LISTEN TO AUDIO HERE:

It’s that time of year, now as the heat of the summer rises, when I find myself regularly surveying the little patch of creation that I claim as my own.  It’s a pleasant moment, that surveying, because in so much else of life, it feels like we’re being driven like pollen before a late-spring storm.  We have the demands of our employers and bureaucracies, or the demands of the endless cycle of activities that spring up for our children, and it can get to feeling like we’re just pawns in a strange and convoluted game of multidimensional chess.

Maybe that’s why I love gardening.  I look out across my little suburban third of an acre like Mufasa showing Simba his lands, and sure, it’s not anywhere as impressive and there are thankfully fewer hyenas, but it’s that same feeling.  Here, the place over which I have dominion.  Here, the place where I am King.  And I think to myself, “It’s good ta be da King.”  Then I stride around, tending to my subjects.  You get to know them, bit by bit, know how to tend to them and care for them.

There are the strawberry patches, of course, which are pumping out a couple of pints of fresh sweetness every morning.  There are my beans, who are in a new patch now, and struggling this year to overcome the Bermuda grass that just isn’t ready to let go of that little four by eight bit of soil.

There are new additions this year, too.  The Early Girl tomatoes, swelling up like fat green balloons, which I’m not quite sure why I’m growing because I really am not at all fond of tomatoes. My wife really likes ‘em, though, so I suppose that’s why.

There are the spaghetti squash, which are kind of freaking me out a little bit.  It’s not just that they grow so crazy fast, their huge leaves cast out like sails.  It’s that they keep changing.  One day, they look normal, just a plant with big leaves.  And then suddenly it’s like they’re something out of John Carpenter’s The Thing, an explosion of tentacles and tendrils snaking out everywhere and grabbing on to everything.  And the next day, there are these huge weird flowers, like something out of Day of the Triffids.  If they grew faces, I wouldn’t be half surprised.

There are other denizens, the voles and chipmunks and squirrels and field mice, who probably aren’t enamored of my traps, no kill though they may be.  There are nesting doves and sparrows, and the wren who made her nests in the pots I’d been planning on using to grow garlic this season.  She freaks out and flies away whenever I check on her babies, which strikes me as pretty lousy parenting.  “Go ahead!  Eat my children!”  

 

But in all of that, and in everything I do to make and maintain the little rectangle of the planet social convention says is mine, I’m pleased with it.  It’s a good thing, to which I am connected and in which I see the strange and miraculous workings of life.

Which, when contemplating our connection to creation as laid out in the first Genesis story, is an important thing for us to consider as we move in this world.

What we got this morning, in all of its length, was Genesis 1 and the first three verses of Genesis 2.  It's a story that comes to us from what objective and critical historical scholarship would describe as the "priestly" or "P" tradition.  The rhythms and patterns of the story lend themselves to liturgy and worship, with cycles of repeated words that appear to have been intended to be chanted or recited or sung.

This is the "God made all this stuff in six days, and on the seventh, he kicked back and chilled" story.  Like many other defining stories from other world religious traditions, it spins out a story of existence shaped from undifferentiated chaos, what in the ancient Hebrew was called the tohu wabohu, the "unformed and void."    Outside of the chronology of the story, and the impossibility of taking it literally  (how can you have "days" before there is a "sun?"), it makes several defining statements about the nature of the universe.

The Priestly story clearly affirms that the creation…all that we see and perceive…is good.  It is to be viewed not neutrally, or as inscrutable and dangerous, but as somehow essentially positive.   That is certainly true of our tiny delicate little living gem of a planet, but it is also the operating presumption about the rest of being.  It is good, its goodness repeatedly proclaimed by the One from whom it was given form.

The story also establishes that rest, balance, and reflection are a central part of participation in the goodness of creation.  Our created purpose was not endless toil, laboring endlessly in the fields or droning away on that proposal for the new client one our laptop at one-thirty in the morning.  Sabbath and a time to delight in and bless the being around us are just an essential part of participation in what our Maker has made.

What is notable, or what industrial and post-industrial-era Christian faith has often fixated upon, is the idea that we human beings have been given “dominion” over all of the living beings of the earth.  What we want to hear is that this whole world exists to serve human needs and human hungers, and that it serves no purpose in existence other than to satisfy our every desire.  Everything that lives, our whole world, we are permitted to do with as we please.  

We can tear the tops off of Appalachia’s green and misty mountains.  We can leave the oceans as dead places, filled not with teeming fish but just great deserts, covered with state-sized islands of floating plastic debris.  We can fill the skies with poison, and heat the earth with the smothering carbon fumes of our machines.  We can pave paradise, and put up a parking lot.  It’s our right, right there in the Bible!  Dominion!  God wants us to build that parking lot!

So what does God want, from us, as we tell ourselves this story of our own power?

In verse 26, we hear the following, if we’re reading Hebrew and English simultaneously:  WaYomer Elohim (and said The Gods,) naaseh adam b’tzalmenu (make the creature of earth in the idol of us) kid’mutenu (in the model of us) w’yir’du (and give dominion) vid’gat hayam (over fish the sea) uv’of hashamayim (and birds the skies) u’vab’hemah uvkalhaaretz (and unspeaking quadrupeds on whole the earth) uvkhalharemes ha romes alhaaretz (and to all reptiles glidecrawling on the earth).

Every Hebrew word comes from a three letter root, the Hebrew root word of w’yirdu “to give dominion” is rosh dalet hey, רָדָה, radah.  And that word, as it appears in various other places in the scriptures, is peskily polyvalent.  That means it means different things, in different places.  Dominion can and does often mean oppression, the kind of authority that involves beating down and crushing underfoot.  In most places where it’s applied to the rule of human beings in the bible, that’s what it’s used to describe, for reasons that should be gobsmackingly obvious to any student of human history.

But what, in the context of the first Creation story, does this mean?   If we are created b’tzalmenu, which means in the image, shadow, or phantom of God, what kind of dominion do we see the Creator of the Universe imposing over the creation?

We see, in each of these days, in each of these moments, evidence that God’s dominion over the earth is not rooted in hunger to possess or hunger to control.  Why would the Creator of the Universe desire power?  God makes, shapes, and clearly cares for all of creation.  We, in our tiny mortal way, have also been given the freedom to choose, and in our choosing, to shape the reality in which we find ourselves.  We are Kings and Queens, given the authority to bend creation around us with our intention.  

But what sort of King?  What sort of Queen?  Power and dominion are dangerous things, if we’re not aware of what impact we are having.  If ours is the power that does not create, but destroys, the power that does not give, but takes, what sort of world do we shape for ourselves?  Are we shaping Eden, or a desert?  Are we creating a thing that we can look at with open eyes, and declare that it is good?

Over the next few weeks, we’ll be exploring what that means, and how we as Christians can best live out our calling to be at peace with one another and the whole of creation.  Because the way we use what we have been given should matter to us.

Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN.