Trust God. Plant Seeds

 This is my sermon from August 19th, 2012. It's on Mark 4:26-34.  It was inspired by a comment made by one of the elders on session, about how we should just keep planting seeds and see which ones God decides to raise up.

This is from my first garden, in my window at Union Theological Seminary. The seeds that were planted there have grown much faster than I dreamed.

Trust God. Plant Seeds.

Fred Craddock is a famous preacher and teacher, whose stories are well-known to preachers for their depth of understanding. And he tells this one story about coming in to do a funeral for an old parishioner.[1] After the funeral, he stayed around talking with folks, until most of the peripheral people had gone, and it was just family there, including the oldest daughter Kathryn. Fred says Kathryn was a wild-child. She wouldn’t sit still, she wouldn’t listen, never paid any attention, was always pushing, shoving, and breaking things. When he left that old church, he would have said that of all the people that had been there, if there was one who never heard a word he said, it was Kathryn.

            And now Kathryn was there sitting with him after the funeral, and she’d long since grown up. Now with a little bit of gray in her hair, she was an executive at a telephone company. And Fred leaned over and he said, I’m sorry, it’s such a tough time.”

            And Kathryn said, “It is tough. When Mother called and said Dad had died of a heart attack, I was just scrambling for something. Then I remembered a sermon you had preached on the meaning of the Lord’s Supper”

            Fred said, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” but she proceeded to quote back to him a piece of this sermon he had given, must have been twenty or thirty years before. When you plant a seed in someone, you never know when it might sprout.

“The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.

            This is our story for today, it’s called the parable of the growing seed. And like any good parable, it’s a tough nut to crack. They call this parable a kingdom parable, because it describes what the kingdom of God is like. But this kind of parable doesn’t describe it with adjectives. The kingdom is described through story, perhaps because stories hold a lot more within them than what adjectives could describe. But the meaning of a parable isn’t always clear at first sight. It pulls you in, forces you to ask the questions, to search for the answers. What does it mean that the kingdom of God is like if someone scattered seed on the ground, and it grew, but they knew not how?

           

            Rev. Craddock tells another story, of a summer camp he went to one week.[2] And there was this director there, and he was so committed to everything being the most meaningful thing that had ever been. The campfires were so meaningful. The trees were meaningful. Even the squirrels and the pinecones were meaningful. And from the beginning of the week he had been telling the kids that Thursday, they were going to have a special breakfast. It was going to be a meaningful breakfast, almost like a communion service. It was going to be so meaningful, it would be like being “in church having communion with Jesus by the side of the Sea of Galilee.”[3] 

            On Thursday morning they all shuffled in, unsure of what to do with the gravitas of this breakfast that they were about to have. One boy even dressed up. Where they’d been noisy and raucous all week, this breakfast was quiet. You could hear forks scraping against the plates as they pushed their food around. What do you do with meaningful eggs? And eventually someone got up, and then another one, and they all rushed out. The director was crushed. Rev. Craddock tells this story, and then he said, “You know what I think? If he had trusted what was prayed and sung and said, like a seed that carries its own future in its bosom, if he had just put it out there and left it alone, I daresay that as they loaded the blankets and things into the bus on Saturday, the meanest kid in the group would have said, “You know, this has been more church than church to me.”

“The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.

 In the summer of 1994, Janet was the choir director at First Presbyterian Church in Cartersville, GA and she was waiting on the last choir member to arrive at church so they could leave to go to Montreat for the Worship and Music Conference.[4] The last choir member was Susan, who at the time was a part of the ministry of hospitality. She arrived half an hour late because she’d been taking a homeless person to the shelter in Rome. As they got on the bus, Susan said, “You know, we sure need a homeless shelter in Cartersville.” Janet didn’t think anything of it at the time, they were running late for a long drive, and she had a lot to worry about, but the seed had been planted.

            Well, they got to Montreat, up in the Blue Ridge Mountains in North Carolina, which is in my humble opinion one of the most gorgeous places on God’s green earth, and the worship was wonderful, and in the midst of that week Janet heard God’s call. “You need to open a shelter for the homeless in Cartersville.”

            When she came home she shared it with her husband and a few friends, to see if it was something that could happen or if it was just crazy. They were supportive, and one of those friends invited her to go with him and see the county commissioner. And the seed began to sprout.

            The county gave them a little run-down house that the church and community helped fix up. They formed a board. Eventually they found a new home and a whole new building was built there, and now it shelters more than 30 people who need rest, help, and hope. Susan didn’t know that she had planted a seed in Janet’s heart. She didn’t know how it grew from an idea into a hope and into a ministry. But as they walked into that new building everyone could see that the harvest had come.

“The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.

            So what do we do with this kingdom of God whose keys have been given to us even though we only know it in parables and stories?  We’ve been given the task of proclaiming that the kingdom of God is at hand, but we feel like we don’t know what we’re doing. Like if someone gave me a hammer and some nails, and said, “Go build me a city” I think this may be a part of what the disciples were going through at this point in the story. They had tasted glory, they had seen miracles, healings, heard words that spoke to their soul. But they’d also been with Jesus as he was rejected by his family, chased out of the cities, and hunted by the authorities. They realized that this kingdom-building was not as much of a cakewalk as they had imagined. It would be neither quick nor painless. But here Jesus tells them not to worry. God is doing all the heavy lifting. The seeds that they plant will grow even if they don’t understand how. It is a matter of “finding the right soil and trusting that the seed will grow.”[5]

           

So what do we do with this kingdom, of which we’ve seen just a glimpse, had just a taste, heard just a whisper. We sow seeds. We scatter the word all around us, on the path, on rocky soil, among the thorns, and in places where it will take root. A healing touch. A word of comfort. Refusing to give up on a flawed friend. An unexpected card. A prayer. Sharing an idea. We plant the seeds of love, hope, and promise. And then, though we don’t know how, God takes the seeds which we have planted and raises them up.

This is the good news. We have been charged with the salvation of our world. We’ve been sent out to shine the light of Christ even in the darkest places. We’ve been charged with the transformation of this community of people into the body of Christ. And  when it seems like it’s too much to bear, more than we can handle, we’re given this. Jesus came down to save us. We were created in God’s image, that God’s light be our light and shine through us on the way. The Holy Spirit transforms us into a Pentecost people, filling us with the words to say, the actions to take, the places to go. We plant the seeds, and trust that God will raise them up, and the harvest will come. For as Paul told the Romans, “If God is for us, who can be against us?”

“The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full grain in the head. But when the grain is ripe, at once he goes in with his sickle, because the harvest has come.

---

[1] Craddock, Fred. Craddock Stories, St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2001, p. 30.

[2] Craddock, Fred. Craddock Stories, St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2001, p. 31.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Smith, Ted. “Planting Seeds” Sermon on Mark 6:24-34. First Presbyterian Church, Cartersville, GA, June 14^th,  2009.

[5] Myers, Ched. Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus:  Orbis Books: Maryknoll, NY, 2008.

A Story that Can Change the World

This is my sermon on 2 Samuel 12:1-15. It's my last on Samuel, I think, which is both a relief (the next parts of the David narrative get really hairy - Ammnon and Tamar, Absalom, etc.) and a loss (I've really enjoyed studying the David cycle over the past two months, and I just got a new book to help). It's about stories and how they can change our world, the parables we encounter in every day life, and the way telling our own stories can make a difference. It references Blood Done Sign My Name, by Tim Tyson, which is one of my favorite books. It's chocked full of good stories and makes you think differently about what the Civil Rights Movement was really like for people growing up in the South. 

A Story That Can Change The World

            To most people, telling stories isn’t much more than an idle pastime. In fact it’s often regarded as something even less valuable. When I was a kid and there was some sort of trouble, my Mom would bring me and my brother out and hear our accounts of what had happened. And when something dubious stood out to her she would look at us real hard and ask, “Now is that true or are you telling me a story?”

            When you hear about something so incredible it’s unbelievable, you might say, “That’s not true, that’s just a story” But the truth is that stories (even ones that never happened in real life) have the power to change lives, to change the course of history, even to change the world.

Tim Tyson, in his book Blood Done Sign My Name, tells about a story told by Miss Amy Womble, that changed a church forever. Tyson’s father was the Methodist minister in Oxford, North Carolina in 1964. He was one of those socially progressive type preachers, always a step ahead of his congregation. And one fall, without thinking much of it, he invited Dr. Samuel Proctor, one of the leading African-American preachers of the time, to come and preach at his church on Race-Relations Sunday. But by the time that Sunday came around, Reverend Tyson realized that he was in hot water. There wasn’t nearly as much support for this type of gesture as he thought. The night before Dr. Proctor was to preach, Rev. Tyson called an emergency meeting, thinking he might smooth things over with the board before the big day. Some of the board members demanded that he call and cancel. “This thing is going to tear this church apart,”[1] said one man. And in the midst of this, Miss Amy Womble got up to speak.

“Miss Amy” as everyone knew her was an old school teacher. She had had just about everyone in that room as a first grade student at some time or another, and everyone honored her, but nobody had ever really given much care to what she thought about pressing matters of the day. And she stood up and said, “I hear some of us saying that this thing is going to tear this church apart.” And she looked at the man who said it as only teachers can do. “Now I know our pastor, and you know him too, and he’s not going to tear anything apart. And I don’t suppose Dr. Proctor is going to tear anything apart either. If there is going to be any tearing done, we’re going to do the tearing apart ourselves.”[2]

            And then she told her former students a story: “There was a case up near Chapel Hill recently. Where a teenage boy went around a curve too fast and was killed in a car crash. So they thought. He was down there by the side of the road and they were just waiting for the ambulance to come and take him to the funeral home. There wasn’t any signs of life.”

            “But then an airman from Pope Air Force Base stopped. He was home on furlough, and he say the boy lying there and he scrambled down the embankment and opened that boy’s mouth. And he saw the boy’s tongue stuck back in his throat, and he ran his finger back there and pulled out that tongue, and then gave that boy mouth-to-mouth rescuscitation. By the time that ambulance got there, that boy was walking around alive as you or me. And the next week they had a big dinner up at the fire station out in Orange County for that airman, celebrating how he had saved that boy’s life.”

            “What I haven’t told you, is that the boy who had the wreck was white, and that airman who saved him was a black man. But that’s the truth. And I want all you fathers to tell me something….which one of you fathers would have said to that airman, ‘Now don’t you run your black fingers down my boy’s white throat? Which of y’all would have told that airman, ‘Don’t you dare put your black lips on my boy’s mouth?’”[3]

            The board voted 25-14 to welcome Dr. Proctor to their pulpit. That evening people kept coming over to Rev. Tyson’s house with tears in their eyes. Miss Amy’s story had changed their lives.

            Now Nathan walked into a situation not that different from Rev. Tyson’s. He knew that he was about to do something dangerous. Only for Nathan, it wasn’t his job or his reputation, but his very life was on the line. David had just killed a man merely for having a beautiful wife. What would he do to Nathan, who came to condemn him?

            And so Nathan told a story. He told David the parable we just heard, about the rich man and the poor man. The poor man with only one ewe lamb, and the rich with many flocks, who took the poor man’s only lamb because it inconvenienced him to take one of his own.

            It matched perfectly with David’s actions against Uriah the Hittite, but David, in his righteous indignation on behalf of the poor man, does not notice. He is outraged, and leaps up to proclaim judgment on the rich man, not realizing that in doing so he also judges himself.

            No sooner has David issued his condemnation than Nathan turns it around, and declares that he is the man who has taken another’s only, cherished belonging, and that the judgment he issued on the rich man should fall on his own head.

            A quick side note about this story. The crime here, the way the story is told, and the way Nathan’s parable is crafted, is not adultery. As king, David could and did take any woman he wanted, as long as she was not someone else’s wife. The crime—according to our biblical author—was theft. [This is why Bathsheba is almost always referred to as the wife of Uriah (even in Matthew!), to emphasize that David has taken what was not his]. This is where we differ from biblical authors, who, constrained by time and place, saw women only as possessions. We have made great strides towards a world in which our sisters, daughters, and mothers are equal partners in seeking the kingdom of God. But as we notice that Bathsheba was not much more than property then, we should also notice that even today, some women and men are still being treated as property, bought and sold, even here in America. We’ve made great advances in understanding since the Bible was written, but we have a long way to go.

             Back to the story: David, suddenly confronted with his own self-condemnation, confesses. “I have sinned against the Lord.” Given that he was king, he did not need to say these words. God only knows how many people in our world are confronted with their own sin and choose other words:

Let’s not dwell on the past…

It wasn’t my fault…

It was a victimless crime…

I don’t recall…

Even though it was late, David was still willing to face his situation. He was still willing to cast himself down and ask for mercy. Our God is a God who extends mercy even to such a person as David. There is no sin which is so great that we can’t get down on our knees and beg forgiveness, and it will be granted to us through Christ who died for us.

            Nathan’s story enacts a change in David. Before it, he was King David, who controlled his fate, took what he wanted and apologized to no one. Afterward, he is once again the David that we once knew, throwing himself down in God’s mercy, a man after God’s own heart.  Nathan could have got up on his high horse and issued a condemnation of David, rather than telling him that story. That’s the kind of thing most of us Christians like to do: make sweeping proclamations about the sinfulness of others. It’s great if you want to feel superior to others for having the right answers, but not so good if you want to change someone’s behavior. Instead, Nathan invites David to understand the other side of his actions, and in doing so, he causes David to change his behavior.

David’s not the only one who doesn’t realize the effects of his action on others. There’s a growing body of literature that tells us that many criminals have less empathy than people outside of prison. They often critically lack the ability to understand the effect that their actions have had on someone else. Now an organization called the Sycamore Tree Project has started to do something about it. It (and other restorative justice programs like it), brings violent criminals together with victims of unrelated violent crimes. And the victims tell their stories.

They tell their experiences of the crime and of the effects that it has had on their life. Prisoners are rarely ever exposed to their victims’s stories in the trial process, and it can be quite a shock for them to hear of the crippling emotional and psychological effects of the crime. For the first time, they understand how it feels to be a victim of a crime. Prison insiders are surprised at how much change they see in inmates who have gone through these programs. The state of Iowa saw a decrease in reoffending rates of 15 and 17 percent in two similar programs run in the state. The crime victims who volunteer their time are changing peoples’ lives…just by telling their own stories!

As Christians we believe in the power of story to change people’s lives. In particular we believe in the story of Christ, who came down among us and told stories to guide us to an understanding of God’s kingdom, who lived among us and died for us, that we might have eternal life. We believe that this story has the power to change lives, for it has changed ours. It has called us into new realizations of what it means to be a part of God’s community. It has called us to realize our own sinfulness and throw ourselves down upon the mercy of God. It has lifted us up in the knowledge that we are redeemed in Christ.

Now like Miss Amy, like Nathan, and like the crime victims in the Sycamore Tree Project, each of us has a story to tell. It may be a story of how God came into your life. It may be a story of how a mentor or a teacher changed you, and how you can change others. It may be a story about how you were hurt, told so that others might understand that pain and work to prevent it.

What is your story?  How has your life been changed by the Gospel message?  And how can you tell your story so that it changes someone’s life, or even the life of an entire community, for the better?

---

[1] Tyson, Tim. “Blood Done Sign My Name” New York: Three Rivers Press, 2004. p. 77.

[2] Ibid, 77

[3] Ibid, 77.

Building Temples for God

Here's another July Sermon. It's on 2 Samuel 7:1-17. It's the story of David wanting to build a temple for God. God tells David that he will not be building God a house, but God will be building him a house. The story reminds us that our plans for God aren't nearly as big as God's plans for us. . .

Building Temples for God

So we’ve arrived in our journey through Samuel at the point where David has finally settled down. His times as a fugitive from Saul, as a paid mercenary for the Philistines, and campaigning for the kingship were all over. David had gone out to battle against the Philistines and was victorious. He had finally arrived. He has a big palace in an impregnable city, he has great status and the respect of nations. No more groveling before the king of Gath like a madman to keep himself alive.

            And when he looks around, he realizes that the God who has brought him through all this, the God whose spirit rested upon him and tormented his enemies, has not achieved the status that David has. David is settled in his house, but God still lives in a tent. That won’t do. It doesn’t work for God’s reputation, and it doesn’t work for David’s reputation. Other nations have temples for their gods, big buildings that impress and intimidate people by their greatness. David will build God a temple. He tells Nathan his plan. It seems like a good idea to Nathan. “God’s Spirit has been with you in everything you’ve done, go for it,” he tells David.

            It is interesting that this is Nathan’s first appearance in the Bible. The moment David has acquired power and establishment is the first moment in which another voice is interposed between him and God. It is as if the text is trying to remind us that God’s interests rarely align with those of the powers that be. That the powers must be challenged, and pushed to do the right thing, because it is often so much more appealing to do wrong. Over the rest of David’s life this will come up again and again.

            It is only that night that the conflict comes out.  God reaches out to Nathan in a dream, and puts David in his place. We can see this in the tone of God’s speech to Nathan, and in the fact that David is referred to as “the king” in the beginning of this story, God repeatedly refers to him as “my servant David.” God calls David out for his egotism and his naivete, “You think you are going to build me a house?

            It brings to mind a passage in Isaiah found in chapter 66, “Heaven is my throne and the earth is my footstool. What is the house that you would build for me, and what is my resting place? All these things my hand has made, and so all these things are mine.” David wanted to build a temple, to put God in God’s place, but it’s God who puts David in his place.

            What David has done is something that nearly all of us try to do at some point or other.  He’s tried to decide what God wants and where God belongs. He’s tried to set up a place that is God’s, which then of course turns around and defines all other places as not-God’s. He has sought to institutionalize God.

That’s a funny word, institutionalize. It has two meanings: to make into an institution, and to put into an institution. When we make something into an institution, we preserve its current form, we let it crystallize. We want it to be something that will remain the same for years to come. We say this kind of thing about restaurants, or local legends “Kerbey Lane is an Austin institution, it hasn’t changed in thirty years.” 

And When we put someone into an institution, we silence them. We pull them out of society and place them somewhere where they don’t interfere in our lives so much.  David seems to want to do both. He wants God to stay the same forever, his God.  He wants to put God in a temple, where God will be contained, the wild and dangerous deity put away, to be visited only during visiting hours, 11:00 am – noon on Sunday mornings.

            We try to do the same thing David did all the time. We build up temples of our own creation for God, and then try to fit God inside our temples. We do this in a lot of ways, but I’ve got three in particular that I think are particularly easy to fall into, and particularly dangerous for churches seeking to remain faithful reflections of God in our world.

            So how do we build a temple for God?  We start to worry more about looking like a church, than actually doing the things that Christ calls his church to do. A few years ago there was a church plant in a growing neighborhood on the outskirts of a big city. They met in an elementary school, but they hoped one day to have a building of their own. 

 One day one of the members found them a great little spot that they could go and worship. It was a movie set, built out to look like a small town, complete with a little white church building that looked just right for their size. It was perfect. They loved it. They thought, after all that hard work, “We’ve finally made it!” But then they realized that looking like a church wasn’t what it meant to be a church. This building wasn’t any different from the elementary school for having pews instead of folding chairs. What made them a church was the community that came together every week to praise God and to love each other. It was their ministry that made them the church, not what they sat on on Sunday mornings.

            The other way in which we build a temple for God is that we try to preserve the institution rather than letting our mission dictate our form and structure. There are a couple of phrases that always seem to come up in churches, said as if they should have some bearing on the way the church behaves, even though they really don’t. I’m sure you’ve heard them before. They are, “We’ve always done it that way,” and “We’ve never done that before.” 

There are plenty of examples in Scripture of the church doing something completely different. When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with ten commandments, nobody looked at him and said, “We’ve never followed those before.”  When Joshua led the people into the Holy Land across the river Jordan no one stood on its banks and said, “But in the past we’ve always wandered in the wilderness, why shouldn’t we keep doing that?”  They recognized that God calls us into new forms and new structures to accomplish God’s mission in a new era.

This is why I’m so excited about the PCUSA’s 1,001 Worshipping Communities commitment. In an era where so much is changing, our church is seeking ways to change with it, and to respond to the Spirit moving in the here and now. On the other hand, seeking to preserve the institution at all costs can not only be counterproductive, but dangerous. Child sexual abuse scandals at Penn State University and within the Catholic church have shown us that choosing to protect the institution at the expense of doing what is right can be disastrous.

            The final way in which we fall into the trap of trying to build a temple for God or is that we seek to capture the Holy Spirit, rather than letting the Holy Spirit capture us. I think back to the story of the transfiguration, when Jesus led Peter, James, and John up a mountain, and his face was transfigured, and they saw Moses and Elijah with him, talking. They truly had a “mountaintop experience” in every sense of the phrase. And Peter gets excited and he wants to grab a hold of this experience, he says we need to build tents up here, for you and for Elijah. He has this mountaintop experience and he wants to stay on top of the mountain. It’s tempting. And there are Christians who just go out and find themselves the perfect feel-good experience, and just try to get that over and over and over. They want to capture the Holy Spirit, package it up and have it anytime and anywhere they want. They’re like Peter. They want to stay on top of the mountain. That the whole point of a mountaintop experience is so that you can go back down into the valley and do something about it.

            Imagine hiking up the Grand Canyon, and you get up there and you’re just struck by awe at God’s creation. So you decide that you’re going to stay right there. And you build a house, four walls and a roof, and you sit inside it, no longer able to see the view, but confident that you are in the presence of God. The Holy Spirit isn’t something that we can control, it isn’t something that we can capture or take a hold of. It’s something that captures us. That moves through us, alighting on us to inspire and instigate among us, pushing and pulling us into new ways of relating with one another and with God.

It doesn’t matter how we try to build a temple to put God in, we can’t put God into a box. God doesn’t fit. It’s like that old J.B. Philips book that came out fifty years ago or so, “Your God is Too Small.” We can’t build a box big enough for God to fit in. Our plans for God aren’t nearly as big as God’s plans for us.

            David says he wants to build God a house. God says he will turn David’s house into a dynasty. Eugene Peterson puts it this way, “God showed Nathan that David's building plans for God would interfere with God's building plans for David.” This is what happens when you open yourself to the Holy Spirit, you find that God will take you far beyond your wildest dreams.  You say you want to build God a temple, God says God will build you a ministry.

            The message that our text has for us today is this: God is building plans for us. God is building plans for us as individuals, and God is building plans for us as a community. We just have to realize that we are not kings of our own destiny, but servants of a someone much greater than ourselves. We’re not in the driver’s seat, but passengers on an adventure far greater than we imagined. We have to stop trying so hard to look like we’re a church that we forget to act like a church. We have to stop letting our structure determine our mission, and begin letting our mission determine our structure. And we have to stop trying so hard to capture the Holy Spirit, let go of the reins and let the Spirit capture us. Then and only then can we begin to experience the incredible plans that God has for us. 

The Lord Dwelled in My House

This is the sermon I preached on July 15th, 2012. It's based on 2 Samuel 6:1-13, in which David leaves the ark with Obed-Edom because he is afraid to bring it into Jerusalem. The sermon is a look at what Obed-Edom might have thought, a Philistine who had the ark in his care for 3 months.It's the first sermon I've preached without being behind the pulpit.
 

The Lord Dwelled In My House

Over the last couple of weeks I have spent a lot of time with our Old Testament text for today. And as I read this text, along with the others in the book of Samuel that we’ve been working through the last few weeks, I’ve begun to get to know the characters in the stories. I see David and his closeness with God, but also his ambition and sly political maneuvering. I hear Michal’s disappointment at being nothing but a political plaything for David to use for his gain, and how the humility and earnestness that she once saw in his eyes have become clouded over with calculation and pride.

            And I’ve started to notice minor characters as well. Ones whose stories don’t fit the narrative of David’s righteous rise to power. Uzzah, and Ahio, for example. Ahio’s name literally means, “his brother” his real name was long forgotten by the authors of our story. Oh, Uzzah, poor soul, he’s barely even a character . Just a tool of the author, put there to put the fear of God into David once more. As I begin to pay attention to these characters I wonder what they might have to say to us about our story, were they given voice to speak.

            So this is my take, on what one character might have said, had there been room in the official narrative for him. I speak to you as Obed-Edom, a Philistine who is given the ark for three months before it is finally brought into Jerusalem.  When David and those with him see God strike down Uzzah before their very eyes for trying to steady the ark, they are afraid, and move to get rid of the dangerous but holy ark as quickly as they can. Rather than risking God’s wrath himself, David leaves it with Obed-Edom, a resident alien, in Israel. This is what I imagine he might have to tell us, were the spotlight focused on him.

            When David and his 30,000 came to my homestead with the ark of the Covenant, I was afraid. No Philistine is ever all that comfortable surrounded by a Hebrew army. The ark stood before them. It was borne on a cart by two oxen, and none of them would go near it with a ten-foot pole. I wasn’t particularly excited about it either, when my people captured it from the Israelites many years ago, it made its way to Gath, and struck so many people with tumors and that eventually we sent it away. I couldn’t imagine what plagues it might bring to my door now.

            Then David came forward and declared that he was leaving the ark with me. He acted like it was a great gift, but I could see in his eyes that he was angry, and afraid. They tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I asked anyway. What was it that cause them to abort their celebration and bring the ark here? 

            When I heard what had happened, that Uzzah had reached out to steady the ark and was then struck down, I was even more terrified at the ark. But I guess I was more afraid of the army behind it. They put it down in the courtyard. It was like they had placed an anvil above my head. That night as the sun set I watched it and wondered when it might crush me.

I didn’t know what to do with it, of course. I knew only that it was holy, and that armies trembled before it. I couldn’t think of anything else, so I knelt down and prayed. This became a rhythm for me. When the sun set, I would set myself down before it in prayer. And as the sun rose I would rise with it to pray before the ark. 

            At first I prayed in fear, but soon my fear turned into awe. I prayed in awe, and my awe turned into faith. I prayed in faith, and my faith turned into love. I prayed in love and was awakened to God’s presence. Each sun rise and sun set, I became all the more confident in God’s presence in my life. I found comfort, and peace, in the knowledge that God was here with me. I found confidence, for to love God is to trust that God is on your side, in feast and famine, however your lot may fall. I and my house prospered when the ark was with us. Like Abraham my faith was reckoned to me as righteousness, and I was blessed.

            Others noticed the blessings which I had received. They noted the confidence with which I walked, the comfort that I had in the knowledge that the Lord was with me. They saw my newfound generosity, the way no one went cold or hungry on my watch, the way I sought justice with fervor and gave mercy with grace. When word got out of my success, it was only a matter of time before David came to take it back. When he did he brought along another parade, and they went forth to Jerusalem with gladness and celebrations. I followed at a safe distance, quietly mourning as the nation cheered. God was coming to them, but God was also leaving me.

            I ate at the king’s feast in Jerusalem, one last meal before I returned home to my old life. All of the people went back to their homes, and I started the journey back to mine. The sun set as I passed the last gate on my way out of Jerusalem. Out of reflex, I dropped down on my knees and prayed.  I prayed in fear, fear that I would lose this presence that had come to fill my life so deeply. This far away from the ark, from God’s presence, I didn’t expect to feel much. But as I prayed my fear turned into awe, awe that God was present even here. And my awe turned into faith, faith that God will go with me wherever I go. And my faith turned into love, a love of God so deep that I will proclaim  wherever I go, that the God of Israel, the God of David, Abraham, and Jacob is my God, and God has blessed me with his presence whether his temple is near or far, whether I feel it or not.

            I don’t know what to tell you except to proclaim that the Lord lives, and in spite of the dangers we face, the fears we experience, the stress and the frustration and the exhaustion that life can bring with is, God’s presence is real, and it is available to you.  You need only to let your fear turn into love, let your awe turn into praise, let your faith turn into trust. Humble yourself before the Lord and you will come to know him as I have. The Lord dwelled in my house for three months, but I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Shaking off the Dust

I've gone way too long without posting, I guess I got a little bit distracted with my other work and haven't gotten around to putting up a sermon. I'll be trying to put up more in the next few weeks to catch up. This one is based on the text of Mark 6:1-13, and is called Shaking Off the Dust. 

Shaking off the Dust

            So after traveling around Galilee, preaching and healing, making a little bit of a name for himself, Jesus returns to his hometown. And he gets up to preach in the synagogue, and people are amazed at how wise they suddenly find him. They praise his wisdom, and wonder where it came from all of a sudden. But then, in nearly the same breath, they start cutting him down.

            This seems a little bit weird. I mean, if they are amazed at how wise he is, why are they so upset? Shouldn’t they be happy that he’s brought some of his wisdom to this synagogue? Doesn’t it make sense that they would be happy about his new place, delighted to hear his wisdom, and excited that he has come back, rather than moving on to bigger, better things?

            In order to understand their reaction, we have to learn a little bit more about how the society worked in antiquity. Theirs was not a meritocracy like the United States. People weren’t judged by their achievements, but by their family honor and reputation. You could call it an honorocracy.

            Depending on who your family was, you were born with a certain amount of honor. Well-born people had more honor to work with, and poorly-born people, (such as the bastard son of Mary) did not have much honor to work with. And everyone was expected to stay in their place. By behaving appropriate to your station, you could improve your family’s honor, and perhaps slowly raise your status in the community. Honor, was sort of like a credit score. Easy to damage it, slow to build it up, and everyone has one. Except that honor was public, and it was considered a limited resource. If your status went up, it was always at the expense of someone else.

            So now it makes a little bit more sense that the people were scandalized by Jesus’ newfound wisdom. He was clearly acting way above his station. Wisdom and power were the domain of other, more important people, and Jesus was just getting uppity trying to talk like he was something special. They knew where he came from. The bastard son of Mary who did some carpentry work a few towns over and now thinks he’s a combination between Ezekiel and Gandhi? And he wants them to stop listening to the priests and the Pharisees and give money to the poor and expect that to make God happy and the crops come in?  And so they attacked his reputation and his family, his sources of honor, reminding themselves and each other that he didn’t have any powerful patrons who allowed him to speak this way, no protection if he offended someone.

            But Jesus was having none of it. He had no interest in the family and kinship system that forced people to stay in their place. Everyone had to stay in line or else the whole family was punished.  The last time he came to town, some well-meaning friends and members of his family tried to get him to stop. You’re embarrassing us, they said, “don’t you realize that all your rebelliousness has an effect on all of us?” But Jesus would have none of it. He declared that there was something more important than protecting your family’s reputation. In fact, he went so far as to repudiate his own family. He responded to their concern with perhaps the most revolutionary statement yet at that point. “Who are my mother and my brothers?  Whoever does the will of God is my mother and my brother and my sister.”

            He wasn’t just rejecting the family and kinship system that ensured that people stay in their place. He was declaring that there was a power bigger and more important than status and influence. That God demanded justice more than purity, generosity before retribution, and righteousness more than social status. He declared that he could forgive sins, and that people profiting from the cleansing business were parasites on the people. He ate with tax collectors and sinners, and showed how those who thought they were righteous because they avoided the unrighteous were hypocrites. He refused to fast when people went hungry elsewhere. He was insulting everyone in their name, upsetting people they depended on, soiling what honor the family had. 

            And when you bite the system, the system bites back. Jesus was rejected in his hometown. He was, in his own words, without honor, even among his own kin. This is what happens when you rock the boat. It’s what happens when you challenge the system. Wherever you go, someone benefits from the system, and the ones who benefit usually have the most power and the most interest in keeping that system the same. It’s like in the movie Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, when the idealistic country bumpkin arrives in D.C. hoping to make the world a better place, and the other legislators try to feel him out to figure out who’s pocket he’s in. When they discover that he doesn’t have any interest in the big bankers, the steel conglomerates, or the shipping magnates, they plot to get rid of him because he makes them all look bad. Or when Billy Beane threw out all the conventional wisdom in baseball, everyone who was conventionally wise tripped all over himself to declare Beane a lunatic.

            When it comes down to it, if you have a message that is revolutionary, you are going to catch a lot of flak if you tell anyone about it. You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Now of course the corollary is true as well. If you are preaching what you think is a revolutionary message, and everyone around you is nodding their heads in agreement, then you might be missing something. You can’t put three uncracked eggs on a plate and call it brunch.

The word of God is wild, scary, and awesome. It is rarely what we expect it to be. It is jarring, frustrating, and if you spend any time in a room with it, it will leave marks. It demands of us more than we’d like to give, promises us more than we’d feel comfortable receiving, and challenges us to leave our comfort zone and take risks that will lead us in new directions. It asks us to give up climbing the ladder of success and judge ourselves by our devotion to the reign of God. But we have sought to tame it. To make it a little less wild, a little simpler to follow, a little easier to control. And in doing so we’ve drifted a long way from the mark. We’ve tamed it, restrained it, so that it makes a little more sense and a little less change. What we end up preaching, is a sort of Christianity Light ™. One that gives us all the benefits of feeling like a good person without ever having to push ourselves or each other for something better. One that promises eternal life without asking for more than a couple of hours on Sunday and a few dollars in the offering plate.

Jesus gave us a revolutionary message. He gave us a message that by itself intends to change the world. This message involved leaving the places in which we are comfortable, reaching out to people we’d rather not touch, and giving up privileges we’ve never lived without. It involves rejecting would-be powerbrokers of his world to declare that God is the only power in the universe that matters. It involves denying our selfishness and our sinfulness, taking up our crosses, and following Christ. 

What Jesus demonstrates when he returns home, is that we should expect rejection. While the Word we preach will sometimes fall on good soil, and bear fruit, speaking truth to power is a dangerous occupation. Our passage concludes with Jesus sending his disciples out into the world, to preach his message. And he warns them, that if they do it right, they should expect to be rejected. That if we really preach the kingdom of God, a revolutionary, demanding idea that challenges us to create a more just society, a more welcoming community, a more heavenly earth, then we should expect that the rest of the world will put all sorts of pressure on us to slow us down, wear us out, and restrain us.

But there is good news. In spite of Jesus rejection in his hometown, his ministry does not end. Immediately following his rejection Jesus moves on and increases his ministry, refusing to be silenced. And his disciples go out and cast out the demons that oppress us, that lead us to selfishness, violence, and hatred. And they bring healing hands and loving hearts to people who desperately need them.

We have been given the authority to change the world in the name of Christ. We have been blessed with a wild, crazy message that challenges the social structures that oppress and demonize, and bringing healing and hope to a broken world. We cannot do it without experiencing rejection. But nevertheless, we must move on, because our message is so important, so crazy, so powerful, that with God’s help we will be able to move past the bitterness and divisiveness of our world into a world of justice, mercy, and peace. 

We Mourn

This was my sermon from the first of July, on David's Lament over the death of Saul and Jonathan. I'm enjoying working through the books of First and Second Samuel, and the historical-critical questions that my study of it brings up. How sincere is David's lament, given that the deaths of Saul and three of his sons has suddenly cleared the path to the throne for him? How culpable is David, given that he had been fighting on the Philistine side for two years? Could the story of him being sent back from the lines be a cover-up by his supporters to protect David from the accusation of killing Saul? 

These are good questions for study, but not necessarily good for preaching. I don't address them in this sermon. I take the text for what it is, a lament, and ask what it is we do when we are brought to our knees by the loss of a friend and comrade?  With the recent experience in America of celebrity deaths turning into multimillion dollar industries, it's worth it to look at a different model for responding to loss.
 
...we mourn.

Ever since Samuel had come to the little town of Bethlehem and brought Jesse’s sons to the sacrifice, David’s life had become complicated. One day, he was the least among his brothers, not important enough to be called in for dinner, and the next he was the secretly anointed King of Israel, called to perform before Saul, the current king of Israel. Samuel had come to Bethlehem and anointed him, and the spirit of God rested upon him. From that point forward, his life was in danger.

            The more success he had, the more danger he found himself in. David became a warrior and led the armies of Saul, and Saul grew jealous. Saul sent him on increasingly more dangerous missions, hoping that David would fall by the enemy’s sword. He sets the bride-price for his daughter at 100 Philistine foreskins, thinking that surely David cannot survive the attempt. When that fails Saul sends his servants and his son Jonathan to kill his rival. 

            In Saul’s son Jonathan, however, he found a friend. Jonathan argued on David’s behalf with his father, and even achieved a reprieve for David, if only briefly. David was able to return, but uneasily, for he knew that Saul’s anger was unappeased. Soon enough, Saul him tries to kill him, and David flees as the spear which Saul had thrown quivers in the wall where he had just stood.

With his life in danger again, David goes to Jonathan, who protects him, warning him with an arrow that it is not safe for David to return to court. With nowhere to turn in Israel, David flees to Gath, Goliath’s hometown and a city of the Philistines. David is forced to live a double life. Not safe in Israel, David must hide his loyalty to Saul amongst his enemies, finding their cities safer than his own. David spends much of his life in hiding, always afraid and always moving, worried that Saul would find him and kill him, but succored and helped by Jonathan, who had come to be his closest friend.

Saul chases him across the land, so David and his mercenary band moved often, afraid wherever they went that they would be led into a trap. Jonathan loved David so much that he comes to David in hiding, in defiance of his father. He promises that David would reign as king, forgoing his right as Saul’s heir to David, the anointed one. This was the last David would see of his friend.

He walked on the edge of a knife, lying to the Philistines about who he fought to protect his homeland, aware that his alliance with Gath could be his undoing. When the Philistines gathered to battle Saul and the Israelites, David found himself on the wrong side. Luckily for him, the other Philistine kings didn’t trust him and sent him back from the battle. He was relieved from the burden of going out to battle against Saul and Jonathan and Israel.

The text from Samuel comes after the conclusion of this battle. The mighty armies of Israel have been defeated on Mount Gilboa. The Philistines routed the Israelites, killing many, including Saul and his son Jonathan. This news comes as sadness to David. It is a great defeat his nation, Israel has lost its king and has been delivered up to the Philistines. Saul, whom he had served, has fallen, along with Saul’s son Jonathan, David’s closest friend. In spite of the evident sadness which overcomes David, it is also a relief. David can finally return to Israel. He is no longer a man without a country. He no longer has to fear for his life every waking moment.

Indeed, as the one whom Samuel anointed, the path is clear for him to become king of Israel. But David has also lost his greatest ally and friend. Jonathan risked his life for David over and over again, interceded on his behalf to his progressively more unbalanced father. Jonathan even gave up his claim to the throne for David, such was his love for his father’s rival.

For David, Saul and Israel’s defeat is both a devastating loss and a soothing relief. He has finally found safety and security. And at the same time, he’s suddenly lost the only solace which brought him this far. It is a pitiable situation, to have lost his comfort at the exact time he had escaped his tribulations. What do we do when we experience loss that is both a burden and a relief? We mourn.

Loss isn’t something that we address all that often in our society. We certainly never address it unless we’re forced to. And then when we do, it is to push it away, or try to get over it, rather than acknowledge and accept our grief.  We suddenly find it particularly pressing to demonstrate that everything is “all right,” and we allow all our energies to be focused on that one goal. When confronted with grief we try to move past it as quickly as we can, as if grief is a sickness or a disease to be cured. And what do we have to cure it with? 

And even when we want to grieve, we cannot find the words. The pop psychology answer that everyone must grieve in their own way has left us with no way. We are so open to everything that we can find comfort in nothing. The platitudes and cliché’s that we throw around so freely offer us no comfort.

Leon Wieseltier was what they call culturally Jewish, a non-practicing Jew, when his father died. But he decided to recite the mourner’s Kaddish each week at his temple, not because he was brought back to belief, but because grieving by following the path of tradition and his ancestors was easier than trying to hack his own way through the jungle of grief.

In that spirit I submit to you David’s lamentation at the deaths of Saul and Jonathan. Walter Brueggemann explains that this lamentation, “this text is a noticing, and its noticing places hard questions before us.”[1] What permits one to notice the grief and loss of life around us? How can we break in on our muteness?” David does not seek answers, nor does he look past Israel’s defeat to the future. Upon hearing of the death of Saul and of his beloved friend Jonathan, David cries out in anguish, for Israel’s loss in defeat and the death of its king, and for his loss, in the death of his closest friend.

Your glory, O Israel, lies slain upon your high places!

How the mighty have fallen!

Tell it not in Gath,

proclaim it not in the streets of Ashkelon;

or the daughters of the Philistines will rejoice,

the daughters of the uncircumcised will exult.

You mountains of Gilboa,

let there be no dew or rain upon you,

nor bounteous fields!

For there the shield of the mighty was defiled,

the shield of Saul, anointed with oil no more.

From the blood of the slain,

from the fat of the mighty,

the bow of Jonathan did not turn back,

nor the sword of Saul return empty.

Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lovely!

In life and in death they were not divided;

they were swifter than eagles,

they were stronger than lions.

O daughters of Israel, weep over Saul,

who clothed you with crimson, in luxury,

who put ornaments of gold on your apparel.

How the mighty have fallen

in the midst of battle.

Jonathan lies slain upon your high places.

I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan;

greatly beloved were you to me;

your love to me was wonderful,

passing the love of women.

How the mighty have fallen,

and the weapons of war perished.

While we are so often quick to seek to put things aright, while we hesitate to acknowledge our grief, or perhaps know no way of relieving that burden, David is naked with his emotion. He grieves aloud for his nation, for his king, and for his friend and brother Jonathan. The future, for the moment, is bracketed out. He worried not about what comes next but gives voice and acknowledgement to the right now experience of loss. David shares his grief with all Israel, and Israel shares their grief with David. It is a ringing proclamation of humanity in the midst of despair.

            What do we do when loss bears both burden and relief, both guilt and anger, sadness and rage?  We mourn. We do as David did, we notice, we acknowledge, we moan. We speak honestly in the face of death. Because though Israel is largely defeated, it is not yet silenced.

            And by refusing to be silent in the face of death, we proclaim that there is more to be said. That death is not the final word. The final word is God’s and it is a word of life. A word of resurrection, healing, and hope.

---

[1] Brueggemann, Walter. First and Second Samuel. Interpretation; A Bible Commentary For Teaching and Preaching Ed. James Luther Mays. Louisville: John Knox Press, 1990, p. 218.

Wearing Saul’s Armor

I've been working this summer through the books of 1st and 2nd Samuel. This is my sermon on David and Goliath. While the story is a familiar one, it still has much to say (perhaps too much, was David spoiling for a fight?) to us about our lives today. There was a time when the church was a Goliath, a massive, monolithic entity that held a near monopoly on American's social, religious, charitable, and family lives. Now, we're a lot leaner than we once were, and need to relearn the strategies of David if we are going to continue to survive in an increasingly competitive world. Here's a link to the NRSV text for that day: 1 Samuel 17:38-54.

           The Old Testament reading for this week comes from 1 Samuel 17. It’s the story of David and Goliath. And reading it again this week reminded me of an article I read a couple of years ago, by Malcolm gladwell, talking about the Davids and Goliaths in our world (Here’s the link: www.gladwell.com/2009/2009_05_11_a_david.html) and how when the two clash, things don’t always go as expected.

            In the article, Gladwell talks about a 7^th and 8^th grade girls basketball team in Silicon Valley, consisting of a bunch of girls who weren’t exactly all star athletes. Many of them had never played basketball before. Compared to the teams full of experienced players who had been playing together for years (and winning), this team was quite the David. And like David, instead of challenging their Goliaths in the traditional strategies of warfare (or basketball), they chose to take an unusual tactic.

            Their coach was an American immigrant named Vivek Ranadivé. He grew up playing soccer and cricket, and though he understood the rules, he was baffled by the strategies that most teams employed. Much of each play is made up of choreographed formalities. The defense gives ground, jogging down to their end of the court to get set. The point guard walks the ball down the court, calling a play that the team has run hundreds of times in practice, carefully choreographed to get an open shot. When the offense reaches an appointed point, suddenly the defense starts to play again, matching up against players or defending zones, challenging passes and trying to block shots. What

Ranadivé realized was that the current strategy of basketball served to expand the differences between stronger and weaker teams. It expanded the influence of greater ball-handling skill, good shooting, well-executed play, and effective post-play (i.e. tall players).

When weaker teams played traditional strategies, they tilted the playing field in favor of Goliath. In short, when you go to battle fighting by Goliath’s rules, you’ve already lost. This is what Goliath wanted when he went in to battle David, right?  He wants to fight on an open field, with the weapons he’s been training with. He wants the fight to be one-on-one, where he won’t accidentally trip over a comrade, or get whacked by an errant spear thrust, or swarmed and overwhelmed by a bunch of people at once. He wants to tilt the field in his favor. This is the nature of Goliaths. When you begin to accumulate power and influence you use that power and influence to make things easier on yourself. You tilt the playing field in your favor.

            Now over the years the mainstream church has accumulated remarkable amounts of influence and power, and have managed to tilt the playing field in our favor. Business hours are constructed to fit the religious schedule, and blue laws once prevented business from opening on Sunday mornings helped encourage people to go to church. Often churches were powerbrokers within cities, in which everyone of significance was a member of a church, and nothing could be done in a town without their support. { In the 50’s and 60’s, which was the height of membership and success for mainstream churches, the church so dominated the local landscape that nearly every social function existed or operated through the church in some way. }

            However, many of the advantages that the church once held are evaporating. TV and Radio stations no longer give Sunday morning programming over to churches, making people a little bit more likely to find themselves on a couch instead of a pew on Sunday morning. Little League coaches no longer avoid scheduling practice or games on Sunday mornings. Prominent political and religious scandals have stained the church’s image, and young people grow up with a very different idea of who the church is than their parents did. In short, the Church is no longer the Goliath it once was. The playing field is no longer tilted in our favor.

            In spite of this change in the church’s status over the last 60 years, the church hasn’t adapted new strategies. The church continues to act as if it had the favored status and a dominant social position that it no longer holds.  We’ve attempted to freeze ourselves in time, acting as if we’re still in the fifties while the rest of the world has long passed into the 21^st century. Much of the liturgy that we use today was considered innovative when it first came into use, and instead of continuing to innovate in our liturgy, we’ve built walls around it and try to keep it from changing. Instead of searching for our own voice, however, we’ve chosen to wrap ourselves in the familiar. We still imagine that we have a monopoly on Sunday morning, instead of acknowledging that we’re competing against more other options and activities than we ever have before. We still believe that we have the moral high ground, instead of the reality that the church’s image in the public has been trashed by years of being used as a political football, and by scandals of every type and nature.

            In short, we’re like David trying to wear Saul’s armor. In our desire to pretend like we’re still what we once were, we’ve burdened ourselves with a century of baggage, and we’re weighed down by attitudes and approaches that now only serve to tilt the playing field against us. Should David have bowed to convention and worn the armor and used the weapons of King Saul, he would have lost the battle before he took the field. The armor was such a burden that he could barely walk. The shepherd’s strength and skill with a spear were nothing compared to Goliath’s. If David had come at Goliath with the spear and the shield, he would have been defeated without a doubt.

            David knew that he couldn’t approach Goliath with a traditional strategy. David knew who he was, and he knew where his skill lay. Instead of fighting the battle on Goliath’s terms, he tilted the playing field back in his favor. He went to battle unencumbered except for his sling, and pulled five smooth stones from the river. We know what happens next. He speeds up the game. He runs at Goliath, and before Goliath can take aim with his spear or swing his sword David has lept up and slung a rock straight at his forehead. Goliath is felled even before he has a chance to take advantage of his strength.

            As for that basketball team, instead of giving up ¾ of the court, Ranadive taught his inexperienced girls basketball team to take advantage of their strengths, instead of playing to the strengths of the Goliaths of the basketball world. They refused to give up the half-court, and pressed 100% of the time. Traditional teams didn’t know what to do with them.  They played defense so well that other teams often couldn’t get the first inbounds pass. And because they often got the ball right under the opposing teams basket, they never had to make long shots or run the crisp offensive plays the Goliaths were so good at. They went up by ten, fifteen, one time even twenty-five points. This team, which could hardly have expected to win many games, managed to make it all the way to the national tournament. They won their first three games, and ended up one game away from the national championship. All because they refused to play the game according to Goliath’s rules. They refused to put on Saul’s armor.            

            If the mainstream church is going to have a future, we have to stop assuming that the playing field is tilted towards us. We have to stop acting like a Goliath, and counting on our own strength and traditions to fight our battles for us. We will have to learn to behave more like David than Goliath. We’ll need to become unconventional in our desire to spread the Gospel. We’ll need to break the traditional rules of warfare, and even experience some condemnation and shame from those who would be more comfortable if we played Goliath’s game. We can no longer count on superior strength or numbers or societal protection or superior social status to call people to join communities of faith.

           

            Like David, we must recognize who we are and where our advantages are. We must embrace the communities that we are, instead of pretending to be who we were, and move into the future pressing every advantage that we have, trusting fully in God’s power to help us adjust to a new game, adapt new strategies, and tilt the playing field towards our own strengths and advantages. We just have to take off Saul’s armor.