A Covenant with Creation

It was Kermit the Frog who famously queried “Why are there so many songs about rainbows?”  And we might want to ponder why the story of Noah and the ark is so captivating.  Every church nursery has an ark play set and when we renovated our nursery last summer we placed wall stencils of Noah and the ark around the room.  Children, I think, are drawn to the animals and the imaginative possibility that all could get along in tight quarters.  As we grow older other themes emerge from the story: Noah’s faithfulness in the midst of ridicule and his courage in the face of danger; God’s anger at human wickedness and swift judgment of the entire world; and God’s desire to redeem what is good and make a new beginning.

The elements of this story that are historical are hard to determine.  So many different cultures have flood stories that it seems likely it has a basis in fact.  The ice age 10,000 years ago dramatically dropped ocean and inland lake levels.  As those massive sheets of ice (over mile thick) began to melt that water went somewhere, well, in fact, everywhere.  Did it cover the whole earth?  Probably not.  But it certainly made an impression of clusters of people living in various locations around the globe some 7,000 years ago.  Surely their stories and myths are based in a historical event.

The quest to find Noah’s ark is, for some, the search for the Holy Grail.  For them, if found, it would validate everything the bible says.  A Dutchman by the name of Johan Huibers has gone so far as to build a replica of Noah’s ark that welcomes 3,000 tourists a day.  His enormous attraction features life-size plastic animals to show (in theory) how it all might have worked.  For folks like these, faith is in the details.  If the details are accurate, then the faith is reasonable.

But not for me.  For me, faith is in the meaning.  What does the story of Noah and the ark say to us?  What meaning should we take from it?  Is it only a cuddly story that should be consigned to church nurseries?  Or is it a litmus test for biblical relevance?  Or does it say something important about who we are to be in God’s world?

In this morning’s Old Testament reading we hear the heart of the ark story.  After the floodwaters have receded and after all is said and done, God establishes a covenant with Noah.  It is, in fact, the first covenant in biblical history.  A covenant is a kind of contract between two people or parties.  It speaks of a deep desire to be in a committed relationship.  That is why we understand marriage to be a type of covenant and reflective of God’s love for us.  God establishes with us through Noah a kind of marriage relationship, if you will.  But notice that God’s covenant is not just with Noah and not just with his family and not just with the human family, it is with all of creation.  God desires to be in covenant relationship with all that has been created and thus tasks Noah with preserving every specious on the face of the earth.

How should this covenant inform the way we live out our Christian faith?  It says to me that we Christians have the highest possible reason to care for the health and wellbeing of all life on this planet because we are heirs of God’s covenant with Noah.  Beyond the motivation of naturalists, members of the Audubon Society, and tree-huggers everywhere, we have a spiritual and theological mandate to preserve life in all its forms.

Did you know that based on geological records, our planet is now in the midst of its sixth mass extinction of plants and animals in the past half-billion years?  It is the first mass extinction since the loss of the dinosaurs 65 million years ago.  And unlike the others that were initiated by a massive volcanic eruption or an asteroid strike, this one cannot be traced to a single naturally occurring event. 

It is typical to lose one to five species a year, but we live in an age when we losing 1,000 to 10,000 species a year.  Think about that for a moment.  On this First Sunday in Lent alone, it is likely that several hundred plants, animal, insect, and aquatic species will disappear from the planet forever.  By the year 2050, it is possible that half of the species now alive will be gone.

Here is where we stand today:

· 12% of all bird species worldwide are considered threatened.

· 21% of all fish species are at risk of extinction.

· 21% of all reptiles are threatened.

· 50% of all primates – our closest relatives on the planet – are endangered.

The numbers truly are staggering and the size of the problem is numbing. 

Those of us within the Christian family have been involved in an on-going discussion that mirrors the national debate on climate change and global warming.  In spite of this week’s frigid winter weather, that the planet’s temperature is rising is an irrefutable fact.  Numbers don’t lie.  What is up for debate is the cause of this warming and what human action can do to make a difference. 

Here is something else that is irrefutable for us Christians: God loves all creation for the bible tells us so:

· Psalm 145:13: “The LORD is faithful to all his promises and loving toward all he has made.”

· 1 Chronicles 29:11: “Yours, O Lord, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the majesty and the splendor, for everything in heaven and earth is yours.”

· Luke 12:6: “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies?  Yet not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight.”

· Colossians 1:15-16: “Christ is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation.  For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him.”

The bible also speaks powerfully regarding God’s displeasure at the misuse of creation:

· Leviticus 18: 28: “If you defile the land, it will vomit you out as it vomited out the nations that were before you.”

· Numbers 35:33-34: “You shall not pollute the land in which you live.... You shall not defile the land in which you live, in which I also dwell.”

· Hosea 4:1-3: “There is no faithfulness, no love, no acknowledgment of God in the land.  There is only cursing, lying and murder, stealing and adultery; they break all bounds, and bloodshed follows bloodshed.  Because of this the land mourns, and all who live in it waste away; the beasts of the field and the birds of the air and the fish of the sea are dying.”

The bible also speaks hopefully regarding the restoration of creation:

· 2 Chronicles 7:13-14: “If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”

Each Sunday in the season of Lent the Lectionary readings will expose us to one of the biblical covenants.  The Worship Committee has come up with a plan to create a visual image that will develop over the course of our Lenten journey.  We begin today with an image of the rainbow.  It is a visible reminder of God’s covenanted love for us and for all of creation.  And it is a reminder of our Noah-like role to care for this world.

I said earlier the statistics around mass extinction, along with the ferosity of the debate about it, is numbing.  It tempts me to bury my head in the sand and pretend that it is not my problem and to believe there is nothing I alone can do about it.  I wonder if Noah himself ever felt that way.

Throughout Lent, with each Sunday’s covenant, I am going to give you some time to reflect.  I am going to ask you to make a commitment that will be held between you and God.  On the last Sunday in Lent I will give you time to gather your thoughts, to commit them to writing, and to make a tangible offering to God that describes things you will do because you want to be in a faithful covenant relationship with God.

Today I invite you to ponder what you are already currently doing to care for God’s creation and I invite you to a prayerful discernment about something you are not currently doing, but might do.  One thing.  What is one thing you will do to be in relationship with God by caring for God’s creation?

What the Holy One Can Do with Dust

Williams Wordsworth continues to be one of my favorite poets.  His 19^th century writing – both in lyrical style and in substance – always captures my imagination.   Let me read for you just the first two stanzas of his lengthy work titled “Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”:

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight

                 To me did seem

            Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;--

             Turn wheresoe’er I may,

              By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

 

            The rainbow comes and goes,

            And lovely is the rose;

            The moon doth with delight

     Look round her when the heavens are bare;

            Waters on a starry night

            Are beautiful and fair;

     The sunshine is a glorious birth;

     But yet I know, where’er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

 

Wordsworth contends that we come into this world “trailing clouds of glory… from God, who is our home.”  We see the world, and everything about it, infused with beauty and mystery and wonder.  But somewhere along the path of life something gets lost, or neglected, or damaged, or discarded, or twisted.  “It is not now as it hath been of yore.”  Throughout the remainder of the poem Wordsworth struggles to recapture that feeling he had as a boy, a feeling of immortality.

 

Do you know the feeling Wordsworth is describing?  Do you remember a time that felt innocent and the world was pregnant with possibilities and each new day was the beginning of a great adventure?  I do.  Is it something you feel to this day?  For most of us, probably not.  Compared to that time, this time is as the prophet Joel described in our first reading: “a day of clouds and thick darkness.”

 

The observance of Ash Wednesday and with the Imposition of Ashes dates back at least to the 8^th century.  One of the earliest descriptions of it is found in the writings of an abbot by the name of Aelfric in his 11^th century work “Lives of the Saints”:

 

“We read in the books both in the Old Law and in the New that the men who repented of their sins bestrewed themselves with ashes and clothed their bodies with sackcloth.  Now let us do this little at the beginning of our Lent that we strew ashes upon our heads to signify that we ought to repent of our sins during the Lenten fast.”

 

Aelfric goes on to tell the story of a person who refused to go to church for the ashes and was accidentally killed several days later in a boar hunt!  Not to subtle there, is he? 

 

There is a deep, historical penitential element running through this season of Lent.  Early on the church used it as a time to restore the penitent to the church.  A list of grievous sins ranged from adultery to sorcery to fighting in a war.  To this day the church invites us to examine our hearts, review our actions, and confess our sins.

 

Jan Richardson, a Methodist pastor, suggests we make a slight shift in our Lenten focus from strict penitence to something that feels more like what Wordsworth describes in his poem about childhood.  Allow me to read Richardson’s poem “Blessing the Dust: A Blessing for Ash Wednesday” (that Sally Duncan shared with me):

 

All those days

you felt like dust,

like dirt,

as if all you had to do

was turn your face

toward the wind

and be scattered

to the four corners

 

or swept away

by the smallest breath

as insubstantial—

 

Did you not know

what the Holy One

can do with dust?

 

This is the day

we freely say

we are scorched.

 

This is the hour

we are marked

by what has made it

through the burning.

 

This is the moment

we ask for the blessing

that lives within

the ancient ashes,

that makes its home

inside the soil of

this sacred earth.

 

So let us be marked

not for sorrow.

And let us be marked

not for shame.

Let us be marked

not for false humility

or for thinking

we are less

than we are

 

but for claiming

what God can do

within the dust,

within the dirt,

within the stuff

of which the world

is made,

and the stars that blaze

in our bones,

and the galaxies that spiral

inside the smudge we bear.

 

That is quite a contrast to the clouds and deep gloom that mark our adult experience of life.  What would it look like to bring this reality with you to the altar rail as you receive the ashes?  What would it look like to carry it with you through this season of Lent?  What would it look like to pursue the prayer of the psalmist:

 

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

   and renew a right spirit within me.

 

Cast me not away from your presence,

   and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

 

Give me the joy of your saving help again,

   and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit.

 

What would it look like to come out of Lent with a renewed sense of what God is doing with the dust that is you?

 

Wordsworth came to a point where he experienced this kind of renewal:  His poem finishes with these famous lines:

 

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

     Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

          We will grieve not, rather find

          Strength in what remains behind.

May your Lent be filled not with grieving, but rather in finding strength and joy and wonder in what remains in your life.  May a right spirit be renewed within you.  May you be overwhelmed with splendor as you rediscover God present in this world.  May you be filled an awe that comes from knowing how precious you are to the one who created you.  May you come to know anew what the Holy One can do with dust!

Shining Moments

There is a wonderful folk saying that captures at least half of the meaning of the Transfiguration story we just heard:  “There is more to him/her than meets the eye.”  In a few days, on Ash Wednesday, the words of our liturgy will remind us that we are dust and to dust we shall return.  It is a message that proclaims we are creaturely, material, physical, and mortal.  But today, through the story of the Transfiguration, we are reminded that we are something else… something more than dust, something spiritual, something mysterious, something like the One who is eternal.  There is more to us than meets the eye.

Through the Incarnation, God in the person of Jesus of Nazareth became dust.  The Infinite became finite.  The Imperishable became mortal.  The Holy One who is all in all became confined to a specific place and moment in time.  During the season of Epiphany we have traced how God in Christ has been revealed to the world through the dust that we know as Jesus of Nazareth.  We have marveled at his teaching.  We have pondered his authority.  We have praised him for the ability to heal and to forgive.  We have observed how the light of Christ has been made known to the world.  All of these things give hints that there is more to the dust of Jesus than meets the eye. 

Today, at the Transfiguration, what is more than dust comes shining through.  Along with the Disciples we are given the briefest glimpse of the Divinity that somehow has been contained in the dust.  We sense the glorious nature of God that has been incarnate in the person of Jesus.  We are overcome by a sense of awe at the Holy Mystery, a reality that is beyond our comprehension.  We are reminded that Jesus of Nazareth is more than a spiritual teacher, more than a wise sage, and more than a worker of wonders.  Jesus is God in flesh and we owe to him allegiance, praise, obedience, and love.

While the Transfiguration tells us that there is more to Jesus than meets the eye, it also tells us that there is more to each one as well.  You see while we are dust, we are also something more.  In the Genesis story of creation we are told that God took dust and breathed on it to form the first humans.  We are dust, but we are also that breath – the breath of God which animates dust in ways that a rock, for example, is not.  We are spiritual, non-physical, free, and beyond mortal.  There is a Godly life-force within us that takes the dust and makes it something special and something unique.  When we affirm that there is more to each one of us than meets the eye, we are affirming that we can see something of God in every person we meet because God’s breath moves in and through each one of us.

If the phrase “more than meets the eye” captures half of the meaning of the Transfiguration story, then perhaps the other half is captured by the saying “That was his/her shining moment.”  For Jesus, it literally was a shining moment.  His very appearance became bright – radiant beyond comprehension. 

When we say of a person that it was his/her shining moment we are saying that the person allowed his/her Godly breath to show through the dust.  It may be a moment of generosity or compassion or selflessness or achievement or beauty.  The shining moment may be the briefest glimpse of Godly breath or it may be sustained over a long period of time.  Whatever the duration or intensity, these shining moments are the times when we know that there is more to us than meets the eye.  They are the times when we know exactly what we are made for and we touch the highest level of our potential.

The irony for me at least, as I struggled to write this sermon, I am immersed in doing laundry and delaying cleaning the kitchen and putting off paying the bills.  So high theology meets reality and it is a challenge to shine when you are consumed with dusty details.  I remember years ago when my daughters were young and my dog was a puppy and I was trying to write a sermon.  One daughter did not watch the puppy when she was supposed to.  The puppy did what puppies do and did it in the house.  The other daughter stepped in the puppy’s ‘business’ and proceeded to track it all over the house.  At that time, all I could see in those around me is what meets the eye.  Nothing more.  You can imagine how that Sunday’s sermon on the good news of the Gospel was more about a theory than an actual personal experience.  It was not one of my shining moments.  This thing about being dust is dirty business.

No wonder Peter wanted to stay on the mountain.  Wouldn’t it be great if all we had to deal with in life were the shining moments when we can see clearly in one another the something more!  But that isn’t life, is it.  The shining moments are the exception, not the rule.  And yet just because we don’t see the best in one another all the time does not mean it is not there.  It does not mean that all we are is down and dirty dust.  It simply means that sometimes what is supposed to shine through is hidden, like a lamp put under a basket.

Those of you who gathered here on January 6^th will remember that we began the season of Epiphany literally in darkness.  From a single flame the Light of Christ spread from one candle to another bathing this darkened worship space in a wonderful, warm, flickering glow.  One of our prayers that night was this:

Almighty God, you have poured upon us the new light of your incarnate Word: Grant that this light, enkindled in our hearts, may shine forth in our lives…

For Jesus, the shining moment of the Transfiguration is meant to prepare him for the dark and difficult road to Jerusalem and Crucifixion.  The experience on the mountain so consumes him that the more than meets the eye about him never gets snuffed out.  And now, as the prayer suggests, the Light that endured the Cross and rose victorious on Easter Day is now enkindled in our hearts.  And we pray that it may shine forth in our lives… shine when all we want to see is what meets the eye, shine when it is not particularly a shining moment, shine like a lamp put on a table so that it gives light for all to see. 

 

The Wisdom of the Centuries in a Deserted Place

Three ministers were eating lunch at a local diner and arguing about the best position for prayer.  The Episcopal priest insisted kneeling was definitely best.  The pastor of a Charismatic church countered that the best results come from praying while you stand with your arms outstretched to heaven.  An Orthodox rabbi argued that the only proper way is lying prostrate with your face to the floor.  On and on and on the discussion went until an AT&T repairman, sitting at a table next to them, chimed in, “the best praying I ever did was hanging upside down from a telephone pole.”

Imagine you are with Peter, Andrew, James, and John, walking with them as they meet and begin to follow Jesus.  Here is what you know so far about the man from Nazareth: He teaches with authority and he has authority over unclean spirits.  Now you learn that he also has power over physical ailments.  After healing Peter’s mother-in-law Jesus ministers to all the sick people brought to him over the course of an evening. 

But then, in the morning, you go to look for Jesus and cannot find him.  Where is he?  Where has he gone?  Has he left town?  Did something upset him?  Did something happen to him?  A search party fans out and eventually Jesus is found in what the text calls a “deserted” place.  He is praying.  Different translations of the bible call it a “solitary” place or even a “lonely” place. 

Millions upon millions of people are drawn to Jesus the teacher.  Is there a single person who knows his name that has not reached out to Jesus the healer in a time of need?  Many people respond to Jesus the prophet and his criticism of society and power.  But far too few have a sense of Jesus the person at prayer.  And a careful reading of the gospels reveals that Jesus the teacher and Jesus the healer and Jesus the prophet would not be possible if not for Jesus the person at prayer.

If you think it was difficult for Jesus to find a time and place to be alone in 1^st century Palestine, imagine what that challenge is like today.  We live in a world where everyone is driven to be connected.  There is no place you can go that you cannot take your favorite TV show with you.  It is now possible to be in electronic communion with dozens of people on different continents all at the same time.  What we lack is the time, space, and capacity to be alone in order to be at the kind of prayer Ralph Waldo Emerson once described as “allowing the wisdom of centuries to speak to the hours.”  Our existence is inundated with content from the present, with the hours. 

In some respect our lives are not very different from the scene outside of Peter’s house were Jesus does nothing but engage one sick person after another after another.  What does it say that Jesus withdrew from the content of his life for a time?  Doesn’t it tell us that he needed time in prayer so that he could master the content of his life rather than have it master him?

The poet Robert Frost returned home after a particularly awful day, one that definitely had gotten the better of him.  Everything had gone wrong, nothing had gone right, and he was ready to burst out in anger.  But before he stepped into his house he decided to walk through his garden.  It was a cold day, but in that lonely place Frost experienced something that he describes in a short poem called Dust of Snow:

   The way of a crow
   shook down on me
   a dust of snow
   from a hemlock tree

   has given my heart
   a change of mood
   and saved one part
   of a day I had rued.

Where is the quiet place you go that allows grace like this to bathe over you?

St. Paul famously instructed the Christians in Thessalonica to pray without ceasing.  That seems darn near impossible if by prayer you mean the act of kneeling, standing with outstretched arms, or lying prostrate.  I think what Paul advocated was something similar to the Buddhist notion of mindfulness.  This is an active, open attention to the present where you observe your thoughts and feelings from a distance, without judgment.  To this practice Christians add communion with God’s Holy Spirit in prayerful conversation around all that is.

I do my best to cultivate an on-going, inner conversation with God’s Spirit.  My prayers are not for things, not like the little boy’s who, kneeling beside his bed with his mother nearby, prayed, “God bless mommy and daddy and grandpa and grandma.”  And then the boy shouted as loud as he could, “And God, please bring me a new bike for my birthday!  Amen.”  His mother said, “Son, you don’t have to shout.  God isn’t hard of hearing.”  “No,” said the boy, “but grandma is!”

My prayers are not for specific outcomes but for understanding, for awareness, and for perspective.  I seek to understand how I am to be in all that is going on around me.  I look for ways to align my life with what I understand God desires for me and from me.  Sometimes my prayer takes on a more structured pattern I was taught years ago.  It is called ACTS prayer.  A stands for adoration – praising and adoring God as One holy other.  C stands for confession.  T is for thanksgiving – a remembrance of the blessings of the day.  S is for supplication – my prayers for myself and for others.  Some times my prayers are an exercise in openness and invitation.  I may place myself as a character in a particular biblical story and imagine Jesus approaching me.  What will he say or what will he do?  These are fascinating prayers.

The worst punishment we can administer short of torture and execution is solitary confinement – extensive, forced exile from contact with other humans.  But equally as damaging is confinement from solitary – being constantly immersed in everything without let up.

When I was a child I had a terrifying dream that an invisible tornado was roaring across the landscape pulling up people into the sky causing them to disappear.  In spite of my best efforts to avoid it, the tornado found me and took me away.  I was carried into outer space and the stars went flying past me as it took me deeper and deeper into the darkness.  Eventually a tiny planet appeared and it became clear that this was my intended destination.  I was deposited just below the brink of a grassy hill.  I crawled to top to see what was on the other side only to find myself looking down at all the other people who had been taken way.  They were trapped and I was the only one with the freedom to move about.  I knew that I needed to do something, but what?  What was I supposed to do?  And then I awaken, terrified to the core on my childhood being.

I don’t know why I have remembered that dream over all these years.  Feel free to do some pew-side psycho-analysis if you like.  The dream is no longer emotive for me.  It does not put me back into that cold, trembling sweat.  What it does now is serve as a reminder of my need to a person of prayer in a deserted, solitary, lonely place.  Each of us needs a view of life looking down undetected from the brink of a prayer-filled hillside.  It is only by going to a place like this to disconnect from everything around us in order to connect God’s Spirit – with the wisdom of the centuries – that we will learn what to do down in the valley when we reconnect with those we love and serve and encounter.  This time away not only gives us direction, but it also has the power to transform us by filling every fiber of our being with God’s love.

Today we meet Jesus doing amazing things, but we must never forget that he could never do any of it without the regular experience of being in a deserted place.

An Unclean Spirit

  

 

Allow me to tantalize or torment you with the first half of a poem by my fellow Ohioan, Mary Oliver:

Those who disappointed, betrayed, scarified!  Those who would still put their hands upon me!  Those who belong to the past!

How many of us have weighted the years with groaning and weeping?  How many years have I done it how many nights spent panting hating grieving, oh, merciless, pitiless remembrances!

I suspect that everyone here knows something of the experience Oliver is describing.  I don’t believe it is possible to go through life without being tormented by something, perhaps by many things.  There is something in the human spirit that is susceptible to having the events and happenings and incidents in our life change our spirit into something we are not, and definitely would rather not be.

That dark transformation may be kept internally where it saps our lives of health and vitality.  It may be acted out only in the form of a sleepless night.  Or, it may be something we inflict on others from time to time, or perhaps all of the time.  Do you know someone so beaten up and beaten down that they make life miserable for everyone around them?

“There was in the synagogue a man with an ‘unclean spirit’ and he cried out…” 

When I listen to this morning’s gospel there is a part of me that experiences it as completely foreign – demon possession and all of that.  But there is another part that sees it as completely consistent with what I know about life and about myself.  And it is certainly consistent with the universal experience Mary Oliver describes in her poem.

Mary Harris Todd, a Presbyterian pastor, offers this reflection on what the bible means by the description “unclean spirit”:

The word “unclean” basically meant disordered, mixed up, out of place in some way…  An unclean spirit is a disruptive spirit, a negative force or power that resists the will and way of God and oppresses people.  Unclean spirits hold people captive, hold them down, preventing them from being healthy and whole as God intends. 

Many of us can think of people we would describe as “sick” in some way even though they technically might not be classified as mentally ill.  These are people who drain the people around them, or thrive on negativity, or bring a disruptive atmosphere with them when they come into a room.  An unclean spirit of some sort has hold of them, sowing the seeds of trouble and turmoil.

And, those of us who have the courage to be honest with ourselves, recognize that this person can, from time to time, be us.

Snickers has a series of commercials that depict various people saying and doing things completely out of character until a friend gives them a candy bar to eat.  One bite and the person is restored to his or her true self.  If you have seen one of these commercials, do you recall the tag line at the end?  “You’re not you when you’re hungry.”  We might say that the point of today’s reading is “You’re not you when you have an unclean spirit.” 

For some it is a temporary condition: “All the stress of planning this wedding has me in a state.”  “I don’t handle being sick very well.”  “I always get this way around the anniversary of my husband’s death.”  For others, it is so central to a person’s a state of being that he or she would be hard to recognize if he or she was not “sowing the seeds of trouble and turmoil.”

Mary Oliver’s unclean spirit revolved around what she called “merciless, pitiless remembrances.”  How they affected her outer world we cannot say, but clearly it took its toll internally.  Her poem, which she titled Grass, continues:

I walk over the green hillsides, I lie down on the harsh, sun-flavored blades and bundles of grass; the grass cares nothing about me, it doesn’t want anything from me, it rises to its own purpose, and sweetly, following the single holy dictum: to be itself, to let the sky be the sky, to let a young girl be a young girl freely – to let a middle-aged woman be, comfortably, a middle-aged woman.

Those bloody sharps and flats – those endless calamities of the personal past.  Bah!  I disown them from the rest of my life, in which I mean to rest. 

Oliver has an epiphany while she is lying down on a grassy hillside.  She learns from those blades how simply to be who she was created to be.  And this insight gives her the power to let go of the remembrances that haunted her – life’s “sharps and flats.”

Today’s gospel reading is not just about a troubled person causing a disruption.  It is also about Jesus, his authority, and healing.  More than the other three gospels, Mark’s writing emphasizes Jesus’ healing ministry.  In this reading, Jesus uses his “authority” to bring the man with an unclean spirit to a place where he can say “Bah!” to all that troubles him, to disown it, and to rest. 

Healing like this, whether it comes from lying on a grassy hill or a psychiatrist’s couch, whether it comes from hours on the knees praying or from the final release of a sweat-drenched, sleepless night, is a gift from above manifesting God’s intention for all people – wholeness and peace. 

I rejoice that some of the things that troubled me at different points in my life are long gone; dissected and done away with never to return again.  Others are not so easy to dismiss.  Unlike Oliver’s insistence that her painful remembrances were gone for good, I know that there are things that do not have a hold of me right now, but are sure to come back to grab me again: certain sadnesses, griefs, guilty memories, humiliations, mistakes I made that brought awful, horrible, pain to others.  Am I the only one or do we all have those things in our past for which confession brings healing, but only for a time?  Am I the only one who prays for and finds release, only down the road of life to be caught again in the grips of what torments me?  I don’t think so.

I wonder, if you ponder it long enough, will you find, like me, that the condition of the man with the unclean spirit resonates with your own?  But here is another thing I wonder: I wonder if his encounter with Jesus resonates with your experience of engaging the Holy One.  We find Jesus in this reading making his first public appearance after his baptism, a moment that filled him with the power of God’s Spirit.  Now he is in the synagogue teaching with authority; authority unlike anything the people have ever experienced.  It is authentic.  It rings true.  It brings order and understanding to everything the listeners have known and experienced.

But it does more.  It brings a holy authority to their lives, or at least to the life of one person with an unclean spirit.  Jesus’ “authority” commands compassion, forgiveness, acceptance, and release.  It overpowers something which overpowered this particular person.  He is not the only person to have known this.  I have known it too.  I know it now.  And I trust that down life’s path, with its twisted turns and dark valleys, I will know it again.  And as I look out at all of you I know that I am not alone.   Each of us here this morning comes before the authority of our Savior longing to hear the command telling our unclean spirits to be gone; telling us that God loves us for who we are no matter what we have done and no matter what has been done to us.

May we hear these words today.  May we learn to listen with compassion to our fellow suffers.  May we learn how to stand with them in the presence of the One who has authority.  May we walk together through life, healed and whole.  May we support one another when a challenge in life makes this too difficult for one or more of us.  May we marvel and give thanks that God has “authority” over the brokenness of our lives.