Chaplain Mel Baars
February 26, 2012
Mark 1:9-15
“Welcome to the Wilderness”
Have you ever noticed that most airports have a “welcome” sign which greets passengers after they have deplaned and made their way to the baggage terminal? Most of the time, these welcome banners highlight the slogan of the host city or tout some main attraction which encapsulates just what is so special and unique about arriving at said destination. No matter what airport I go to, I always look to see just how I am being welcomed, hoping to learn a little more about what is in store for me during my stay. Over this past week, I have decided that here, at BAF, we, too, need a “welcome,” banner. I doubt the powers-that-be would allow me to spearhead this banner campaign, but if I had any say, I think it would say something like this: Welcome to the Wilderness.
Lent couldn’t have come at a more appropriate time this week as many of us have faced the stark realities of this desert. Lent is, after all, a season that prepares us for Jesus’ suffering on the cross. It is modeled after the forty days which Jesus spent in the wilderness. Admittedly, Mark’s account of these forty days is rather minimalistic. Two verses to be exact. Both Matthew's and Luke’s accounts include considerably more detail about what exactly happened in the wilderness. For instance, during these forty days, Jesus ate nothing, perhaps an origin of fasting or giving up something during Lent. During this time, Jesus and Satan had three series of “exchanges” or temptations through which Jesus continually demonstrated faithfulness to the one, true God.
Mark, on the other hand, tells us very little. He says, “The Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.” That’s it. This is all we have to understand the wilderness according to Mark-- just these few sparse details. When there is only so much to go by, what IS stated is that much more notable. In particular the sequence of events here is important. Directly before the verses, a voice calls from heaven saying, “You are my son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” And, immediately following these words, Jesus is driven into the wilderness by the “Spirit.” In my translation, Spirit or in the Greek, pneuma, is capitalized, indicating that this is God’s Spirit. This is the Holy Spirit. God wants Jesus in the wilderness. Jesus doesn’t go there on his own accord. Satan doesn’t bring Jesus to this place of temptation. But, it is God who leads him into the desert. If God is the impetus for these forty days in the wilderness, there must have been a real purpose.
In the next verse, we learn about the wilderness by discovering whose company Jesus shares while he is there: Satan, wild beasts and angels. Certainly not my first pick of company. But, as one commentator points out, “The Beloved Son accepted the company God gave him in the desert- Satan, wild angels, ministering angels- with no drama of preferring one to the other.”[1] Jesus embraces both equally, not try to avoid those who are challenging. You see, this is a detail I never picked up before. Yet surely it is significant since it is one of the only two details Mark provides. In the wilderness, we don’t get to choose our company. Or perhaps it is the other way around. We find ourselves in a wilderness when we have come to a place that we have not picked with company that we don’t choose. Maybe this is why “Welcome to the wilderness,” is the slogan I would choose for the Bagram’s airport. By Mark’s definition, this is the wilderness. We didn’t choose this place nor did we choose the people, but this is where God has brought us. There must be a reason.
I assume that many of us have been to an actual desert before, in Iraq or Egypt, perhaps. My first encounter with the desert was in Israel when I was on a trip though my university’s campus ministry program. We got to spend a night in a Bedouin community in the Judean desert with camel rides, Bedouin food and music and even an authentic night in a Bedouin style tent. I was SO excited. Upon arrival, however, we were each given an hour to wander away from the oasis into the desert to pray. Equipped with my journal and my Bible, I was ready for a real desert experience. I boldly strode into the distance with the secret goal of going further from camp than everyone else. After all, I was an ROTC advanced camp graduate. I figured I could handle the desert much better than my civilian peers. When I felt that I had gone far enough away from the life I knew, I found a rock to sit on. I remind you the assignment was one hour, just one. There was utter silence. Not even the wind made a noise. It was a bit eerie. Not even five minutes of this silence had passed before my mind started to play tricks on me. Would I be able to find my way back or had I gone too far? Were there scorpions in the Judean desert, perhaps under the rock I chose as my seat? Was that a coyote off in the distance? Were they carnivorous? If I got eaten, would my friends be able to find my remains and get me, albeit half-eaten, home again?
I am pretty sure that I was one of the first people back to camp. The desert was not an easy place. Between the deafening silence and wild animals as company, there were any number of good reasons to pack it all up and head to safety. Because that’s just the thing, the desert just isn’t safe. It is a place of isolation where it is hard to know if it is a wild animal or an angel that will show up to bring succor or terror. It is a place where we can no longer hide from the problems that we have been able to bury in life’s usual clutter. It is a place where existence is harsh. It is a place where there is no sense of control. It is a place where none of us really want to go, but somehow it is exactly where God leads us.
If Jesus teaches us anything during his forty day stay in the wilderness, it is simply that he trusts God, for it is God that drives him there. He trusts God in the silence. He trusts God as he is tempted. When it appears that God is no longer interested or involved in him at all, Jesus continues to trust that everything, even the things he would rather not face, still somehow come from God.
Jesus trusted God, beyond the desert, throughout his public ministry, all the way to the cross. He didn’t want to be there. In fact, in the garden of Gethsemane, when everyone that Jesus hoped would have had his back fell asleep or betrayed him, Jesus asked if this cup of death might be removed from him. But he followed up this desperate prayer with these words, “Not what I want, but what you want.” It was his trust in God, his complete faithfulness, that allowed him to go all the way. Even on the cross, when it couldn’t get any worse, Jesus still trusted that God was at work.
For some of us this week, it may have felt like it can’t possibly get any worse. From the riots and protesters mobbing our gates to the death toll of both soldiers and civilians that has continued to rise throughout the week, connected to our disposal of Islamic religious materials. Every single person involved, from the lowest ranking soldier to the highest ranking commander, has second guessed his or her actions, has gone over and over in his or her head what could have been done differently to prevent this from happening. Even now, we don’t know what the total fall out will be. But despite how difficult it seems, I can’t help but ask this question. Do we trust that God is still at work? Do we trust that God is here, even when we can’t seem to see God at all?
In late 2007, a collection of Mother Teresa’s private writings was published posthumously. To the surprise of many, this compilation of her writing over most of her life did not paint a picture of doubtless faith. In fact, for the latter half of her life Mother Teresa felt like God was completely absent. She wrote this to one of her spiritual mentors, “Jesus has a very special love for you. As for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear.”[2] This sense of distance from God began around the same time that she started her ministry in Calcutta with the poor and dying and with the exception of a few weeks in 1959, never let up during her whole lifetime. One might argue that Mother Teresa’s entire ministry was a wilderness of sorts, where she saw and experienced some of the most difficult situations imaginable. Her company was a never ending stream of lepers and starving children. It was about as dark as this world can be. It’s no wonder that she couldn’t see or feel God. Nonetheless, this was where God led her. Into this place of suffering, into this life of wilderness, God called her specifically. Though she couldn’t feel God, she continued to trust God anyway. Though she may have lost sight of God, God never lost sight of her.
This is what we catch a glimpse of in Lent, this lonely way of the wilderness. Over these weeks we may find ourselves in a place that we don’t want to be, surrounded with company that we don’t choose. We may even lose sight of God. We may even feel that God has lost sight of us. But, we can’t forget that God has called us here to this place to learn and struggle and grow so that when we are shrouded in darkness, we might continue to trust that God is still at work, making something out of nothing, making life out of death, even here, even now. Amen.
[1] Barbara Brown Taylor. “Mark 1:9-15: Homiletical Perspective” Feasting on the Word, p. 47
[2] David Van Biema, “Mother Teresa’s Crisis of Faith.” TIME. Thursday, Aug. 23, 2007
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Ash Wednesday
“Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.” -Genesis 3:19
These words, typically reserved for Ash Wednesday, have never felt quite as real to me as it did today in Bagram, Afghanistan. The events of this week have not been easy for any of us to deal with, and we all face great uncertainty. Reports that religious materials had been burned hit the morning news cycle in the US on Fat Tuesday about the same time that we discovered that all water services had been suspended. Anyone who has been through Army training at all, even Chaplain training, as spent at least a week with minimal showers or restroom facilities. But to face this situation suddenly, and without any mental preparation, has posed a significant challenge. Not to mention the difficulty which arises when there are not enough portable toilets to service the entire camp. Let’s just say a 3AM bathroom scavenger hunt, on perhaps the coldest night of winter thus far, for a “porta potty” that is not on the brink of overflow, does not help with morale. We are all still waiting to see how this will unfold, but there is no doubt that the season of Lent is upon us. We have all found ourselves in the midst of the wilderness, and no one knows when we might find our way out again.
The present crisis has not wiped away the other burdens and sorrows which many face, particularly having to do with family at home. Between critically ill children, interminable periods of waiting to find out a prognosis, and news about the deaths of parent or a nephew, the darkness has hovered near for the past few weeks. None of us wait well. It is sometimes the hardest thing we have to do. Yet, especially here, we find ourselves constantly in this position. Without the ability to hop on a plane and easily make it to the bedside of a loved one or sometimes even a funeral, we often face bad news thousands of miles away, with just the company of our fellow unit members or friends that we have made along the way. In just these last two weeks, I have had at least five people mention that they have come to see me because there is literally no one else for them to talk to or to express their emotion over a difficult life event. We all know that tragedy may knock upon our doors at any moment, that life at home doesn’t stop just because we are away, but that cognitive knowledge doesn’t help the heartache which ensues when we find out that someone we love is suffering.
Yet, in the midst of this turmoil, a group of soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines gathered to pray in preparation for this Lenten season. Not only were we from different service branches but we were also from across the ranks of Christendom. Since there was no priest available to come to our camp, Roman Catholics, a Coptic from Egypt, Presbyterians, Methodists, Pentecostals and more filled our chapel. As one mentioned after the service, this Ash Wednesday was unlike he had ever experienced in his fifty-two years of life. As a Catholic, he had never worshiped with such a diverse crowd much less had he receives ashes from a female minister. Yet in our finitude, especially on this day and in this place, the need for remembering God’s promise to us helped many transcended our ecclesial differences.
Sometimes it pays to preside over prayers. I had a lot to pray for today as we all came together to mark the beginning of our journey in the wilderness. For a father who fell and broke his hip and will undergo surgery, a son who is losing his sight, a four week old who continues to battle bacterial meningitis, a family mourning the death of their four month old child... these and many more were our prayers this Ash Wednesday. Mortality never felt closer. Rubbing ashes on my thumb and placing the sign of the cross upon each forehead was an intimate act. “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” the words lingered in the air as young and old stepped forward to be marked with this truth. We are all fragile. We hang in the balance in one way or another, holding on to the promise that though we are all dying, our lives are woven into God’s story which has no end. Even into the dust we make our song-- Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Bagram Winter!
Since it has been hard to upload pictures, I thought I would take some time to add pictures from the last 2 months... and our snow filled winter!! Below are a sampling of friends and a flavor of some of what this time has held for us!
Mel, with her "PCC" stole, just after Sunday morning worship.
Mel and one of the girls at the Egyptian Hospital. We try to visit at least once a month to bring everything from school supplies to warm clothes and toys.
A sampling of bears sent over to give out to the kids!
One of the boys at the Egyptian Hospital.
Mel and Bernadette outside of the Camp Sabalu-Harrison Chapel. Notice the snow!
Mel, Paula, and Violet the snow woman. She only lived about an hour before being destroyed by a gang of boys. I guess that comes with the territory! Sunday Sermon: February 19, 2012
“No Words to Say”
I know that it is a terrible trait to admit to, but I have been known, on certain occasions, when I am halfway through a book or in the midst of an intense movie and the suspense has become too much to bear, to flip to the last page, to figure out what happens in the end, so that all my anxiety can be assuaged. I don’t do this often. I try to be good and let the story unfold in due time. But, when the answers are right there, on the last page or found at the click of the google search engine, it’s sometimes hard to resist.
Today is known by many throughout Christendom as Transfiguration Sunday. It is the last Sunday before Lent begins. It is, in many ways, a glimpse at the last page of the book, at what is to come, at the extent of God’s glory-- Jesus, with his clothes dazzling white, as no one on earth could bleach them, talking with Moses and Elijah, saints of another time and place. Jesus, having ascended to heaven, takes part in that everlasting feast just as it has been promised. In this moment, Peter, James, and John get a sneak peak of the future, not just of Jesus’ future, but of the future for all of them. Yet, it’s almost too good to be true. A glimpse at the rest of the story is too much for them to handle. They are terrified.
Being terrified in divine presence is not original to the high mountain where Jesus, Moses, and Elijah had their little chat and mere earthlings, Peter, James, and John, watched from the sidelines, shaking in their boots. Fear of God is a common theme we find in scripture. Fear of the Lord, after all, is the beginning of wisdom, though we scarcely seem to remember. The Hebrew people feared God so much that they wouldn’t even utter God’s name out loud. They also believed that no human could survive direct, face to face, contact with the divine. When Moses met with God in a burning bush his first reaction was to hide his face, for he was afraid to look at God.
This fear was not because of guilt or shame. This kind of fear stemmed from deep reference. It came from a place of awe. This fear was so intense that it made most people tremble in God’s presence, but not because they were afraid of divine punishment. Instead in the presence of God, they became aware of their human inadequacy. They realized in the face of God’s immensity that they were pretty small. I would call this healthy fear. It is the fear experienced when we realized that we are not as in control as we lead ourselves to believe. It is the fear we face when we encounter our own version of God in a burning bush, and we realize that our lives will never be the same. The old way, our former excuses about what we have done and what we have left undone, will no longer suffice. Not after a glimpse of who God is and what God is doing in our world.
This must have been why Peter was so afraid. Because he knew that there was no going back, not after what he had seen in those few brief moments. Jesus in dazzling white, talking with the sage prophets of all time, this was the moment when they truly realized that because of Jesus, their lives would never be the same. As incredible as it might be to come into a deeper knowledge of God, to have divine mystery unveiled, even for a moment, such an experience also changes the course of one’s life. Sometime change is painful, even when it’s ultimately for our best interest. And, like Moses, who was minding his own business, tending sheep, not at all expecting to have this life-altering encounter with the living God, on this ordinary day, Peter, James, and John were also caught by surprise.
Mark’s brevity leaves much room for imagination. We don’t know if Jesus warned them that something was coming. We don’t know if they had a chance to get in the right mindset or brace themselves. We just know that Jesus led them up a high mountain, apart from the rest, and BAM. Without any warning that we can see, Jesus was transfigured.
This scene was unlike anything they could have imagined. It was otherworldly. It was holy ground, a thin place where heaven and earth met, where the divine and human intermingled. In this most splendid moment of God’s glory, this moment different than any other moment ever experienced by Peter, it’s perplexing how he responds, what he says and does.
Jesus is shining like the sun. Moses and Elijah are there with them. Yet, Moses and Elijah are dead. It’s hard to put this in perspective, but think about what it would be like to be in the presence of people who you know are dead, individuals only known through legend and story. It’s as if Abraham Lincoln or FDR or martin Luther and St. Francis of Assisi appeared, someone you had only ever heard of. And, suddenly these people are standing before you, as if they are alive again. It would be a mind blowing experience.
But, what does Peter do in the presence of this other-worldliness, in the presence of what could only be described as an act of God? He stammers out this statement to Jesus, “Teacher, is it good for us to be here?” I am pretty sure that Peter would have rather been anywhere else, anywhere in the world. In his fear and confusion, Peter is overcome with some version of diarrhea of the mouth. He is reeling. His world has been turned completely upside-down. He is grasping straws. Probably trying to make himself useful, he says, “Let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah. Anything to make order from this chaos. Anything to return to the realm he knows and understands. Anything to get back to his comfort zone.
As the text tells us, Peter did not know what to say. There were no good words, no right words, which could do justice to this scene. There is absolutely nothing that Peter could have said which would have been a fitting response to this glimpse of God’s glory, to this moment of heaven and earth come together as one. He didn’t know what to say because there was really nothing to say.
I think most of us have had a Peter moment or two in our lives when we, too, just don’t know what to say. Maybe it is because what we have witnessed is too unbelievable to respond with our words. Maybe it is because we know, deep down in our hearts, that an encounter with the sacred, whether it be on the battlefield or in a hospital room or holding our child for the first time, in these holy moments, we are not called to speak or to do, but we are called simply to kneel, to take the sandals off our feet for the ground upon which we tread is holy.
When I was in Army chaplain school, we spent much of our time in the classroom dealing with the subject of death and dying. Most pastors, no matter how young or novice, have had some kind of encounter with death. I had just come home from almost two years as a pastor in South Africa where I spent much of my time in the midst of death. The subject was not new to any of us.
One day, one of the chaplains asked us to consider this question: If you knew that someone was dying in a matter of minutes because there was nothing that the doctors could do, and you, as chaplain were brought in to spend those final moments of life with the soldier so he or she would not be alone, what would you say? Many of my colleagues jumped to answer. Some wanted to spend those last few moments witnessing Jesus to the soldier, ensuring that he or she have one last chance to get saved and go to heaven. Others offered a scripture text, a favorite psalm which might bring comfort. For almost an entire year I have mulled this question in my head to come to this conclusion. I might not need to say anything at all. To witness this thin place where heaven and earth meet momentarily, to be on holy ground is to be in the presence of the living God. Sometimes there are simply no words.
Of course, not speaking is a lot harder than it may seem. We all experience a little diarrhea of the mouth. Many of us shy away from an awkward silence or think somehow that even when we don’t know what to say, nonetheless, we have to say something. This was Peter, up on that mountain. He didn’t know what to say, but he said something anyway. And, no sooner did he say it, did God’s voice overshadow him with this reminder, “This is my Son, the beloved. Listen to him.” God’s words were nothing new. Peter, James and John already knew these things, but perhaps they just needed help remembering. In such a glorious moment, just God’s simple reminder.
“This is my Son,” God said from the cloud, “Listen to him.” I guess we need help remembering too. While we may not have witnessed the Transfiguration, we have all had moments, when we are least expecting or prepared for them, when we find ourselves upon a thin place, when we meet God, face to face. In many ways there is no going back. Such an encounter changes everything. It is okay to be afraid. You are in good company. When you find yourself in the presence of God, and there are no words to say, simply kneel down and remove the sandals from your feet. That will be enough. Amen.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
A Bagram Valentines
“Let love be genuine; hold fast to what is good. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering and faithful in prayer. Share with those who are in need and practice hospitality.”
-Romans 12:9-13
Without the constant bombardment of Hallmark advertisements and specials on roses, Valentine’s Day could have easily come and gone without any of us even noticing. Fortunately for members of Task Force Viper and other US service members working in our camp, friends from home ensured that this was not the case. Between the hundreds of Hershey Kisses, Valentines from young students, a plethora of cards, some bought and some made for us to be able to send home and to one another, and enough conversational hearts to share far and wide, not one of us felt left out.
Valentine’s Day has never been a particularly appealing holiday to me, except for its color scheme, but to my surprise, our Bagram Valentines grew into much more than candy and hearts. Thanks to the generosity of friends from Maryland to North Carolina and even all the way to Texas, many of us were able to take part in a truer Valentines experience, engaging in service both for one another and for those in Afghanistan who are struggling to survive this very cold winter.
In preparation for our upcoming Operation Pencil mission where we will be sharing blankets, warm clothes, jackets, shoes, knitted bears, and toys, a group of soldiers and airmen got together to make fleece scarves with materials donated to us by the Presbyterian Church of Chestertown. Part of the project required threading beads onto the fringes of the scarves which was much harder than many of us originally thought possible. Watching pairs of soldiers work together to make their respective scarves, often skewing their straight lines and struggling with the tiny beads, was heartwarming. After long days of work, their willingness to give free time was a testament to their commitment to serving the people of Afghanistan.
A team also gathered to help make Valentine’s Day special for each member of Task Force Viper. Over the course of an evening, we wrote Valentines for over two hundred members of the unit, making sure that everyone received a personalized note along with candy and cards from home. While some of the Valentine’s messages would not have been “Hallmark approved,” the smiles and laughs we witnessed as we passed them out made me realize that even the smallest gesture of kindness can make a real difference.
As this deployment continues to unfold, the Task Force Viper family faces both joys and challenges. While our lives are very busy because of the demands of our mission here, we often worry about family and friends at home who are sick or struggling. It is hard not to be able to be there with them. Yet, as this is the work which we have been called to do, we face these months as a team. We hold one another up during the difficult moments, and we learn that we are strong because we love and care for each other. For now, we are what we have to hold on to in this time and place.
Our Bagram Valentines helped us remember that in the midst of whatever difficulty we may face, when we hold on to what is good, when we remember hope and practice patience, when we share what we have, even if all that we really have to give is our time, we sew seeds of love, real love, the kind of love that renews and sustains us-- a love that never fails.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The Prize - Sunday Sermon, February 12, 2012
Reverend Mel Baars
1 Cor 9:24-27
Camp Sabalu-Harrison
“The Prize”
There is nothing like a good sports metaphor to get us started this morning. It seems that, in every age, sports is something that we all “get.” Paul uses metaphors of athleticism because these were the tangible examples that his audience understood. Back then, sporting events had a very religious element to them. Athletes would give offerings and prayers to the gods before the events began, often believing that it was the gods that determined the outcome of the game. I don’t know about you, but I think this sounds a little Tim Tibow-esque if you ask me. From antiquity to the present, some things never change.
Now, there is natural talent, but if one really wants to be a contender, whether it is against others or against oneself, one has to put time and effort into training. Most people can’t just go out and pass a Physical Fitness test without ever practicing. If we want to grow in our athleticism, we have to train. We have to work hard. This must be one of the reasons that I see so many of my soldiers in the gym no matter what time of the day that I go to work out. Whether it is to finally achieve that “beach body” so many desire or just to get stronger and better prepared for the demands of the military, the only way to get anywhere in fitness, is to make training a life priority, part of our everyday lifestyle.
It should be no surprise that the same principles apply to faith. Like physical fitness requires time, effort, training, practice, and prioritization, all driven by discipline. So does faith. Faith doesn’t just happen… automatically, out of the blue. Faith takes our time, our devotion, our priority. Through a life grounded in prayer and worship, through commitment to compassion and generosity, often against the grain of what our culture encourages, these become the disciplines of our faith.
If there is one thing that the military community understands it is the importance of discipline. Train as you fight, they say. And train we do. From the first moments of basic training and then in every training environment where we may find ourselves afterwards, the heart of what we learn and learn again and then learn yet again is the importance of discipline. No matter how successful we are in our training, no matter how well we know our craft and can execute without flaw, no matter if we have hit the near perfect mark, we still continue to train, to practice discipline. Without it, we become vulnerable.
In one of my favorite military movies, An Officer and a Gentleman, when Richard Gere was much younger, there is an infamous and challenging obstacle course that all of the officer candidates have to run in order to graduate from Officer Basic Course. None of us need to watch the movie to imagine the scene since we have all been there ourselves. There is the high and low crawl under the barbed wire and the tires to run through. There are ropes to scurry up and high walls to clear. There is a lot of dirt and grime and each part of the course has to be mastered into order for the OC to get a “go.” In the movie, Gere’s character is undoubtably one of the stronger students. He is so good at athletics that he can do this obstacle course without really trying and with a little effort, he becomes a contender for holding the record for the fastest time ever. Not all of the OCs are as fortunate as him. One, a woman probably not bigger than me, can’t seem to clear the wall, no matter how hard she tries. Climbing walls does not come easy for her. I totally understand her plight.
Throughout the movie, we watch as they continue to train for this event, which will make or break them. Gere is always at the front, leaving everyone else in the dust while the others slowly but surely make progress toward mastering this course. Finally, it is their test day. For Gere it is the moment when he can do his personal best and break the course record. For some of the others, it is the moment when they either pass or fail officer candidate school. Many are nervous, particularly the woman who is not a natural wall climber. I would be nervous, too. They begin the course, and Gere leads the pack. He is definitely going to break the record. Nothing is going to stop him. But suddenly, he slows down, and he looks back. He sees her. She is stuck on the wrong side of the wall, fighting and struggling to climb. It is not looking promising. Throughout the entire movie, Gere only thinks of himself and his personal successes. He never helps or encourages anyone else. He is not a team player. But in this moment, he does something very curious for him. He turns around and heads back to the wall, going the opposite direction of the finish line, ensuring that he won’t break the record after all. When he gets to the wall, she is still on the wrong side. He starts yelling at her and encouraging her, even though she is ready to quit. He refuses to leave her there, even when she tells him to. He stays with her until she gets over the wall. In doing so, he loses his “prize.”
It’s as if the deeper point of all the training that he had been through in officer candidate school had finally sunk in. Discipline was not merely about winning and getting the record time, because for Gere, breaking the record didn’t require too much of him. Discipline was about being molded and shaped into the kind of player that recognized that being the best wasn’t necessarily the goal. It isn’t always what demands the most out of us. Yes, in the military, we do put a lot of credence in the strongest and the fastest. We have ribbons and awards which pose as incentives for us to try harder to do more pushups and run a little faster. But, the purpose of discipline is more than even this. Discipline is all about growth. It is about becoming more than we ever thought we could be. For Gere, the record on the obstacle course was not his true prize. He could have done that without growing at all. Helping his comrade get to the finish line, no matter what time it took them, this demonstrated his growth. This was the real win- a win for all of them.
In biblical hermeneutics, which is just a theological word for interpretation, inevitably much gets “lost in translation.” Sometimes our English just doesn’t do justice to the sacred text. When Paul writes, “(You) run in such a way that you may win it.” The “you” is really a good southern Ya’ll. It’s plural, referring to a team of sorts, not just one athlete. After all, he is writing to a whole community of people in Corinth, who are, together, trying to figure out how it is that they are going to live their lives faithfully, for faithfulness is their ultimate goal. They are struggling and fighting amongst themselves, worrying about what amounts to insignificance in the scheme of God's grace. They are spinning in circles, trying to somehow capture God in the box which works for them and their clique, all the while, forgetting that God made us in God’s image. Not the other way around.
It is no wonder that the Corinthians are having a hard time. Maintaining the discipline of faith is not easy, especially when that discipline demands our love- love of God and love of our neighbors. Not just the people we like most or the ones who practice faith like we do. Not just the ones who love us back but even the ones who spend a lifetime trying to do away with us and everything we hold dear. Furthermore, not just the God who we prefer, who fits best with our opinions or our agendas or our politics or what is convenient, but the one true God. The God who loves both sons fully, the one who is obedient and the one who strays. The God who pays a full wage to his workers, even when, to us, it doesn’t seem fair because one only works for an hour while the other works for a lifetime. The God of the cross, who, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer puts it, bids us to come and die. This is the cost of our discipleship.
Paul reminds us that for this life of faith we need each other. Because it’s never just “You,” singular, but it is always “You,” plural, all of us, together. We can never do faithfulness alone. That’s not how it works. The disciplines of faith are discovered more deeply when we realize that we depend on God and one another to live well, really, to live at all. We know that there are days, in our training, that we are ready to give up, when the pain gets to be too much, and we are on the verge of walking away. It doesn’t take me very long to recall a moment in my own training, when I was moments from quitting, and someone, one of my leaders or even one of my peers, stepped in and reminded me that I was not alone. Even though they were faster and stronger, they came back around to the barrier where I was stuck and helped me get over to the other side. To run the race well, is to run with our whole heart, giving it all, having nothing left over. But, in the life of faith, our discipline of love teaches us that we are not running the race as solo contenders. But, we are running together, as a people, as God’s beloved people. Reaching out to each other across the walls we have built up, risking our own successes, no matter what it takes, so that no one, not even one, is left behind. This is our prize. And, we know it’s true because this is our God. This is exactly what God is doing for us in our world, even now. God invites us into a life of faith where we learn the discipline of love, love of both God and neighbor, where we learn to give ourselves away because we trust that God’s promise of faithfulness is all we ever really need. It may take us our lifetime. But, this is what it means to win. Amen
1 Cor 9:24-27
Camp Sabalu-Harrison
“The Prize”
There is nothing like a good sports metaphor to get us started this morning. It seems that, in every age, sports is something that we all “get.” Paul uses metaphors of athleticism because these were the tangible examples that his audience understood. Back then, sporting events had a very religious element to them. Athletes would give offerings and prayers to the gods before the events began, often believing that it was the gods that determined the outcome of the game. I don’t know about you, but I think this sounds a little Tim Tibow-esque if you ask me. From antiquity to the present, some things never change.
Now, there is natural talent, but if one really wants to be a contender, whether it is against others or against oneself, one has to put time and effort into training. Most people can’t just go out and pass a Physical Fitness test without ever practicing. If we want to grow in our athleticism, we have to train. We have to work hard. This must be one of the reasons that I see so many of my soldiers in the gym no matter what time of the day that I go to work out. Whether it is to finally achieve that “beach body” so many desire or just to get stronger and better prepared for the demands of the military, the only way to get anywhere in fitness, is to make training a life priority, part of our everyday lifestyle.
It should be no surprise that the same principles apply to faith. Like physical fitness requires time, effort, training, practice, and prioritization, all driven by discipline. So does faith. Faith doesn’t just happen… automatically, out of the blue. Faith takes our time, our devotion, our priority. Through a life grounded in prayer and worship, through commitment to compassion and generosity, often against the grain of what our culture encourages, these become the disciplines of our faith.
If there is one thing that the military community understands it is the importance of discipline. Train as you fight, they say. And train we do. From the first moments of basic training and then in every training environment where we may find ourselves afterwards, the heart of what we learn and learn again and then learn yet again is the importance of discipline. No matter how successful we are in our training, no matter how well we know our craft and can execute without flaw, no matter if we have hit the near perfect mark, we still continue to train, to practice discipline. Without it, we become vulnerable.
In one of my favorite military movies, An Officer and a Gentleman, when Richard Gere was much younger, there is an infamous and challenging obstacle course that all of the officer candidates have to run in order to graduate from Officer Basic Course. None of us need to watch the movie to imagine the scene since we have all been there ourselves. There is the high and low crawl under the barbed wire and the tires to run through. There are ropes to scurry up and high walls to clear. There is a lot of dirt and grime and each part of the course has to be mastered into order for the OC to get a “go.” In the movie, Gere’s character is undoubtably one of the stronger students. He is so good at athletics that he can do this obstacle course without really trying and with a little effort, he becomes a contender for holding the record for the fastest time ever. Not all of the OCs are as fortunate as him. One, a woman probably not bigger than me, can’t seem to clear the wall, no matter how hard she tries. Climbing walls does not come easy for her. I totally understand her plight.
Throughout the movie, we watch as they continue to train for this event, which will make or break them. Gere is always at the front, leaving everyone else in the dust while the others slowly but surely make progress toward mastering this course. Finally, it is their test day. For Gere it is the moment when he can do his personal best and break the course record. For some of the others, it is the moment when they either pass or fail officer candidate school. Many are nervous, particularly the woman who is not a natural wall climber. I would be nervous, too. They begin the course, and Gere leads the pack. He is definitely going to break the record. Nothing is going to stop him. But suddenly, he slows down, and he looks back. He sees her. She is stuck on the wrong side of the wall, fighting and struggling to climb. It is not looking promising. Throughout the entire movie, Gere only thinks of himself and his personal successes. He never helps or encourages anyone else. He is not a team player. But in this moment, he does something very curious for him. He turns around and heads back to the wall, going the opposite direction of the finish line, ensuring that he won’t break the record after all. When he gets to the wall, she is still on the wrong side. He starts yelling at her and encouraging her, even though she is ready to quit. He refuses to leave her there, even when she tells him to. He stays with her until she gets over the wall. In doing so, he loses his “prize.”
It’s as if the deeper point of all the training that he had been through in officer candidate school had finally sunk in. Discipline was not merely about winning and getting the record time, because for Gere, breaking the record didn’t require too much of him. Discipline was about being molded and shaped into the kind of player that recognized that being the best wasn’t necessarily the goal. It isn’t always what demands the most out of us. Yes, in the military, we do put a lot of credence in the strongest and the fastest. We have ribbons and awards which pose as incentives for us to try harder to do more pushups and run a little faster. But, the purpose of discipline is more than even this. Discipline is all about growth. It is about becoming more than we ever thought we could be. For Gere, the record on the obstacle course was not his true prize. He could have done that without growing at all. Helping his comrade get to the finish line, no matter what time it took them, this demonstrated his growth. This was the real win- a win for all of them.
In biblical hermeneutics, which is just a theological word for interpretation, inevitably much gets “lost in translation.” Sometimes our English just doesn’t do justice to the sacred text. When Paul writes, “(You) run in such a way that you may win it.” The “you” is really a good southern Ya’ll. It’s plural, referring to a team of sorts, not just one athlete. After all, he is writing to a whole community of people in Corinth, who are, together, trying to figure out how it is that they are going to live their lives faithfully, for faithfulness is their ultimate goal. They are struggling and fighting amongst themselves, worrying about what amounts to insignificance in the scheme of God's grace. They are spinning in circles, trying to somehow capture God in the box which works for them and their clique, all the while, forgetting that God made us in God’s image. Not the other way around.
It is no wonder that the Corinthians are having a hard time. Maintaining the discipline of faith is not easy, especially when that discipline demands our love- love of God and love of our neighbors. Not just the people we like most or the ones who practice faith like we do. Not just the ones who love us back but even the ones who spend a lifetime trying to do away with us and everything we hold dear. Furthermore, not just the God who we prefer, who fits best with our opinions or our agendas or our politics or what is convenient, but the one true God. The God who loves both sons fully, the one who is obedient and the one who strays. The God who pays a full wage to his workers, even when, to us, it doesn’t seem fair because one only works for an hour while the other works for a lifetime. The God of the cross, who, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer puts it, bids us to come and die. This is the cost of our discipleship.
Paul reminds us that for this life of faith we need each other. Because it’s never just “You,” singular, but it is always “You,” plural, all of us, together. We can never do faithfulness alone. That’s not how it works. The disciplines of faith are discovered more deeply when we realize that we depend on God and one another to live well, really, to live at all. We know that there are days, in our training, that we are ready to give up, when the pain gets to be too much, and we are on the verge of walking away. It doesn’t take me very long to recall a moment in my own training, when I was moments from quitting, and someone, one of my leaders or even one of my peers, stepped in and reminded me that I was not alone. Even though they were faster and stronger, they came back around to the barrier where I was stuck and helped me get over to the other side. To run the race well, is to run with our whole heart, giving it all, having nothing left over. But, in the life of faith, our discipline of love teaches us that we are not running the race as solo contenders. But, we are running together, as a people, as God’s beloved people. Reaching out to each other across the walls we have built up, risking our own successes, no matter what it takes, so that no one, not even one, is left behind. This is our prize. And, we know it’s true because this is our God. This is exactly what God is doing for us in our world, even now. God invites us into a life of faith where we learn the discipline of love, love of both God and neighbor, where we learn to give ourselves away because we trust that God’s promise of faithfulness is all we ever really need. It may take us our lifetime. But, this is what it means to win. Amen
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Final Salute
The other night, I said goodbye to the medical unit that I had grown close with over the past couple of months. Because most things in the Army transpire during hours where most reasonable people would be sleeping, I found myself waiting in their holding tent well into the evening hours. Friends and colleagues came in and out of the tent throughout the evening to bid their farewells. I knew, however, that I would be there for the long haul. I wanted to watch as the buses drove away-- the beginning of their long odyssey home.
In some ways, my parting vigil was quite the pastoral choice. It’s not that there was a lot of talk about God, though there was some, or that anyone really needed me to sit there for hours as they waited for their transportation to the airport. Between IPADs, card games, books, and laptops, entertainment abounded. Nonetheless, I couldn’t conceive not being present for these last few hours because, mostly likely, it would be the last hours I would ever spend with most of them. It is a strange feeling knowing that a chapter of one’s life is moments away from being closed forever, never to be revisited or recreated. Once they drove off our camp, there would be no coming back here. This place and many of its people will live on only in memory, shadows of a past world never to be experienced again. This passage, a passing away of sorts, was too significant for me to miss.
I realized, as I waited and the dreaded hour of departure crept closer, that I wasn’t there with them, past my bedtime, because of my job as a chaplain. My love had grown far beyond my work. Over the weeks and months, some of us had shared unique friendship which contributed greatly to our quality of life. A place like this is not made most bearable because of cozy accommodations or desirable food, though these things help if and when they exist. A place like this becomes some version of home and life because of the people whose hearts share in this same sojourn, however brief. One might ask how it is possible to really love someone having only really known them for a handful of days and weeks. It is a fair question for which I have no rational explanation. But, regardless of rationale, it happens. When we allow for it, love is always possible.
It was well after midnight when the last soldiers boarded the buses. After final hugs and goodbyes, only a few of us remained standing in the rocky parking lot. The buses had not begun to pull away, but their doors were closed. This was it. Yet, the four of us, two doctors, a nurse, and me who would be staying in Afghanistan longer to finish our respective deployments, couldn’t walk away, not while these soldiers were still with us. I suggested that we wave from the street and another pointed out that it was too dark for us to be seen. Suddenly, we realized that the best place to say our last goodbye was at the gate of camp, where the lights were bright. It was also symbolic. It was a point of departure from this deployment as well as the threshold of their new beginning.
Chaplains and medical officers are not known for adhering to much military bearing. I am sure, if the Command Sergeant Major had looked out his window at a quarter to 1AM and witnessed our motley crew scrambling through the dark, hoping to get to the gate before the buses, he would have retired early. Neither the ice nor the negative temperatures could deter us. The senior officer, a Colonel who had been around the Army longer than all of rest of us put together, decided that we would simply give them a final salute as they passed through the gate and turned the corner onto the road away from us. There would be no waving, only our salute, a timeless gesture of respect and honor. We stood there, waiting and freezing. Even I wondered if we had all lost our minds.
As they approached, though, it became apparent that there was no other place in the world more important than where we were. The command to present “arms” was called and we stood at attention, “arms” raised. As people in the bus noticed us, faces pressed up against the window, catching one last glimpse of this season of their lives. Between the smiles and waves, we knew that we had made the right decision. There was no better way to say goodbye.
I have heard when they arrived in the United States that they were greeted by groups of veterans, brothers and possibly even sisters in arms from years gone by. They had come to offer their own salutes and welcome our soldiers home. I can’t help but also wonder if they had come to catch a glimpse of who they once were, many seasons ago, when they made their journey home from war. They would have been young and strong then. They would have been deeply touched by what they had been required to do. They would have been hoping that being a part of something much bigger than themselves, whatever the powers-that-be named it, would, in the end, be worth the loss they had suffered and the scars that they would carry permanently with them. I wonder, too, if veterans gather for homecomings because they know something that those in the beginning of their journey home do not yet know, that strength comes through the presence of others who have also walked this road, of people past, present, and to come with whom we become inextricably bound.
Individuals wear this uniform for countless reasons, too many to recount tonight. But, to wear it, even for one season, is to become a part of a unique family where strangers often greet one another as friends, where a raise of a hand to salute stands for honor and respect. But, the salute is not just to the person of higher rank or even about adhering to military protocol. It is also about honor and respect for all- people, experiences, and whole years of life- that has passed away and all that still will.
In some ways, my parting vigil was quite the pastoral choice. It’s not that there was a lot of talk about God, though there was some, or that anyone really needed me to sit there for hours as they waited for their transportation to the airport. Between IPADs, card games, books, and laptops, entertainment abounded. Nonetheless, I couldn’t conceive not being present for these last few hours because, mostly likely, it would be the last hours I would ever spend with most of them. It is a strange feeling knowing that a chapter of one’s life is moments away from being closed forever, never to be revisited or recreated. Once they drove off our camp, there would be no coming back here. This place and many of its people will live on only in memory, shadows of a past world never to be experienced again. This passage, a passing away of sorts, was too significant for me to miss.
I realized, as I waited and the dreaded hour of departure crept closer, that I wasn’t there with them, past my bedtime, because of my job as a chaplain. My love had grown far beyond my work. Over the weeks and months, some of us had shared unique friendship which contributed greatly to our quality of life. A place like this is not made most bearable because of cozy accommodations or desirable food, though these things help if and when they exist. A place like this becomes some version of home and life because of the people whose hearts share in this same sojourn, however brief. One might ask how it is possible to really love someone having only really known them for a handful of days and weeks. It is a fair question for which I have no rational explanation. But, regardless of rationale, it happens. When we allow for it, love is always possible.
It was well after midnight when the last soldiers boarded the buses. After final hugs and goodbyes, only a few of us remained standing in the rocky parking lot. The buses had not begun to pull away, but their doors were closed. This was it. Yet, the four of us, two doctors, a nurse, and me who would be staying in Afghanistan longer to finish our respective deployments, couldn’t walk away, not while these soldiers were still with us. I suggested that we wave from the street and another pointed out that it was too dark for us to be seen. Suddenly, we realized that the best place to say our last goodbye was at the gate of camp, where the lights were bright. It was also symbolic. It was a point of departure from this deployment as well as the threshold of their new beginning.
Chaplains and medical officers are not known for adhering to much military bearing. I am sure, if the Command Sergeant Major had looked out his window at a quarter to 1AM and witnessed our motley crew scrambling through the dark, hoping to get to the gate before the buses, he would have retired early. Neither the ice nor the negative temperatures could deter us. The senior officer, a Colonel who had been around the Army longer than all of rest of us put together, decided that we would simply give them a final salute as they passed through the gate and turned the corner onto the road away from us. There would be no waving, only our salute, a timeless gesture of respect and honor. We stood there, waiting and freezing. Even I wondered if we had all lost our minds.
As they approached, though, it became apparent that there was no other place in the world more important than where we were. The command to present “arms” was called and we stood at attention, “arms” raised. As people in the bus noticed us, faces pressed up against the window, catching one last glimpse of this season of their lives. Between the smiles and waves, we knew that we had made the right decision. There was no better way to say goodbye.
I have heard when they arrived in the United States that they were greeted by groups of veterans, brothers and possibly even sisters in arms from years gone by. They had come to offer their own salutes and welcome our soldiers home. I can’t help but also wonder if they had come to catch a glimpse of who they once were, many seasons ago, when they made their journey home from war. They would have been young and strong then. They would have been deeply touched by what they had been required to do. They would have been hoping that being a part of something much bigger than themselves, whatever the powers-that-be named it, would, in the end, be worth the loss they had suffered and the scars that they would carry permanently with them. I wonder, too, if veterans gather for homecomings because they know something that those in the beginning of their journey home do not yet know, that strength comes through the presence of others who have also walked this road, of people past, present, and to come with whom we become inextricably bound.
Individuals wear this uniform for countless reasons, too many to recount tonight. But, to wear it, even for one season, is to become a part of a unique family where strangers often greet one another as friends, where a raise of a hand to salute stands for honor and respect. But, the salute is not just to the person of higher rank or even about adhering to military protocol. It is also about honor and respect for all- people, experiences, and whole years of life- that has passed away and all that still will.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Sunday Sermon - February 5, 2012
Chaplain Mel Baars
1 Corinthians 9:16-23
February 5, 2012
For a few years, particularly when I was a pastor in South Africa, I have pretended to be a vegetarian. The truth is, I don’t really like meat. It’s not a political or environmental statement. It’s not even about taste. Once, when I was in South Africa, I absentmindedly ate a piece of lamb from a local BBQ joint, one of those places where the animal is butchered on site and is hung up by the cash register so that all those who come to purchase meat know just how fresh it is. Not my typical kind of place. I don’t know what surprised me more, that I actually tried the local cuisine which I had been avoiding for almost a year under the guise of vegetarianism or that it tasted so good that I wanted more. My feigned vegetarianism had nothing to do with true preference or lifestyle choices. Instead my meat avoidance was all about my fear. Carnophobia, if you want to know the technical term.
Please bear with me for a moment. I can imagine that you are wondering why my “meat issues” have come up in a sermon. I’ll get there, I promise. Interestingly enough, the verses in chapter 8 which precede our scripture passage this morning, were all about eating meat, whether it was ok or not to eat meat sacrificed to idols. In these chapters, Paul had embarked on a discussion with the church people in Corinth about what it means to live in community which is diverse. It’s really not about the meat at all. It’s about learning to transcend our differences in hopes of following Jesus and sharing his good news.
In his letter, Paul was attempting to address problems that the church was facing, not too different than the problems that the church faces today. Let’s just say there was a lot of dissent and debate about who got to be considered Christian, in the “in” crowd, and what kinds of behaviors and lifestyle choices were acceptable for those deemed as “in.” Does this sound familiar? Some sects of the early church wanted to reject the Hebrew tradition altogether. No more law. No more focusing on commandments. No more circumcision. Nothing Jewish. On the other hand, many Jewish converts, those who believed Jesus to be Messiah, still wanted to follow the Torah and practice the prayers and customs which had been the cornerstone of their everyday living, passed down generation to generation, from a time when God’s word was not even written. Who was right? Who was wrong? All sides, and there were definitely more than two, had their fair points. The church was still in infancy and already on the brink of schism.
Into this fray Paul speaks these words, “For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law, I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law) so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, so that I might by any means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.”
The dichotomy must have been confusing to hear. So much of what Jesus had preached transcended the letters of the law and instead, focused on the heart of the matter. For Paul, after strengthening the case for the freedom in Christ, to advocate for tolerance of religion’s old shackles, seemed counterproductive. I mean, how can one be free but also a slave? How can one be Jewish, abiding by the law in some instances and then, magically, in other company, be apart from it? This didn’t seem to make sense.
But Paul had realized something crucial about evangelism. In order to reach people, to truly share the good news with them, it was going to take more than standing in his comfort zone and preaching a good sermon. Sharing the good news wasn’t going to happen much if he expected everyone to come to him, to be like him, and think just like him. The only way to get his point across, and, more importantly, the God’s message of grace, was to go to them, wherever they were. But, this wasn’t just about a physical meeting in a new territory with new people. Paul is talking about meeting people where they are intellectually and emotionally, wherever they found themselves on a spectrum of human life which included belief systems, morality, and life choices. Paul is talking about going out to them, in the mire and muck, going to them, even if it meant going to the kind of places and maybe even doing the kinds of things that don’t seem very Christian at all.
Back then, the debate in the church world over who was right and wrong was between Jew and Gentile, Torah law or Christ’s law. Could God somehow love and choose both sides? Here we are, two thousand years later, still struggling over some of the same issues. We are still unable to get beyond our differences of opinion and interpretation. Sure, the details have changed, but what is at the heart of the matter is the same. We want things to be one way, the way we think is right. We use whatever we can, the Bible, Jesus, the church, to answer the questions which perplex us. We are so hell bent on having a black and a white on some things, that we take the mystery, the unknown, the gray, and we claim that it’s black or white even when it’s not.
But, I don’t think that we do this because we are confused. I think we do this because we are afraid. Paul’s instruction scares us because it forces us beyond ourselves and what feels good and easy. Paul forces us to mix and mingle with that which is different than us. Because it’s different and not what we are used to, more often than not we cast it in a negative or sinful light. We justify our prejudice and hatred with our interpretations of sacred text and tradition. In response to these tendencies, Paul is simply saying, “Think again.” Is this the way to share the good news? To reject people and cast them off, to label them as bad, is this really the way to touch people’s hearts? God’s gift of freedom is worth more than that. It is an invitation, a way, to help us grow beyond our fears. We all have fear, but fear should never get in the way of love. And, to love another, we have to go out to them. In many cases, we have to let them touch us and infect us with whatever it is that they have and in this process, which I will be the first to admit is terrifying, trust that God will keep us safe and strong and unwavering in holy truth where it matters most.
A pastor once said to me that he was ashamed of some of the places that he had been and some of the things he had done, hanging out with sinners. When he said this, I was a little taken aback. I thought that we were all sinners. Sure, our vices may look differently from one another, but if there is one thing that we all share, it’s that we all sin. We all fall short of deserving God’s love. But, the good news is that God gives God’s love to us anyway-- all of us-- Jew or Gentile, law abiding or not, regardless of our sexuality or even our understanding of who God is and what God has done and is doing in our world, even when we don’t know how to love God in return. Even then, God loves us anyway. That’s just how God is.
In the end, what Paul professes of himself is what we also know to be true for ourselves. “I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.”
My fear of eating meat, as ridiculous as it may have been, put a barrier between me and the people that I had gone to love and serve. They prepared food for me, often at a great personal sacrifice, because they loved me and wanted to share what they had with a spirit of generosity. I let my fear of meat, that it might be bad and make me sick, dictate my actions and hinder my ability to reach out and connect, even when I knew that brief illness was a small price to pay for sharing in God’s blessings with them. My fear prevented me from participating fully in God’s gifts of life and love.
When we forfeit God’s blessings and neglect to embrace the other with love and openness, the greatest consequence is not, ultimately, God’s punishment, but it is about missing out on the life that is happening, here and now. Fear is a powerful force, but love is still stronger. We are not left alone with our fears. God comes to us and when we allow it, takes us by the hand so that we may overcome even that which enslaves us, so that we might be set free to live and love and be blessed in the process.
This is our good news, good news that we have to share with others. So, may we all go out and take this news to places and people who are waiting for our embrace, even into prison cells and circles very different from our own. May we reach out with our love even more than our words. May we be infected by those that we meet as we go. May we trust, no matter where we find ourselves, that God is there, guiding us the whole way. Amen.
1 Corinthians 9:16-23
February 5, 2012
For a few years, particularly when I was a pastor in South Africa, I have pretended to be a vegetarian. The truth is, I don’t really like meat. It’s not a political or environmental statement. It’s not even about taste. Once, when I was in South Africa, I absentmindedly ate a piece of lamb from a local BBQ joint, one of those places where the animal is butchered on site and is hung up by the cash register so that all those who come to purchase meat know just how fresh it is. Not my typical kind of place. I don’t know what surprised me more, that I actually tried the local cuisine which I had been avoiding for almost a year under the guise of vegetarianism or that it tasted so good that I wanted more. My feigned vegetarianism had nothing to do with true preference or lifestyle choices. Instead my meat avoidance was all about my fear. Carnophobia, if you want to know the technical term.
Please bear with me for a moment. I can imagine that you are wondering why my “meat issues” have come up in a sermon. I’ll get there, I promise. Interestingly enough, the verses in chapter 8 which precede our scripture passage this morning, were all about eating meat, whether it was ok or not to eat meat sacrificed to idols. In these chapters, Paul had embarked on a discussion with the church people in Corinth about what it means to live in community which is diverse. It’s really not about the meat at all. It’s about learning to transcend our differences in hopes of following Jesus and sharing his good news.
In his letter, Paul was attempting to address problems that the church was facing, not too different than the problems that the church faces today. Let’s just say there was a lot of dissent and debate about who got to be considered Christian, in the “in” crowd, and what kinds of behaviors and lifestyle choices were acceptable for those deemed as “in.” Does this sound familiar? Some sects of the early church wanted to reject the Hebrew tradition altogether. No more law. No more focusing on commandments. No more circumcision. Nothing Jewish. On the other hand, many Jewish converts, those who believed Jesus to be Messiah, still wanted to follow the Torah and practice the prayers and customs which had been the cornerstone of their everyday living, passed down generation to generation, from a time when God’s word was not even written. Who was right? Who was wrong? All sides, and there were definitely more than two, had their fair points. The church was still in infancy and already on the brink of schism.
Into this fray Paul speaks these words, “For though I am free with respect to all, I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though I myself am not under the law) so that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law, I became as one outside the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law) so that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, so that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, so that I might by any means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.”
The dichotomy must have been confusing to hear. So much of what Jesus had preached transcended the letters of the law and instead, focused on the heart of the matter. For Paul, after strengthening the case for the freedom in Christ, to advocate for tolerance of religion’s old shackles, seemed counterproductive. I mean, how can one be free but also a slave? How can one be Jewish, abiding by the law in some instances and then, magically, in other company, be apart from it? This didn’t seem to make sense.
But Paul had realized something crucial about evangelism. In order to reach people, to truly share the good news with them, it was going to take more than standing in his comfort zone and preaching a good sermon. Sharing the good news wasn’t going to happen much if he expected everyone to come to him, to be like him, and think just like him. The only way to get his point across, and, more importantly, the God’s message of grace, was to go to them, wherever they were. But, this wasn’t just about a physical meeting in a new territory with new people. Paul is talking about meeting people where they are intellectually and emotionally, wherever they found themselves on a spectrum of human life which included belief systems, morality, and life choices. Paul is talking about going out to them, in the mire and muck, going to them, even if it meant going to the kind of places and maybe even doing the kinds of things that don’t seem very Christian at all.
Back then, the debate in the church world over who was right and wrong was between Jew and Gentile, Torah law or Christ’s law. Could God somehow love and choose both sides? Here we are, two thousand years later, still struggling over some of the same issues. We are still unable to get beyond our differences of opinion and interpretation. Sure, the details have changed, but what is at the heart of the matter is the same. We want things to be one way, the way we think is right. We use whatever we can, the Bible, Jesus, the church, to answer the questions which perplex us. We are so hell bent on having a black and a white on some things, that we take the mystery, the unknown, the gray, and we claim that it’s black or white even when it’s not.
But, I don’t think that we do this because we are confused. I think we do this because we are afraid. Paul’s instruction scares us because it forces us beyond ourselves and what feels good and easy. Paul forces us to mix and mingle with that which is different than us. Because it’s different and not what we are used to, more often than not we cast it in a negative or sinful light. We justify our prejudice and hatred with our interpretations of sacred text and tradition. In response to these tendencies, Paul is simply saying, “Think again.” Is this the way to share the good news? To reject people and cast them off, to label them as bad, is this really the way to touch people’s hearts? God’s gift of freedom is worth more than that. It is an invitation, a way, to help us grow beyond our fears. We all have fear, but fear should never get in the way of love. And, to love another, we have to go out to them. In many cases, we have to let them touch us and infect us with whatever it is that they have and in this process, which I will be the first to admit is terrifying, trust that God will keep us safe and strong and unwavering in holy truth where it matters most.
A pastor once said to me that he was ashamed of some of the places that he had been and some of the things he had done, hanging out with sinners. When he said this, I was a little taken aback. I thought that we were all sinners. Sure, our vices may look differently from one another, but if there is one thing that we all share, it’s that we all sin. We all fall short of deserving God’s love. But, the good news is that God gives God’s love to us anyway-- all of us-- Jew or Gentile, law abiding or not, regardless of our sexuality or even our understanding of who God is and what God has done and is doing in our world, even when we don’t know how to love God in return. Even then, God loves us anyway. That’s just how God is.
In the end, what Paul professes of himself is what we also know to be true for ourselves. “I do it all for the sake of the gospel, so that I may share in its blessings.”
My fear of eating meat, as ridiculous as it may have been, put a barrier between me and the people that I had gone to love and serve. They prepared food for me, often at a great personal sacrifice, because they loved me and wanted to share what they had with a spirit of generosity. I let my fear of meat, that it might be bad and make me sick, dictate my actions and hinder my ability to reach out and connect, even when I knew that brief illness was a small price to pay for sharing in God’s blessings with them. My fear prevented me from participating fully in God’s gifts of life and love.
When we forfeit God’s blessings and neglect to embrace the other with love and openness, the greatest consequence is not, ultimately, God’s punishment, but it is about missing out on the life that is happening, here and now. Fear is a powerful force, but love is still stronger. We are not left alone with our fears. God comes to us and when we allow it, takes us by the hand so that we may overcome even that which enslaves us, so that we might be set free to live and love and be blessed in the process.
This is our good news, good news that we have to share with others. So, may we all go out and take this news to places and people who are waiting for our embrace, even into prison cells and circles very different from our own. May we reach out with our love even more than our words. May we be infected by those that we meet as we go. May we trust, no matter where we find ourselves, that God is there, guiding us the whole way. Amen.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Medicine in Afghanistan: A Unique Ministry
"I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak.” Ezekiel 34:16
There is no question that medical professionals are ministers in every sense of the word. If my brief stints as a hospital chaplain taught me anything, it was that those who had constant contact with patients, whether changing the dressing of a wound, helping to bathe a person weak from surgery or simply offering regular human touch to one wrapped in tubes, are the ones who made a difference in the healing process. Often, I would marvel at the depth of love I witnessed between caregivers and their patients, so much so that I felt what I had to offer as a chaplain paled in comparison. Sometimes, from the doorway, I would watch a nurse soothing a patient, offering whatever salve possible that might bring comfort or relief. In those moments, I realized just how much I had to learn about ministry from this special kind of minister.
While in Afghanistan as an Army Chaplain, I have been acquainted with members of the 352nd Combat Support Hospital, a U.S. Army Reserve medical unit out of Dublin, California. Over these past few months, while getting to know these soldiers and observing them in their work, I have been reminded of the lasting impact these practitioners have on each person whom they touch. As a soldier myself, I am particularly grateful that there are kind and competent doctors, nurses, and therapists who take months and years away from their practices in the States to share their gifts with deployed US personnel. There is nothing like getting injured or feeling sick and wondering if there will be someone trustworthy to help you get better, especially when you are away from the comforts of home and family.
Lately, though, I have realized the powerful witness of love which these medically trained soldiers offer to Afghanistan. In our detention facility, doctors, physician’s assistants, nurses and medics, work shifts both day and night, ensuring that persons in US custody are fully cared for twenty-four hours a day. From dental work to eye exams, no stone is left unturned. And, I should know because my roommate is the optometrist. I am constantly amazed by the level of care that she extends to her patients. Whether she is spending her nights reading up on new research which may save a person’s eyesight or following up to make sure that her patients understand their treatment plans, there is no doubt that she gives one hundred percent of herself and her medical training to those under her care.
A team of physical therapists work with Afghan detainees who have suffered severe wounds so that they may regain strength in the aftermath of their injuries. Though they are accused of terrorist acts or even found guilty of crimes in some cases, medical care and other kinds of succor are not ever withheld. For an Afghan male detained in a US facility, this treatment must seem counterintuitive to what would be expected from “the enemy.” Detainees may have an impression of the United States which is negative. They may even have a cultural bias against women as educated professionals. Nonetheless, a female physical therapist may be the one who helps a detainee live with less chronic pain. In her meticulous mending she doesn’t just share a skill set, or with her own hands, work at the knots and flared up places throughout the body, she also offers a deep sense of compassion which may be difficult to reject or turn away from, even for a person who has become hardened through a life of violence and trauma.
Part of the Hippocratic Oath, which many medical personnel take in some version when they complete their training, upholds the transforming power of compassion. The Oath says, “I will remember that there is art to medicine as well as science, and that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.” At the end of the day, whether a person has been physically healed, their overall health, including mental and emotional well-being, may be improved because of the nurture that is offered by a provider. Ultimately, each of these realms-- physical, mental, spiritual, etc-- are connected to one another and have direct influence on a person’s capacity for healing.
Perhaps the most striking gift that I have observed is that often, these medical professionals go back and forth, sometimes every other day, between caring for US service members and Afghan detainees. Their commitment to medicine and their craft of ministering it to those who are in need means that they transcend lines of friend and foe. The therapist who is known around camp for her warmth and diligence with soldiers doesn’t flip that compassion switch “off” whenever it is time to have an appointment with an Afghan detainee. Even when her caregiving is challenging or complicated, she shares all she has to give, working toward binding up the injured and strengthening the weak. In this ministry, there are no enemies.
Part of any ministry is learning how to give yourself away. Ministry demands a willingness to share whatever you have to give, whether that is a kind ear, a sense of sanctuary, or a particular skill. This is exactly what these medical professionals are called to do day in and day out. It is one thing, often too easy a thing, to stand in a pulpit and talk about healing and hope. It is another thing altogether to bind and care for those who are in the most need of healing and hope, and not just for a few moments but over time. A few days ago, one of the physicians assistants mentioned that he sees his job as giving people hope throughout their journey of healing and not letting them be discouraged by the setbacks which are sure to happen along the way. I can’t imagine a more faithful way to minister to a person than this.
As a government, we may continually struggle with how to change the culture of terrorism and violence in this place, but I don’t think any of us need to look too far to discover just who is winning hearts and minds of the Afghan people. Here, at this detention facility, these aren’t typical Afghan citizens; in some cases, they are the ones who have caused severe injury and even death to our very own. Nonetheless, under a physician's care, they are nurtured and made whole again. I should not be surprised that in the midst of this conflict where I have been called to ministry as a chaplain, I would be taught this important lesson from the medical community.
Binding up the injured and strengthening the weak are what we have been called to do, in one way or another, wherever we may find ourselves in this world. This is at the heart of loving God and neighbor. Really, there is no other way.
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