It’s been one of those weeks. It seems that everyone has a case of the Mondays and here, where every day is the same, “Monday” takes on a perpetual quality. For whatever reason, this week we are all tired and cranky. I knew I was in bad shape when I jumped down one of my young soldier’s throats, just because she said she missed seeing me. Not one of my finer moments in ministry thus far yet very telling of my state of mind.
It’s hard to say what has precipitated this recent upsurge of grumpiness. There is likely more than one culprit. It seems to be the layering effect which eventually causes a breaking point for most of us. Lack of sleep, no space for escape, people constantly needy, very few real “breaks” from work-- I could go on. Of course, these have been our circumstances all along. So, why this week? And, it’s not just me. I have witnessed breakdowns throughout camp, and I have heard tales of snapping over the slightest thing. Over time stress builds up, and without a way to relieve the pressure, innocent passersby, and even friends, become collateral damage.
Normally, when grumpy, I try to stay away from people, particularly people that I care about. However, avoiding people here is next to impossible, not when there are counseling sessions to conduct, meetings to attend, and Holy Week services to plan. The last thing I want to do is spread angst. All around, people are struggling, and they don’t need a chaplain adding to their list of woes instead of mitigating them. I also know, like everyone else who is human, we all have bad days that we wish we could take back and moments we would like to do over. Thank goodness for grace. Though we might not be able to erase our foibles, we are able to face the following day knowing that it is not our circumstances which make or break us, but our attitudes, our approach to whatever challenge waits around the bend, which makes all the difference.
I realized yesterday afternoon, that I had quite a few pages unturned on my Mary Engelbreit daily calendar. Flipping to “Thursday,” I laughed as I read this message-- Must. Change. Attitude. All week I had been trying to accomplish this. Yet, no matter how many times I told myself I was done with complaining, I wasn’t cooperating. My laundry list of complaints was much longer than my list of gratitude.
Earlier this week, Operation Pencil, a service organization in Bagram which supplies Afghan students with school supplies, received a major donation from Staples. As thrilling as it was to get the news that the boxes, literally hundreds of pounds of materials, had arrived, my first thought was panic. How we were going to “pick up” and then transport these pallets of supplies, I did not know. Holy Week was right around the corner. The last thing I needed this week was one more thing to worry about.
As this all unfolded, though, I was amazed at all those who were willing to help, who were also ready to rearrange their schedules and call in favors to help us out. As I bumped along in a 5-ton, Vietnam era truck, over to the cargo yard to claim our school supplies, I marveled silently at the soldiers and sailors committed to doing something, anything, which might make a positive difference in the lives of Afghan children, many of whom they may never meet. Most of our volunteers work twelve hour shifts, starting at 0430 each morning. I would think that “crashing” after work would be the first thing on their list after such long days. Yet, I continue to be inspired when they show up, ready to give what little time they have.
If my soldiers and sailors can rise to the occasion this week, then so can I. Sometimes it takes just the right person or event to be that needed “wake up” call. Some days, it is an uphill battle, but I know I can’t succumb to a permanent case of the “Mondays.” There will always be work to accomplish and a “to do” list which never seems to get any shorter. But, on our best days, we recognize when to set it all aside and engage in the here and now, when to give that person who is struggling, too, a bit of time and compassion. Just a few minutes of positive energy may be just what is needed to help them get back on track and remember that despite all the reasons for complaining, there are many, many more reasons to be thankful.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
"Help Our Unbelief" - Sunday Sermon, March 25, 2012
Chaplain Mel Baars
March 25, 2012
John 12:20-33
“Help our Unbelief”
Summer days throughout my childhood were often spent with my eleven cousins, under the less than watchful eyes of my grandparents. These visits were a perfect blend of thrill and fear. Let’s just say my grandparents did not practice the same kind of vigilance as my mother. The older boy cousins, barely teens, not even sporting learner’s permits, had free reign at the helms of my grandfather’s speedboats, on the open waters of Florida’s intercostal waterway. As soon as the sun appeared, the “fun” began. It shouldn’t take much imagination to picture one of my 13 year old cousins, revving the boat throttle, ready to take us little girls on the ride of our lives. Just for the record, I, personally, NEVER thought these rides were a good idea. Peer pressure was alive and well amongst our cousin crew, and I refused to be the one to damper the “fun.” However, I named myself Officer-in-Charge of “life preservers,” for the younger, obedient cousins, and ensured, at the very least, when we wrecked, we would have a fighting chance.
I will never forget one morning, lying on the bow of the boat with one of my cousins. She was seven, and I was eight. As we hung on for dear life, and as I begged our driver to slow down, my little voice disappearing into the wind before ever hitting his ears, she looked at me and said, “Why are you so afraid? If we die, we get to go to heaven. I am ready. Aren’t you?” This was tricky. I knew I was supposed to say, “Yes.” I didn’t want to disappoint my very religious cousin, or God, for that matter, with how I really felt. As much as I had been taught that heaven was where I should want to go, it didn’t mean that I wanted to go there that morning. I wasn’t ready. I liked being alive, playing with my dolls, bossing around my little brother, being a teacher’s pet, and sneaking candy from my mom’s hardly veiled stash behind the plastic wrap in the pantry. The thought of dying was far from appealing. When asked the question, “Are you ready?” I am sure I agreed out loud to pacify the situation but then proceeded to hold on even tighter.
Perhaps I should have put a warning label on the bulletin this morning, some kind of caution that in our movement toward the cross, things may get a little bit bumpy. We have spent the past four Sundays in the wilderness. It has been dark and difficult at moments, but still the cross has been just a distant reality. Yet, with Good Friday lurking, barely over the horizon, it is no longer possible to avoid it. After all, the cross is what we are here for, even when we don’t always want to face all of its implications. Some don’t mind throwing around Easter words of triumph, victory, and salvation, but most of us side step-around the harder words, words of defeat and death. But, the cross encapsulates all of these things, none of them without the others.
All week, I have been regretting my decision to preach on our gospel. Its meaning is unclear or, as some might say, is as clear as mud. It contain parables which are not entirely pleasing to hear. Those who love their lives lose them and those who hate life in this world get to keep life forever. This is jarring talk, yet not the only instance of it. In Matthew, Jesus says, “Whoever loves father or mother or son or daughter, more than me, is not worthy of me, or whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy either. Those who find their lives will lose them, and those who lose their life for my sake, will find it.”[1]
Does this mean that we should all want to martyr ourselves in Jesus’ name or that we must endeavor to hate all life on earth, in order to have life with God forever? Some have taken these kinds of injunctions so literally that they have taken measures “to hate” this world by destroying it as much as possible, by purposefully polluting the environment, figuring even that worse violence might somehow more quickly bring the fate of this world to its fiery end. But, this doesn’t seem right, either. What about stewardship of creation or honoring our father and mother? What about all the times when Jesus shows us how to restore broken relationships? What about love? How easily we hear a part of the message and forget to wait for the rest of it.
So what does all of this mean? Contrary to some Christian rhetoric, the author of this gospel is hardly concerned with individuals and atoning for their sins. Jesus’ death on the cross, at least in John’s gospel, is, instead, about changing the fate of the whole world. It is about judging the fallen part of God’s creation which manifests itself in institutions and governments and power structures which harmfully and deceptively hold humanity captive. In this system of “the world,” violence rules with an iron fist. The myth perpetuated in this system, that violence can quell violence, that brute force can strong-arm evil into something good, is so strong that most of us can’t imagine any alternatives to it, even when we see again and again that it doesn’t work. The system of this “world” is so imbedded in how we think and subsequently, how we act, that is takes Jesus crucified on a cross to expose its ugly truth.
When we are told to die to this world, to hate life in this world, what we are being told is not to reject life itself, but instead, to refuse to live our lives in captivity. The life that Jesus refers to is the kind of life that isn’t truly free. It is a life ruled by standards set by “the world” instead of by God. It is a life where money is prioritized over generosity. It is a life where power is valued before people. It is a life where violence is the immediate response to those who do harm, where retribution is seen as the only way to teach a meaningful lesson.
In our country’s history, the best example of hating “this world” was embodied by Martin Luther King, Jr. and those who sought to fight racism using nonviolent resistance in the Civil Rights struggle. As a part of this kind of resistance, marches ended in the massacre of hundreds of African American sons and daughters on lonely roads in the South and countless people were beaten, sometimes fatally, for simply sitting in a diner, waiting to be served a ham sandwich or riding on a bus and refusing to sit in the “right” section. Yet, when the horror of these images were exposed to the public, the tide began to shift. King said, “Let them get their dogs, and let them get the hose, and we will leave them standing before their God and the world spattered with blood and reeking with the stench of their Negro brothers.”[2] By the standards of “this world,” nonviolent resistance was impractical, at best. It cost many their lives, but it also worked. It woke people up. It made them stop going along with a system that diminished some human life for no good reason.
This is also what we discover at the foot of the cross-- horrific violence not warded off with more violence but instead an event that brought to their knees all those who witnessed it and all those who have heard about it ever since. “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”[3] This is Jesus’ action on the cross. It is an act of love. Death was the only way to set us all free.
Just a few weeks ago, we were marked with ashes, and we were reminded that we are all dust and to dust we are returning. It was not necessarily what I wanted to hear on Ash Wednesday. In fact, I would rather not remember, especially not here, where stories are told about soldiers being blown to bits just picking up their mail in the mail room or riding down a road they have ridden down hundreds of times before, not at home where there are people who I love dearly getting older or sicker, not anywhere, because facing this truth, that we are all dying, is not easy for any of us, at any point in our lives.
It wasn’t easy for Jesus, either, which is why, divine and all, he still struggled, saying, “Now my soul is troubled. And, what should I say? Father, save me from this hour!”[4] There is a part of him, a very human part, which, like the rest of us, just isn’t ready. I stand by my eight year old self, still hanging on for dear life, refusing to let go. I can bet, years from now, or whenever the hour presents itself, I will feel the same way. There will be a part of me still wanting to live, wanting to hold on, not realizing that letting go isn’t surrender to the end but instead freedom toward the beginning.
This is what we profess about death and resurrection, about Good Friday and Easter, about death and life. We don’t get to have one without the other. Jesus shows us this. Death is unavoidable, even for God. We cannot maneuver away from it. Like Jesus, we come to “this hour” for a reason; we also trust that God will be a part of it, whenever and wherever it takes place.
As we face the cross, O Lord, we believe; help our unbelief.[5] Amen.
[1] Matt. 10:37-39
[2] Richard Lischer, The Preacher King: Martin Luther King, Jr and the Word that Moved America (New York: Oxford University Press; 1995), 226.
[3] John 15:13
[4] John 12:27a
[5] Mark 9:24
March 25, 2012
John 12:20-33
“Help our Unbelief”
Summer days throughout my childhood were often spent with my eleven cousins, under the less than watchful eyes of my grandparents. These visits were a perfect blend of thrill and fear. Let’s just say my grandparents did not practice the same kind of vigilance as my mother. The older boy cousins, barely teens, not even sporting learner’s permits, had free reign at the helms of my grandfather’s speedboats, on the open waters of Florida’s intercostal waterway. As soon as the sun appeared, the “fun” began. It shouldn’t take much imagination to picture one of my 13 year old cousins, revving the boat throttle, ready to take us little girls on the ride of our lives. Just for the record, I, personally, NEVER thought these rides were a good idea. Peer pressure was alive and well amongst our cousin crew, and I refused to be the one to damper the “fun.” However, I named myself Officer-in-Charge of “life preservers,” for the younger, obedient cousins, and ensured, at the very least, when we wrecked, we would have a fighting chance.
I will never forget one morning, lying on the bow of the boat with one of my cousins. She was seven, and I was eight. As we hung on for dear life, and as I begged our driver to slow down, my little voice disappearing into the wind before ever hitting his ears, she looked at me and said, “Why are you so afraid? If we die, we get to go to heaven. I am ready. Aren’t you?” This was tricky. I knew I was supposed to say, “Yes.” I didn’t want to disappoint my very religious cousin, or God, for that matter, with how I really felt. As much as I had been taught that heaven was where I should want to go, it didn’t mean that I wanted to go there that morning. I wasn’t ready. I liked being alive, playing with my dolls, bossing around my little brother, being a teacher’s pet, and sneaking candy from my mom’s hardly veiled stash behind the plastic wrap in the pantry. The thought of dying was far from appealing. When asked the question, “Are you ready?” I am sure I agreed out loud to pacify the situation but then proceeded to hold on even tighter.
Perhaps I should have put a warning label on the bulletin this morning, some kind of caution that in our movement toward the cross, things may get a little bit bumpy. We have spent the past four Sundays in the wilderness. It has been dark and difficult at moments, but still the cross has been just a distant reality. Yet, with Good Friday lurking, barely over the horizon, it is no longer possible to avoid it. After all, the cross is what we are here for, even when we don’t always want to face all of its implications. Some don’t mind throwing around Easter words of triumph, victory, and salvation, but most of us side step-around the harder words, words of defeat and death. But, the cross encapsulates all of these things, none of them without the others.
All week, I have been regretting my decision to preach on our gospel. Its meaning is unclear or, as some might say, is as clear as mud. It contain parables which are not entirely pleasing to hear. Those who love their lives lose them and those who hate life in this world get to keep life forever. This is jarring talk, yet not the only instance of it. In Matthew, Jesus says, “Whoever loves father or mother or son or daughter, more than me, is not worthy of me, or whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy either. Those who find their lives will lose them, and those who lose their life for my sake, will find it.”[1]
Does this mean that we should all want to martyr ourselves in Jesus’ name or that we must endeavor to hate all life on earth, in order to have life with God forever? Some have taken these kinds of injunctions so literally that they have taken measures “to hate” this world by destroying it as much as possible, by purposefully polluting the environment, figuring even that worse violence might somehow more quickly bring the fate of this world to its fiery end. But, this doesn’t seem right, either. What about stewardship of creation or honoring our father and mother? What about all the times when Jesus shows us how to restore broken relationships? What about love? How easily we hear a part of the message and forget to wait for the rest of it.
So what does all of this mean? Contrary to some Christian rhetoric, the author of this gospel is hardly concerned with individuals and atoning for their sins. Jesus’ death on the cross, at least in John’s gospel, is, instead, about changing the fate of the whole world. It is about judging the fallen part of God’s creation which manifests itself in institutions and governments and power structures which harmfully and deceptively hold humanity captive. In this system of “the world,” violence rules with an iron fist. The myth perpetuated in this system, that violence can quell violence, that brute force can strong-arm evil into something good, is so strong that most of us can’t imagine any alternatives to it, even when we see again and again that it doesn’t work. The system of this “world” is so imbedded in how we think and subsequently, how we act, that is takes Jesus crucified on a cross to expose its ugly truth.
When we are told to die to this world, to hate life in this world, what we are being told is not to reject life itself, but instead, to refuse to live our lives in captivity. The life that Jesus refers to is the kind of life that isn’t truly free. It is a life ruled by standards set by “the world” instead of by God. It is a life where money is prioritized over generosity. It is a life where power is valued before people. It is a life where violence is the immediate response to those who do harm, where retribution is seen as the only way to teach a meaningful lesson.
In our country’s history, the best example of hating “this world” was embodied by Martin Luther King, Jr. and those who sought to fight racism using nonviolent resistance in the Civil Rights struggle. As a part of this kind of resistance, marches ended in the massacre of hundreds of African American sons and daughters on lonely roads in the South and countless people were beaten, sometimes fatally, for simply sitting in a diner, waiting to be served a ham sandwich or riding on a bus and refusing to sit in the “right” section. Yet, when the horror of these images were exposed to the public, the tide began to shift. King said, “Let them get their dogs, and let them get the hose, and we will leave them standing before their God and the world spattered with blood and reeking with the stench of their Negro brothers.”[2] By the standards of “this world,” nonviolent resistance was impractical, at best. It cost many their lives, but it also worked. It woke people up. It made them stop going along with a system that diminished some human life for no good reason.
This is also what we discover at the foot of the cross-- horrific violence not warded off with more violence but instead an event that brought to their knees all those who witnessed it and all those who have heard about it ever since. “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”[3] This is Jesus’ action on the cross. It is an act of love. Death was the only way to set us all free.
Just a few weeks ago, we were marked with ashes, and we were reminded that we are all dust and to dust we are returning. It was not necessarily what I wanted to hear on Ash Wednesday. In fact, I would rather not remember, especially not here, where stories are told about soldiers being blown to bits just picking up their mail in the mail room or riding down a road they have ridden down hundreds of times before, not at home where there are people who I love dearly getting older or sicker, not anywhere, because facing this truth, that we are all dying, is not easy for any of us, at any point in our lives.
It wasn’t easy for Jesus, either, which is why, divine and all, he still struggled, saying, “Now my soul is troubled. And, what should I say? Father, save me from this hour!”[4] There is a part of him, a very human part, which, like the rest of us, just isn’t ready. I stand by my eight year old self, still hanging on for dear life, refusing to let go. I can bet, years from now, or whenever the hour presents itself, I will feel the same way. There will be a part of me still wanting to live, wanting to hold on, not realizing that letting go isn’t surrender to the end but instead freedom toward the beginning.
This is what we profess about death and resurrection, about Good Friday and Easter, about death and life. We don’t get to have one without the other. Jesus shows us this. Death is unavoidable, even for God. We cannot maneuver away from it. Like Jesus, we come to “this hour” for a reason; we also trust that God will be a part of it, whenever and wherever it takes place.
As we face the cross, O Lord, we believe; help our unbelief.[5] Amen.
[1] Matt. 10:37-39
[2] Richard Lischer, The Preacher King: Martin Luther King, Jr and the Word that Moved America (New York: Oxford University Press; 1995), 226.
[3] John 15:13
[4] John 12:27a
[5] Mark 9:24
Friday, March 23, 2012
Act Justly ... Love Mercy ... Walk Humbly
With blankets piled high upon narrow wooden tables and bags of toys, shoes, and clothes all labeled neatly, indicating whether a boy or a girl should be the recipient of its contents, members of Task Force Viper were ready to give away winter necessities to patients and their families visiting the local Egyptian Hospital at Bagram Airfield. Through continued partnership with the Presbyterian Church of Chestertown, MD as well as other family and friends from home, our unit was able to share with over one hundred Afghan civilians, hoping to help them better survive one of the coldest winters on record for this region.
Many of our soldiers, sailors, and airmen claim that opportunities to visit the hospital and interact with Afghan children and families is one of the highlights of their deployment. Taking a moment to hold a baby or play with a group kids, even when the simplest conversation requires expert pantomiming skills, gives us all a chance to connect on a deeper level with this place and its people. Through the gifted work of our linguists and the help of those who know a little English, we are able to understand some of the challenges and difficulties that many people are facing here.
There are times, however, when we struggle with what we encounter in our outreach efforts. We try, often in vain, to express love and care, but it feels that all we are doing is giving a hand-out. The kids have learned just the right words to say which pull at our heartstrings, in hopes of walking away with a treasure. Visits from the American soldiers are a chance to get something. Even when we know that these kids are merely trying to survive, using whatever tactics available, it can leave a sting in our mouths. Where darkness and violence have reigned with brut force, desperate measures are just a way to endure another day.
A few weeks ago, I was surprised to find a small, canvas shoulder bag waiting for me in the mailroom. On one side of the bag, these six words were printed, “Act justly. Love mercy. Walk humbly.” Inside the bag was a card which explained that the bag was a product of a fair trade project in India which empowers women to make a living and subsequently provide for their families, altering cycles of poverty throughout the region. My experiences in the last few years, whether in Central America or South Africa or even here in Afghanistan have taught me to have a healthy skepticism about “projects” which sound great on paper but may not be making that much of an impact in reality.
Holding this bag in my hands and reading these words from one of the Hebrew Bible’s prophets, Micah, I pondered the question, which precedes them. “What does the Lord require of you,” Micah asks. These words are the answer-- Justice. Mercy. Humility. When we do these things, we live faithfully. It is not a complicated formula which is impossible to understand. Instead, what God requires is surprisingly simple. Of course, simple doesn’t equate to easy. Living out these practices, wherever we find ourselves in the world, doing whatever work we have been called to do, is a lifelong process, some days more fruitful than others.
No doubt, the blankets and the warm clothing that we have given to the patients and children at the hospital has made a difference. But, we all know that the most well-intentioned gift is no panacea for the hardships and violence which ravage innocent lives. Our gifts are a way that we can reach out and express our love, even if, in this rugged landscape, such a gesture seems only a drop in a bottomless pit.
Yet, remembering Micah, I can’t help but acknowledge that our sharing is as much of a blessing for us as it is for those who go home with a new pair of shoes or warm winter blanket. When we give, we practice these simple acts of faith- doing justice, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God. Without really saying a word, we witness a love which has no end. We may never know the results of our generosity. Outcomes are not always the point. When we live faithfully, we trust that God will be there, ready to make something good from what we have offered, ready to nurture seeds of heaven wherever they have been planted, now and always.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Looking Up - Sunday Sermon, March 18, 2012
Chaplain Mel Baars
March 18, 2012
Numbers 21:4-9
“Looking Up”
Each week, when it is time to start preparing for Sunday, I begin by reviewing the lectionary texts for whatever Sunday it is. I have four scripture passages from which to choose: Old Testament, Psalm, New Testament, and Gospel. To keep things “exciting,” I attempt to choose from different parts of the Bible each week, not always sticking with one area of scripture. Yet, on this fourth Sunday of Lent, it seems that I can’t drag myself, or any of the rest of us, away from the Old Testament. There is something just Lent-y about the Old Testament. Perhaps this is because, by-in-large, its stories share some common themes: desert, exile, waiting, and suffering.
There are very few reprieves from the perpetual “wilderness” in which God’s people find themselves. Sure, at some point, the rain ceases, the flood dries up, and God paints a rainbow in the sky. Eventually, the Israelites cross over the deep river Jordan into their land flowing with milk and honey. The temple stands, at least for a while, and even after it is destroyed the first time, there is a movement to rebuild which, if nothing else, is a sign of hope, a sign of arrival. Mostly, though, the story of Israel and God is a saga set in the wilderness with darkness as its primary color and complaining and disobedience as its soundtrack.
Today’s passage from Numbers fits this “wilderness” stereotype well. It also has to be one of the more bizarre texts found in the Biblical cannon and is certainly a little jarring, at least at first glance, especially after last Sunday’s encounter with the Ten Commandments. Wasn’t one of them something about not making false idols? Doesn’t a bronze serpent up on a pole upon which the people look for healing sound a little idolatrous? Yet, this was God’s own instruction to Moses for that Israelite’s salvation, not some human hatched plan for being saved from the poisonous snakes nipping at their feet. If you are at least a little confused, you are in good company. This passage has presented its share of mystery over the years, and I am not so ambitious to think that I have unlocked all of its secrets.
None of us should be surprised to hear that “along the way, the people became impatient.” For a fifth instance in a series of “grumbling” stories just in Numbers alone, the people are complaining. It seems they are always complaining about something. In fact, they had barely cleared the Red Sea when their complaining began. After just three days in the wilderness, they cried out to Moses, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat around eating meat and our fill of bread, for you brought us out into the wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger(Ex. 16:3).” If they are this whiny on day three, imagine their protests after a year or ten or even forty years of desert wandering. I feel sorry for Moses and even more sorry for God, having to listen to all grumbling.
Despite their impatience and distrust, God hears their complaints and responds to their needs by sending down manna and quail. It’s not the food of choice, but it is food nonetheless. Their hunger is satisfied, at least momentarily. Their faith in God’s provision doesn’t last long, however, and they are back to complaining in no time at all. They grow tired of the food which God provides. It’s repetitive and lacking in any real flavor or imagination. Does this sound familiar? I must admit, I can’t help but hear myself complaining of our food. After all, the literal meaning of manna is “what is it?” Here, I have asked this question many a meal. Often, what God provides is just not what we are expecting or hoping for. When others are on the complaining bandwagon, it’s easy to follow suit, instead of simply being grateful.
Because, of course we know that impatience and doubt are not only the story of the Israelites lost in the desert between Egypt and Canaan. This is our human story-- past, present, and future. How quickly we forget God’s faithfulness in our lives, the moments when we have seen and felt God working in mighty ways. How easily they forgot just how powerful God was springing them out of Egyptian captivity, parting the Red Sea, ushering them to freedom. Logic might even argue-- Why would God have gone to such an extent to set them all free and then turn around and abandon them when they were only halfway to safety?
A very short memory ensured that logic and reason were NOT always present in the wilderness. It seems, after all the times that God came to their rescue, proving again and again just what true faithfulness looks like, God throws them a little wake up call-- in the form of poisonous, biting snakes. They had no idea just how bad things could get in the wilderness until this point. Bitter flavored water and repetitive food was one level of hardship, but killer snakes are in a league of their own. Suddenly, people are dying, which helps those still living regain their senses. What did they have to complain about before, just some bad tasting water and bland food? That was nothing. These snakes are for real. So, the ones not yet keeled over from snake venom, repent and throw themselves before Moses, begging forgiveness. They are hoping that Moses can intercede before God on their behalf and get rid of all the snakes.
God does respond to their prayers, yet not quite in the way that the people envisioned. The poisonous snakes don’t disappear as they had hoped. They don’t even stop biting or suddenly morph into snakes more of the “garden” variety. The die has already been cast. The poisonous snakes are now a part of their wilderness existence. There is no undoing the results of their incessant waywardness. However, God doesn’t leave them alone, suffering the consequences of their distrust. God empowers them with a way to survive this new and deadly challenge. It’s definitely an odd solution to the problem. Nonetheless, it works. Whenever a person gets bitten by one of these deadly snakes, he or she is supposed to gaze upon this bronze serpent replica. Somehow facing their fears head on saves them from what they fear. Perhaps we should remember this.
On one hand, this makes little sense. Looking at a bronze serpent is the anti-venom for the snakebite? I am no expert, but this does sound a little like magic. There is also still the issue of them teetering dangerously close to having made an idol. But, on the other hand, the passage doesn’t say that the bonze snake does any real saving at all. It is the action, their looking up at the snake, which seems to make all the difference. If looking at the bronze snake was what God told them to do in order to live, then every time they follow God’s instruction, they are actually practicing faith, demonstrating trust. I mean, who is to say that the Israelites didn’t also see the absurdity of the situation. Of course, a fake metal snake on a poll can’t do much to save a victim of a viper bite. But, this was what God instructed, as strange as it may be, and everyone who listened and acted, found life instead of death post the poisonous bite.
The act of looking up gives them the strength that they need to get through a deadly encounter. Looking up reminds them that God is still with them, that God is their guide. Looking up helps them refocus on what God has promised. Looking up reminds them to pay attention to all that God has done and is doing all around them, even in the midst of the wilderness. The act of looking up reminds me of words found in Psalm 121. “I lift my eyes to the hills- from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth(Psalm 121).” I have found that these words resonate, especially here in Bagram, surrounded by some of Afghanistan’s most dramatic mountains. Every once-in-a-while, when the sky is clear and I am not so intent on focusing on the rocks beneath my feet, I happen to look up. Almost always when this happens, I have to catch my breath. Looking up at those hills reminds me that even here, especially here, God’s presence looms. It is real and sure and good. I shouldn’t need mountains to remind me from where my help comes, but on many days, looking up at them sure helps.
This passage is about faith in God not faith in magic or any other kind of idolatry. It is not the object upon which they gaze which saves them, but it is the act of looking up which becomes a sacrament in itself. When they do this, they confirm that it is God in whom they trust and from whom they have their lives. In the same way, when we come to this table, to eat this bread and drink this wine, it is not these objects which give us life, but it is the God who they represent who ultimately saves us. In the darkness of Lent, when the wilderness in which we find ourselves is also filled with many poisonous snakes, threatening to bite with deadly force, may we, too, remember to look up, up to the cross. The cure for death ends up being death, death on the cross. But, when we look up, we are reminded that life will surely follow. Amen.
March 18, 2012
Numbers 21:4-9
“Looking Up”
Each week, when it is time to start preparing for Sunday, I begin by reviewing the lectionary texts for whatever Sunday it is. I have four scripture passages from which to choose: Old Testament, Psalm, New Testament, and Gospel. To keep things “exciting,” I attempt to choose from different parts of the Bible each week, not always sticking with one area of scripture. Yet, on this fourth Sunday of Lent, it seems that I can’t drag myself, or any of the rest of us, away from the Old Testament. There is something just Lent-y about the Old Testament. Perhaps this is because, by-in-large, its stories share some common themes: desert, exile, waiting, and suffering.
There are very few reprieves from the perpetual “wilderness” in which God’s people find themselves. Sure, at some point, the rain ceases, the flood dries up, and God paints a rainbow in the sky. Eventually, the Israelites cross over the deep river Jordan into their land flowing with milk and honey. The temple stands, at least for a while, and even after it is destroyed the first time, there is a movement to rebuild which, if nothing else, is a sign of hope, a sign of arrival. Mostly, though, the story of Israel and God is a saga set in the wilderness with darkness as its primary color and complaining and disobedience as its soundtrack.
Today’s passage from Numbers fits this “wilderness” stereotype well. It also has to be one of the more bizarre texts found in the Biblical cannon and is certainly a little jarring, at least at first glance, especially after last Sunday’s encounter with the Ten Commandments. Wasn’t one of them something about not making false idols? Doesn’t a bronze serpent up on a pole upon which the people look for healing sound a little idolatrous? Yet, this was God’s own instruction to Moses for that Israelite’s salvation, not some human hatched plan for being saved from the poisonous snakes nipping at their feet. If you are at least a little confused, you are in good company. This passage has presented its share of mystery over the years, and I am not so ambitious to think that I have unlocked all of its secrets.
None of us should be surprised to hear that “along the way, the people became impatient.” For a fifth instance in a series of “grumbling” stories just in Numbers alone, the people are complaining. It seems they are always complaining about something. In fact, they had barely cleared the Red Sea when their complaining began. After just three days in the wilderness, they cried out to Moses, “If only we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat around eating meat and our fill of bread, for you brought us out into the wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger(Ex. 16:3).” If they are this whiny on day three, imagine their protests after a year or ten or even forty years of desert wandering. I feel sorry for Moses and even more sorry for God, having to listen to all grumbling.
Despite their impatience and distrust, God hears their complaints and responds to their needs by sending down manna and quail. It’s not the food of choice, but it is food nonetheless. Their hunger is satisfied, at least momentarily. Their faith in God’s provision doesn’t last long, however, and they are back to complaining in no time at all. They grow tired of the food which God provides. It’s repetitive and lacking in any real flavor or imagination. Does this sound familiar? I must admit, I can’t help but hear myself complaining of our food. After all, the literal meaning of manna is “what is it?” Here, I have asked this question many a meal. Often, what God provides is just not what we are expecting or hoping for. When others are on the complaining bandwagon, it’s easy to follow suit, instead of simply being grateful.
Because, of course we know that impatience and doubt are not only the story of the Israelites lost in the desert between Egypt and Canaan. This is our human story-- past, present, and future. How quickly we forget God’s faithfulness in our lives, the moments when we have seen and felt God working in mighty ways. How easily they forgot just how powerful God was springing them out of Egyptian captivity, parting the Red Sea, ushering them to freedom. Logic might even argue-- Why would God have gone to such an extent to set them all free and then turn around and abandon them when they were only halfway to safety?
A very short memory ensured that logic and reason were NOT always present in the wilderness. It seems, after all the times that God came to their rescue, proving again and again just what true faithfulness looks like, God throws them a little wake up call-- in the form of poisonous, biting snakes. They had no idea just how bad things could get in the wilderness until this point. Bitter flavored water and repetitive food was one level of hardship, but killer snakes are in a league of their own. Suddenly, people are dying, which helps those still living regain their senses. What did they have to complain about before, just some bad tasting water and bland food? That was nothing. These snakes are for real. So, the ones not yet keeled over from snake venom, repent and throw themselves before Moses, begging forgiveness. They are hoping that Moses can intercede before God on their behalf and get rid of all the snakes.
God does respond to their prayers, yet not quite in the way that the people envisioned. The poisonous snakes don’t disappear as they had hoped. They don’t even stop biting or suddenly morph into snakes more of the “garden” variety. The die has already been cast. The poisonous snakes are now a part of their wilderness existence. There is no undoing the results of their incessant waywardness. However, God doesn’t leave them alone, suffering the consequences of their distrust. God empowers them with a way to survive this new and deadly challenge. It’s definitely an odd solution to the problem. Nonetheless, it works. Whenever a person gets bitten by one of these deadly snakes, he or she is supposed to gaze upon this bronze serpent replica. Somehow facing their fears head on saves them from what they fear. Perhaps we should remember this.
On one hand, this makes little sense. Looking at a bronze serpent is the anti-venom for the snakebite? I am no expert, but this does sound a little like magic. There is also still the issue of them teetering dangerously close to having made an idol. But, on the other hand, the passage doesn’t say that the bonze snake does any real saving at all. It is the action, their looking up at the snake, which seems to make all the difference. If looking at the bronze snake was what God told them to do in order to live, then every time they follow God’s instruction, they are actually practicing faith, demonstrating trust. I mean, who is to say that the Israelites didn’t also see the absurdity of the situation. Of course, a fake metal snake on a poll can’t do much to save a victim of a viper bite. But, this was what God instructed, as strange as it may be, and everyone who listened and acted, found life instead of death post the poisonous bite.
The act of looking up gives them the strength that they need to get through a deadly encounter. Looking up reminds them that God is still with them, that God is their guide. Looking up helps them refocus on what God has promised. Looking up reminds them to pay attention to all that God has done and is doing all around them, even in the midst of the wilderness. The act of looking up reminds me of words found in Psalm 121. “I lift my eyes to the hills- from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth(Psalm 121).” I have found that these words resonate, especially here in Bagram, surrounded by some of Afghanistan’s most dramatic mountains. Every once-in-a-while, when the sky is clear and I am not so intent on focusing on the rocks beneath my feet, I happen to look up. Almost always when this happens, I have to catch my breath. Looking up at those hills reminds me that even here, especially here, God’s presence looms. It is real and sure and good. I shouldn’t need mountains to remind me from where my help comes, but on many days, looking up at them sure helps.
This passage is about faith in God not faith in magic or any other kind of idolatry. It is not the object upon which they gaze which saves them, but it is the act of looking up which becomes a sacrament in itself. When they do this, they confirm that it is God in whom they trust and from whom they have their lives. In the same way, when we come to this table, to eat this bread and drink this wine, it is not these objects which give us life, but it is the God who they represent who ultimately saves us. In the darkness of Lent, when the wilderness in which we find ourselves is also filled with many poisonous snakes, threatening to bite with deadly force, may we, too, remember to look up, up to the cross. The cure for death ends up being death, death on the cross. But, when we look up, we are reminded that life will surely follow. Amen.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Twenty-Nine
I find it hard to believe that I have finally caught up to my grandmother’s age-- twenty-nine. For my whole life, my grandmother claimed this magical age. And, since she was such a special character throughout my childhood, I believed her, at least at first. It was puzzling to me that she could somehow manage to be my mother’s mother and still be younger than her, but as most grandmothers do, she wielded her power of persuasion well. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you how old she is today, without looking a few things up and doing higher math than I am used to these days. But if you met my grandmother, chances are you wouldn’t know what age she was either. Between her road trips up and down the East coast to cross country travel to sorority conferences, she still acts like she is twenty-nine. That must be what matters most in calibrating age.
If there is one thing I learned from my twenty-nine year old grandmother, it is the importance of celebrating, everything from small successes at our summer swimming lessons to the bigger occasions like birthdays and anniversaries. She may not have advertised the year in which she was born, but she sure knew, and still knows, how to throw a good party. Her parties are not specific to herself or her interests, but she celebrates everything and everyone, making both homemade soup to take to church shut-ins, some of whom are younger than she is, and homemade fudge to send to my soldiers in Afghanistan. Her fudge is still, months later, the most popular baked good I have shared. Occasionally, someone will inquire if there will be more. The good news is with my grandmother-- there always is more to come.
As the chaplain of my unit, I have spent the past five months helping to celebrate a lot of birthdays. There has never been a formula for this, but certainly each soldier is acknowledged with an email or a card or a pound cake, if one is available, and we try to give them as much of a hard time as possible, given our limited resources. Sometimes soldiers, the ones who are a little more gruff, give me the hardest time about celebrating their birthday. But, a piece of advice, spoken by chaplain of Duke Chapel, Dean Sam Wells, has stuck with me over these past years. He was encouraging people to be grateful for Happy Birthday wishes instead of trying to deflect them. “Saying Happy Birthday,” he said, “Is just another way of saying I love you.” With that in mind, I remain undeterred in my birthday celebrating.
What goes around definitely comes around, at least where returning the birthday favor goes, though I can’t entirely blame my soldiers. A few weeks ago, a group from my church decided to “friend” one of my soldiers on facebook and hatch a plan to throw me a pink surprise party. I didn’t have a clue, though. Perhaps it was all the presents and the cards that the church sent to me which lulled me into complacency. I honestly didn’t think there was anything else that they could do to make my birthday more special. Sunday night, walking into a room full of more pink decorations than Afghanistan has ever seen before, I was overwhelmed. What made it even better, besides the twenty-nine pink presents and the fun Bible verse guessing game we played, was that I got to share the day with a new friend I have made in Afghanistan who was also born on the eleventh of March, too. Even though we were away from home and family and friends, surrounded by our Bagram community, both of us felt very loved.
Turning twenty-nine, like turning any other age, is certainly a milestone, one in which we take stock and decide if the ways we have been traveling our journeys are worthy of continuation. Reflecting on what “twenty-nine” might mean for me, I take great comfort that I have had one of the best examples to learn from over the years. If I live my twenty-ninth year, and all the years to come, like my grandmother has demonstrated, I know, whenever I look back in reflection or forward with expectation, I will never be disappointed.
If there is one thing I learned from my twenty-nine year old grandmother, it is the importance of celebrating, everything from small successes at our summer swimming lessons to the bigger occasions like birthdays and anniversaries. She may not have advertised the year in which she was born, but she sure knew, and still knows, how to throw a good party. Her parties are not specific to herself or her interests, but she celebrates everything and everyone, making both homemade soup to take to church shut-ins, some of whom are younger than she is, and homemade fudge to send to my soldiers in Afghanistan. Her fudge is still, months later, the most popular baked good I have shared. Occasionally, someone will inquire if there will be more. The good news is with my grandmother-- there always is more to come.
As the chaplain of my unit, I have spent the past five months helping to celebrate a lot of birthdays. There has never been a formula for this, but certainly each soldier is acknowledged with an email or a card or a pound cake, if one is available, and we try to give them as much of a hard time as possible, given our limited resources. Sometimes soldiers, the ones who are a little more gruff, give me the hardest time about celebrating their birthday. But, a piece of advice, spoken by chaplain of Duke Chapel, Dean Sam Wells, has stuck with me over these past years. He was encouraging people to be grateful for Happy Birthday wishes instead of trying to deflect them. “Saying Happy Birthday,” he said, “Is just another way of saying I love you.” With that in mind, I remain undeterred in my birthday celebrating.
What goes around definitely comes around, at least where returning the birthday favor goes, though I can’t entirely blame my soldiers. A few weeks ago, a group from my church decided to “friend” one of my soldiers on facebook and hatch a plan to throw me a pink surprise party. I didn’t have a clue, though. Perhaps it was all the presents and the cards that the church sent to me which lulled me into complacency. I honestly didn’t think there was anything else that they could do to make my birthday more special. Sunday night, walking into a room full of more pink decorations than Afghanistan has ever seen before, I was overwhelmed. What made it even better, besides the twenty-nine pink presents and the fun Bible verse guessing game we played, was that I got to share the day with a new friend I have made in Afghanistan who was also born on the eleventh of March, too. Even though we were away from home and family and friends, surrounded by our Bagram community, both of us felt very loved.
Turning twenty-nine, like turning any other age, is certainly a milestone, one in which we take stock and decide if the ways we have been traveling our journeys are worthy of continuation. Reflecting on what “twenty-nine” might mean for me, I take great comfort that I have had one of the best examples to learn from over the years. If I live my twenty-ninth year, and all the years to come, like my grandmother has demonstrated, I know, whenever I look back in reflection or forward with expectation, I will never be disappointed.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
A Holy Roadmap - Sunday Sermon, March 11, 2012
Chaplain Mel Baars
March 11, 2012
Exodus 20:1-17
“A Holy Roadmap”
There are certain subjects and scripture passages that most preachers try to avoid, at least most of the time. It’s not so much because of their potential for controversy, but more for their propensity toward being trite. This must be the reason that in all the years I have been preaching, I have cleverly avoided a sermon on the Ten Commandments. In part, I have been wise enough to recognize that preaching on all ten is rather ambitious. Each one alone lends itself to an entire sermon. I also acknowledge that preaching on this subject implicates me and my own disobedience to most of them in any given week, and especially here.
Can there really be a Sabbath day during deployment? I just don’t think a “Low Battle Morning” was what God had in mind when saying, “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day… you shall not do any work- you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns.” Somehow, I doubt our commanders would appreciate any insistence on our part to walk away from our jobs for a full day, not when the mission is non-stop, 24/7. God does have a bit of a point though. If the Lord could make the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, all in six days, and then rest on the seventh day, you would think we could follow suit. But, even if we set the whole Sabbath thing aside for this year, it’s not only this one commandment that I am guilty of ignoring. There is also that “shrine” I have in my room, a pile of random objects, including a very special pink blender, left behind by friends from this deployment who have gone home for good. It is how I have promised to remember them. It is mostly a joke. I don’t pray to it, but that doesn’t mean that I am not culpable of putting other things before my relationship with God, to include but not limited to the fact that I often fall asleep watching NCIS and totally forget to pray. If I really examine each commandment, I might discover, at least on some days, that I don’t really follow any of them fully, at least not in their spirit.
The Ten Commandments are some of the oldest words we have preserved in our Bibles, so old that they were most certainly heard long before they were ever written down and read out loud. Scholars agree that they bear marks of an oral tradition simply based on their number. Ten. We each have ten fingers, hopefully- an always available, built-in device for keeping count. Their grammatical structure also helps in remembering. “You shall not...” fill in the blank, depending on the finger.
Yet, here I am preaching on the Ten Commandments and even now I am not sure that I could tell you all ten without cheating. But, using your hands actually helps, if you think of your hands as the two tablets themselves. The first tablet, with the exception of the last finger, is all about our relationship with God- having no other gods but God, idolatry, not using God’s name in vain, keeping God’s day holy. These are the ways to be in right relationship with God. The other tablet, plus a thumb, is all about our relationships with our neighbors, honoring our parents, not murdering or committing adultery, not stealing or lying or coveting. Doing these things are the ways to be in good relationships with our neighbors. God and neighbor, does this sound familiar?
In the twelfth chapter of Mark’s gospel, Jesus is asked by a scribe to name the first and greatest commandment. Jesus sums up the first four of the Ten Commandments, the ones pertaining to God, by quoting perhaps Israel’s most recited verses, the Shema from Deuteronomy 6:4-5. He says this, “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” Then without even skipping a beat, Jesus transitions right into the other six of the Ten Commandments, the ones pertaining to neighbors by quoting Leviticus 19:18. He says, “The second is this, you shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.” The two are inextricably bound. We can’t truly love God, if we don’t also endeavor to love our neighbors, and we don’t really know how to love one another without loving God first. There is no one without the other. They cannot be understood separately, apart from the other, and nothing else, no rule, no verse, no teaching is more important than these.
Where I come from in the Deep South, the Ten Commandments have often caused quite a stir. There are certain folks who think that the commandments should be posted up in courthouses and other government buildings, and they get really upset with the ACLU comes through town and attempts, often successfully, to take them down. For years as I was growing up, I didn’t think twice about the Ten Commandments being posted for all the world to see and remember. Why wouldn’t we all want to follow them, even people who aren’t from a Judeo-Christian background? They promote good morals and help maintain order within society. Who in their right mind would be opposed to that?
Nevertheless, reducing the Ten Commandments to some kind of moral guideline really misses their point altogether, while also cheapening their significance. Because the law, the Torah in Hebrew, didn’t just signify “law,” as we understand it today. When we think of “law,” we think along the lines of crime and punishment, rules which citizens either abide by or transgress upon, depending on their good or questionable character. When the law is kept, nobody gets in trouble. All is well. When the law is broken, the offender faces the necessary punishment. For instance, if I go speeding down Disney Rd at a dangerous high speed of 35 kilometers per hour, which in “American” is about 22 miles per hour- how reckless of me- we know there will be some hell to pay. My commander will not appreciate his vehicle being confiscated and taken off the road for 30 days or whatever the policy is. So, the purpose of abiding by the speed limit law, at least here in Bagram, is not getting in trouble.
But, consider for a moment the Psalm that we just read together. “The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul, the decrees of the Lord are sure, making wise the simple; the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart; More to be desired are they than gold, sweeter also than honey (Psalm 19:7-8,10).” Does that sound like the way that you and I would describe our laws, speed limit laws or any other law for that matter? I don’t think so.
“Law” as the Hebrew people understood it had a deeper significance. Torah also meant “teaching” and “direction.” These commandments weren’t just another set of rules to follow, a way to avoid getting in trouble with the authorities, in this case, with the highest authority. But, these teachings were a way of life, a roadmap which gave God’s people a path through the wilderness. This was the way they would survive whatever life was waiting for them, because goodness knows, there would be days when the wilderness would be so dark that they wouldn’t be able to see a hand in front of their face. There would be moments when the world’s logic would not suffice, when they would doubt their purpose, doubt their journey altogether. These commandments, God’s very own proclamation about just who God was and just what God desired for this beloved community, were all God’s people had to grasp when there was little else to hold them firmly to the ground. These teachings were a precious gift, not a burden, not even close.
In a world of structure like ours, particularly in the military, ten more rules, no matter how helpful, may feel more like a burden than a gift-- just more constraint, more ways of being bound. But, if we stop thinking about them along the lines of additional rules and instead consider them as ten teachings which guide us in the way of good, full life, we may be surprised. However much our culture tempts us, to dream, to covet, really, the next generation iPhone or the newest model of luxury vehicle, or just to work a little more, to be that much more productive so we can get ahead, to think that through money or power or prestige or status, we may find satisfaction and contentment, these teachings maintain a steady counter argument. One commentator puts it this way. It is as if God is saying to us, “Trust me... Those other teachings are not good for you. The life you think they bring you is not real life.”[1] It’s not real joy. It’s not real peace.
The Ten Commandments were and still are a means by which we learn faithfulness, true faithfulness in a world where it is too easy to forget God altogether. Good order within society and a straighter moral compass may be an additional bonus when following these teachings, but morality is not the real goal. Loving God and neighbor, living our lives well, very well, as was intended by God from the very beginning, this is what results when we follow this holy roadmap.
In this season of wilderness, when it is easy to be lost in ways of death, rather than found in ways of life, may we discover the gift of God’s ten teachings, of God’s direction for us which ultimately sets us all free. God’s word is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path. May we follow this light, sharing it with one another as we continue on this journey. Amen
[1] Barbara Brown Taylor. “Third Sunday in Lent: Exodus 20:1-17.” Feasting on the Word. pp 74-79
March 11, 2012
Exodus 20:1-17
“A Holy Roadmap”
There are certain subjects and scripture passages that most preachers try to avoid, at least most of the time. It’s not so much because of their potential for controversy, but more for their propensity toward being trite. This must be the reason that in all the years I have been preaching, I have cleverly avoided a sermon on the Ten Commandments. In part, I have been wise enough to recognize that preaching on all ten is rather ambitious. Each one alone lends itself to an entire sermon. I also acknowledge that preaching on this subject implicates me and my own disobedience to most of them in any given week, and especially here.
Can there really be a Sabbath day during deployment? I just don’t think a “Low Battle Morning” was what God had in mind when saying, “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day… you shall not do any work- you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns.” Somehow, I doubt our commanders would appreciate any insistence on our part to walk away from our jobs for a full day, not when the mission is non-stop, 24/7. God does have a bit of a point though. If the Lord could make the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, all in six days, and then rest on the seventh day, you would think we could follow suit. But, even if we set the whole Sabbath thing aside for this year, it’s not only this one commandment that I am guilty of ignoring. There is also that “shrine” I have in my room, a pile of random objects, including a very special pink blender, left behind by friends from this deployment who have gone home for good. It is how I have promised to remember them. It is mostly a joke. I don’t pray to it, but that doesn’t mean that I am not culpable of putting other things before my relationship with God, to include but not limited to the fact that I often fall asleep watching NCIS and totally forget to pray. If I really examine each commandment, I might discover, at least on some days, that I don’t really follow any of them fully, at least not in their spirit.
The Ten Commandments are some of the oldest words we have preserved in our Bibles, so old that they were most certainly heard long before they were ever written down and read out loud. Scholars agree that they bear marks of an oral tradition simply based on their number. Ten. We each have ten fingers, hopefully- an always available, built-in device for keeping count. Their grammatical structure also helps in remembering. “You shall not...” fill in the blank, depending on the finger.
Yet, here I am preaching on the Ten Commandments and even now I am not sure that I could tell you all ten without cheating. But, using your hands actually helps, if you think of your hands as the two tablets themselves. The first tablet, with the exception of the last finger, is all about our relationship with God- having no other gods but God, idolatry, not using God’s name in vain, keeping God’s day holy. These are the ways to be in right relationship with God. The other tablet, plus a thumb, is all about our relationships with our neighbors, honoring our parents, not murdering or committing adultery, not stealing or lying or coveting. Doing these things are the ways to be in good relationships with our neighbors. God and neighbor, does this sound familiar?
In the twelfth chapter of Mark’s gospel, Jesus is asked by a scribe to name the first and greatest commandment. Jesus sums up the first four of the Ten Commandments, the ones pertaining to God, by quoting perhaps Israel’s most recited verses, the Shema from Deuteronomy 6:4-5. He says this, “Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” Then without even skipping a beat, Jesus transitions right into the other six of the Ten Commandments, the ones pertaining to neighbors by quoting Leviticus 19:18. He says, “The second is this, you shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.” The two are inextricably bound. We can’t truly love God, if we don’t also endeavor to love our neighbors, and we don’t really know how to love one another without loving God first. There is no one without the other. They cannot be understood separately, apart from the other, and nothing else, no rule, no verse, no teaching is more important than these.
Where I come from in the Deep South, the Ten Commandments have often caused quite a stir. There are certain folks who think that the commandments should be posted up in courthouses and other government buildings, and they get really upset with the ACLU comes through town and attempts, often successfully, to take them down. For years as I was growing up, I didn’t think twice about the Ten Commandments being posted for all the world to see and remember. Why wouldn’t we all want to follow them, even people who aren’t from a Judeo-Christian background? They promote good morals and help maintain order within society. Who in their right mind would be opposed to that?
Nevertheless, reducing the Ten Commandments to some kind of moral guideline really misses their point altogether, while also cheapening their significance. Because the law, the Torah in Hebrew, didn’t just signify “law,” as we understand it today. When we think of “law,” we think along the lines of crime and punishment, rules which citizens either abide by or transgress upon, depending on their good or questionable character. When the law is kept, nobody gets in trouble. All is well. When the law is broken, the offender faces the necessary punishment. For instance, if I go speeding down Disney Rd at a dangerous high speed of 35 kilometers per hour, which in “American” is about 22 miles per hour- how reckless of me- we know there will be some hell to pay. My commander will not appreciate his vehicle being confiscated and taken off the road for 30 days or whatever the policy is. So, the purpose of abiding by the speed limit law, at least here in Bagram, is not getting in trouble.
But, consider for a moment the Psalm that we just read together. “The law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul, the decrees of the Lord are sure, making wise the simple; the precepts of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart; More to be desired are they than gold, sweeter also than honey (Psalm 19:7-8,10).” Does that sound like the way that you and I would describe our laws, speed limit laws or any other law for that matter? I don’t think so.
“Law” as the Hebrew people understood it had a deeper significance. Torah also meant “teaching” and “direction.” These commandments weren’t just another set of rules to follow, a way to avoid getting in trouble with the authorities, in this case, with the highest authority. But, these teachings were a way of life, a roadmap which gave God’s people a path through the wilderness. This was the way they would survive whatever life was waiting for them, because goodness knows, there would be days when the wilderness would be so dark that they wouldn’t be able to see a hand in front of their face. There would be moments when the world’s logic would not suffice, when they would doubt their purpose, doubt their journey altogether. These commandments, God’s very own proclamation about just who God was and just what God desired for this beloved community, were all God’s people had to grasp when there was little else to hold them firmly to the ground. These teachings were a precious gift, not a burden, not even close.
In a world of structure like ours, particularly in the military, ten more rules, no matter how helpful, may feel more like a burden than a gift-- just more constraint, more ways of being bound. But, if we stop thinking about them along the lines of additional rules and instead consider them as ten teachings which guide us in the way of good, full life, we may be surprised. However much our culture tempts us, to dream, to covet, really, the next generation iPhone or the newest model of luxury vehicle, or just to work a little more, to be that much more productive so we can get ahead, to think that through money or power or prestige or status, we may find satisfaction and contentment, these teachings maintain a steady counter argument. One commentator puts it this way. It is as if God is saying to us, “Trust me... Those other teachings are not good for you. The life you think they bring you is not real life.”[1] It’s not real joy. It’s not real peace.
The Ten Commandments were and still are a means by which we learn faithfulness, true faithfulness in a world where it is too easy to forget God altogether. Good order within society and a straighter moral compass may be an additional bonus when following these teachings, but morality is not the real goal. Loving God and neighbor, living our lives well, very well, as was intended by God from the very beginning, this is what results when we follow this holy roadmap.
In this season of wilderness, when it is easy to be lost in ways of death, rather than found in ways of life, may we discover the gift of God’s ten teachings, of God’s direction for us which ultimately sets us all free. God’s word is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path. May we follow this light, sharing it with one another as we continue on this journey. Amen
[1] Barbara Brown Taylor. “Third Sunday in Lent: Exodus 20:1-17.” Feasting on the Word. pp 74-79
Friday, March 9, 2012
A Family Meal
“So, come to this table, you who have much faith and you who would like to have more; you who have been here often and you who have not been for a long time; you who have tried to follow Jesus, and you who have failed. Come. It is Christ who invites us to meet him here.” -Iona Worship Book
My first week of life in Afghanistan passed me by as if it were a whirlwind. Besides the hours I spent in the bunker after our first rocket attack, the only moment which remains clear was when I was not able to take communion at the Protestant church service that first Sunday morning. Perhaps it was my dismay over being forced to stay in my seat rather than participate in the holy meal which prompted me to preside weekly over a service of communion open to everyone. Growing up in the Episcopal church meant that I took communion every Sunday. The bread and wine were a regular part of worship. Admittedly, there were times when I wished that we could speed through the liturgy and prayers of the people and just get to the eating and the drinking, but I never thought twice about whether or not I was welcome at God’s table.
Churches and denominations have different ways of inviting God’s people to the holy table. Many open to the table to those who have been baptized, some narrow the invitation so far to require membership in one sect of the denomination or even one particular church, but I wonder how it is that any of us can figure who exactly it is that God invites to the table. If Jesus gives us any inkling through his actions and acquaintances, it would seem that no one should be left behind. It is, after all, God’s table and not any of ours.
Having been given the 8:30 AM service slot, I never expect a large attendance. Instead, I have come to feel that our service of holy communion is a lot like sharing a meal with a group of friends. We can all fit around one table, and there is always room for one or two more. We notice when people are missing, but we trust that they will return when they are hungry. For quite a few of our regular attendees, Sunday morning is the only opportunity to sleep in all week. Sometimes sleep is what they need most, and I reiterate that when I see them later at lunch or in their office when I come by to visit. Sometimes, though, hunger for the bread of life wakes us up, even when we would rather be sleeping. Sometimes, we have no choice but to find our way back to that table, even if it has been a very long time.
As well as I know soldiers and their families in some cases, I often don’t know a lot about their faith backgrounds. This may seem odd, since my whole job revolves around faith. But in an environment where work and stress seem to reign, there are many other things which clutter our conversations. In some ways, these are easier topics to broach. Our faith, or lack thereof, even more than family woes or frustration over a work relationship, reveals some of our inmost hidden thoughts. Often times, these are easier left buried than unearthed for public scrutiny.
A few Sunday’s ago, one of my soldiers joined our service for the first time. I made assumptions about him, as I do about most, based on knowledge of his family, his reputation within our unit and our relationship over the course of these last ten months. After the service, I watched as he lingered, helping to put away Bibles and straighten out chairs. When he finally had a moment to pull me aside, he let me know that this was the first time in years that he had taken communion. Though he regularly attended church with his wife, because she was Catholic, he was not permitted to partake in the meal. Over his years of remaining in the pews, he had gotten used to it. He had even accepted that he was not worthy of communion. He had not followed Jesus well enough. He had made many mistakes. As far as he was concerned, he belonged in his seat in the pews and not in a seat at God’s banquet.
But, the strangest thing had happened in the middle of our service. As much as he was determined not to take part in communion, his heart was moved differently. When he heard the words of invitation to the table-- for those who had much faith and those who wanted to have more; for those who had been to the table often, and those who had not been for a long time; for those who had tried to follow Jesus, and for those who had failed-- he realized that he was welcome, too. For the first time in a long, long while, he stood up and walked forward to taste and know God’s gifts of bread and wine.
I started using this invitation, found in the Iona Worship Book, one Sunday morning because I knew that one of the people coming to service that day had grown up in the church but, as an adult, had drifted away, not from God, but from the institution. I wanted her to know that even though it had been a while, she was still welcome at God’s table. She was always welcome. Since that Sunday, now months ago, I have continued to speak these words as we prepare for communion; they articulate God’s beckoning to us better than any others I have heard uttered. Because I never know just who will join us each Sunday for our family meal, who may need to be reminded that God’s welcome is broader than we often imagine, these words have become the centerpiece for our worship. We all need to hear them, to remember the grace God extends to us, whoever we are, wherever we have been.
Thanks be to God.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Forever Blessed - Sunday Sermon, March 4, 2012
Chaplain Mel Baars
March 4, 2012
Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16
“Forever Blessed”
Not every church includes a “children’s sermon” as a part of worship which is a shame. More often than not, the children’s sermon turns out to be a moment of real comedy, no matter how much work and effort the pastor has put into preparing. Long before I, myself, was saddled with the difficult task of coming up with a children’s sermon, I remember a children’s sermon on God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah. Too add to the potential for comedy, our assistant pastor’s name was “Sara.” This turned out to create a bit of a stir with one of the children. When the minister mentioned that Sarah was 90 years old, one little girl jumped up and said quite loudly, pointing to our Sara, “You don’t look THAT old.” Of course, the congregation erupted in laughter. There wasn’t much chance of recovering the rest of the children’s sermon at that point.
The story of the covenant between God and Abraham and Sarah is full of surprises, the greatest surprise, no doubt Sarah’s, that she would have a son, at 90 years old. Our lectionary for today only gives us bits and pieces of this incredible journey with God. Particularly, in these verses, Abram and Sarai are given their new names. It is an exciting moment because not only do Abram and Sarai get new names, so does God. For the first time in scripture, God says, “I am God Almighty.” These new names, all three of them, have a solidifying effect on their relationship. Now that this naming as taken place, there is no going back. God, Abraham and Sarah belong to one another from this point forward until forever.
We can’t really understand these particular versus about frutifulness and blessing without looking at their whole story. This was not the first time that God had called upon this couple. This was not the first time that God had made a promise about progeny. It was actually the third instance that God called and promised that this aged, barren couple would be ancestors to many nations.
Twenty-four years had passed since Abraham and Sarah first heard God’s voice. Some might say, twenty-four very long years. Twenty-four years of waiting for God to make good on a promise. And it’s not like Abraham and Sarah had been sitting around in these years, relaxing in their Cracker Barrel rocking chairs, living the good life. In their seventies, they up and moved to a strange land away from everything and everyone they knew, which wasn’t like moving to Florida to live in a retirement village equipped with an option for 24 hour care. This was like moving to the Mohave Desert with without the camper, just a backpack and a tent. It took a great leap of faith for them to go in the first place. And, it took even more faith to continue believing in God and God’s promise, day after day, for these twenty-four long years.
It should be no real surprise to any of us that during this time they experienced moments of serious doubt. The whole scenario was pretty farfetched from the outset. And then, as days turned to weeks, and then weeks into months, and then months into years with no sign that God’s promise was going to be fulfilled, they must have grown tired of waiting. In our day and age, waiting has become an almost impossible discipline. With our smart phones, constant email, texting, and more, I find it hard to wait even a twenty-four hours to hear back from an email or a phone call. So twenty-four years is just about unfathomable.
It’s no wonder that along the way Abraham and Sarah experienced their shares of doubt, so much so that they each took matters into their own hands. Abraham, fearing his life at the hands of Pharaoh, convinced Sarah to lie and pretend that she was his sister, instead of his wife. That didn’t turn out very well. Sarah, about a decade after God first made the promise to her, persuaded Abraham to “hook up” with her maidservant Hagar. In doing so, Abraham had a son, Ishmael. None of us could blame Sarah for her impatience. She was in her eighties, after all, not really in the position to bear a child, even with God’s help.
In this story, it is important for us to acknowledge just what is divine versus human action. Giving Hagar to Abraham was Sarah’s idea, not God’s. And, sure enough, her plan didn’t work out as she hoped. Later in the story, from a place of jealousy, Sarah tries to do away with both mother and child. While she has no concern for them at all, God’s care remains steady. In fact, God also makes Hagar and Ishmael their own promise, that they will be a great nation, too. A blessing for Issac AND a blessing for Ishmael, it seems that God has more than just one blessing to give.
The text for the second Sunday of Lent seems rather fortuitous in the wake of our last few weeks here, the lack of understanding between religion and culture and the violence which has ensued because of it. Thousands of years later, here we are, struggling over what some might deem as the aftermath of Sarah’s actions so long ago. But as much as Sarah and Hagar appear to be at odds with one another, enemies per se, God loves both of them and their offspring just the same. God blesses both of them.
Some of you may be wondering why God decided to save Hagar and Ishmael that day in the wilderness. Without God’s intervention, they may not have survived. Subsequently, we may not have been faced with conflict between Islam and Christianity over the last 1500 years. If Ishmael had not lived, maybe this region would not have the same conflict and strife. Maybe we wouldn’t even be right here today.
But, if the story sheds any light on why God does what God does, what we see is no matter what difficult, even unjust situations that we humans mastermind, God remains faithful to life, any life, making something out of nothing, fashioning something good and new from what we have discarded and trampled. What we see in this story is this-- God honors life, whatever life there is, because that is what God does. God’s love is not merely available to whom we would choose. The ranks of God’s people are not contained by our idea of who is good and who isn’t, of who is worthy and who is not. It is a multitude of people and nations which God projects will come from Abraham, not just one one kind of people with one kind of opinion. And this is where God’s grace becomes a hard pill for some of us to swallow. Grace is not ours to bestow. It belongs to God, and God does what God sees fit. Even when Sarah didn’t think that Hagar and Ishmael’s lives were worth saving, God disagrees. God’s vision for this multitude of peoples and nations extends far beyond what Sarah can imagine.
Think about it for a minute. We are so busy wondering about what would have happened if Hagar and Ishmael never existed that we fail envision an even better end to this story. What if, in a moment of contrition, Sarah would have realized the damage she had done when she cast this mother and child out of the protection of Abraham’s tent? What if Sarah would have gone out to them and welcomed them back home. What if Sarah had asked for forgiveness right then, reconciling herself with Hagar and Ishmael? What if she would have opened her heart and loved Hagar instead of throwing her away?
We can’t really know whether or not such kindness would have smoothed over the wounds that had been made. One thing is for sure, such a gesture would have made space for peace between the two women and their sons. It would have been ground for something good. It would have been walking in God’s way. It would have been faithful to the spirit of God’s blessing.
The good news is the covenant that God made with Abraham and by extension with us, can’t be broken by our waywardness, by our inability to truly “walk before God and be blameless.” In our weakness, in our times of doubt when we take matters into our own hands, instead of waiting and trusting that what God has promised will come true, God continues to reach out to us and make a way for us that is good and right and just.
Part of what we discover in Abraham’s saga is that as much as God has promised us blessing, God also asks something of us: our hearts, our minds, and our souls. Nothing less than this. And, when we fail to give this freely, God doesn’t just accept our terms, our haphazard efforts. Instead, God reframes our story, based upon divine terms. God gives us a new chance, a new way, to reconcile all that has gone awry by our action and, in some cases, our inaction. This is the opportunity that God gives us, even now.
This is what Lent is all about, turning back toward God by making right what we have done wrong, by moving back toward God and the gifts of God’s kingdom, all the while shedding those things which only make our lives darker. God promised Abraham and Sarah a blessing of abundant life manifested through many generations, many peoples, and many nations. With this promise of blessing also came a call by God to “walk before me and be blameless.” Neither Abraham nor Sarah could fully live up to it. They failed on many days just as we fail, neglecting to honor God’s blessing in our lives, choosing to cast away instead of love, damaging others rather than building them up. But, even when our human ways are destructive, God doesn’t take the blessing back. This promise, this covenant, is forever, not dependent on us or our obedience but given to us through a grace which has no end. May we so believe it. Amen
March 4, 2012
Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16
“Forever Blessed”
Not every church includes a “children’s sermon” as a part of worship which is a shame. More often than not, the children’s sermon turns out to be a moment of real comedy, no matter how much work and effort the pastor has put into preparing. Long before I, myself, was saddled with the difficult task of coming up with a children’s sermon, I remember a children’s sermon on God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah. Too add to the potential for comedy, our assistant pastor’s name was “Sara.” This turned out to create a bit of a stir with one of the children. When the minister mentioned that Sarah was 90 years old, one little girl jumped up and said quite loudly, pointing to our Sara, “You don’t look THAT old.” Of course, the congregation erupted in laughter. There wasn’t much chance of recovering the rest of the children’s sermon at that point.
The story of the covenant between God and Abraham and Sarah is full of surprises, the greatest surprise, no doubt Sarah’s, that she would have a son, at 90 years old. Our lectionary for today only gives us bits and pieces of this incredible journey with God. Particularly, in these verses, Abram and Sarai are given their new names. It is an exciting moment because not only do Abram and Sarai get new names, so does God. For the first time in scripture, God says, “I am God Almighty.” These new names, all three of them, have a solidifying effect on their relationship. Now that this naming as taken place, there is no going back. God, Abraham and Sarah belong to one another from this point forward until forever.
We can’t really understand these particular versus about frutifulness and blessing without looking at their whole story. This was not the first time that God had called upon this couple. This was not the first time that God had made a promise about progeny. It was actually the third instance that God called and promised that this aged, barren couple would be ancestors to many nations.
Twenty-four years had passed since Abraham and Sarah first heard God’s voice. Some might say, twenty-four very long years. Twenty-four years of waiting for God to make good on a promise. And it’s not like Abraham and Sarah had been sitting around in these years, relaxing in their Cracker Barrel rocking chairs, living the good life. In their seventies, they up and moved to a strange land away from everything and everyone they knew, which wasn’t like moving to Florida to live in a retirement village equipped with an option for 24 hour care. This was like moving to the Mohave Desert with without the camper, just a backpack and a tent. It took a great leap of faith for them to go in the first place. And, it took even more faith to continue believing in God and God’s promise, day after day, for these twenty-four long years.
It should be no real surprise to any of us that during this time they experienced moments of serious doubt. The whole scenario was pretty farfetched from the outset. And then, as days turned to weeks, and then weeks into months, and then months into years with no sign that God’s promise was going to be fulfilled, they must have grown tired of waiting. In our day and age, waiting has become an almost impossible discipline. With our smart phones, constant email, texting, and more, I find it hard to wait even a twenty-four hours to hear back from an email or a phone call. So twenty-four years is just about unfathomable.
It’s no wonder that along the way Abraham and Sarah experienced their shares of doubt, so much so that they each took matters into their own hands. Abraham, fearing his life at the hands of Pharaoh, convinced Sarah to lie and pretend that she was his sister, instead of his wife. That didn’t turn out very well. Sarah, about a decade after God first made the promise to her, persuaded Abraham to “hook up” with her maidservant Hagar. In doing so, Abraham had a son, Ishmael. None of us could blame Sarah for her impatience. She was in her eighties, after all, not really in the position to bear a child, even with God’s help.
In this story, it is important for us to acknowledge just what is divine versus human action. Giving Hagar to Abraham was Sarah’s idea, not God’s. And, sure enough, her plan didn’t work out as she hoped. Later in the story, from a place of jealousy, Sarah tries to do away with both mother and child. While she has no concern for them at all, God’s care remains steady. In fact, God also makes Hagar and Ishmael their own promise, that they will be a great nation, too. A blessing for Issac AND a blessing for Ishmael, it seems that God has more than just one blessing to give.
The text for the second Sunday of Lent seems rather fortuitous in the wake of our last few weeks here, the lack of understanding between religion and culture and the violence which has ensued because of it. Thousands of years later, here we are, struggling over what some might deem as the aftermath of Sarah’s actions so long ago. But as much as Sarah and Hagar appear to be at odds with one another, enemies per se, God loves both of them and their offspring just the same. God blesses both of them.
Some of you may be wondering why God decided to save Hagar and Ishmael that day in the wilderness. Without God’s intervention, they may not have survived. Subsequently, we may not have been faced with conflict between Islam and Christianity over the last 1500 years. If Ishmael had not lived, maybe this region would not have the same conflict and strife. Maybe we wouldn’t even be right here today.
But, if the story sheds any light on why God does what God does, what we see is no matter what difficult, even unjust situations that we humans mastermind, God remains faithful to life, any life, making something out of nothing, fashioning something good and new from what we have discarded and trampled. What we see in this story is this-- God honors life, whatever life there is, because that is what God does. God’s love is not merely available to whom we would choose. The ranks of God’s people are not contained by our idea of who is good and who isn’t, of who is worthy and who is not. It is a multitude of people and nations which God projects will come from Abraham, not just one one kind of people with one kind of opinion. And this is where God’s grace becomes a hard pill for some of us to swallow. Grace is not ours to bestow. It belongs to God, and God does what God sees fit. Even when Sarah didn’t think that Hagar and Ishmael’s lives were worth saving, God disagrees. God’s vision for this multitude of peoples and nations extends far beyond what Sarah can imagine.
Think about it for a minute. We are so busy wondering about what would have happened if Hagar and Ishmael never existed that we fail envision an even better end to this story. What if, in a moment of contrition, Sarah would have realized the damage she had done when she cast this mother and child out of the protection of Abraham’s tent? What if Sarah would have gone out to them and welcomed them back home. What if Sarah had asked for forgiveness right then, reconciling herself with Hagar and Ishmael? What if she would have opened her heart and loved Hagar instead of throwing her away?
We can’t really know whether or not such kindness would have smoothed over the wounds that had been made. One thing is for sure, such a gesture would have made space for peace between the two women and their sons. It would have been ground for something good. It would have been walking in God’s way. It would have been faithful to the spirit of God’s blessing.
The good news is the covenant that God made with Abraham and by extension with us, can’t be broken by our waywardness, by our inability to truly “walk before God and be blameless.” In our weakness, in our times of doubt when we take matters into our own hands, instead of waiting and trusting that what God has promised will come true, God continues to reach out to us and make a way for us that is good and right and just.
Part of what we discover in Abraham’s saga is that as much as God has promised us blessing, God also asks something of us: our hearts, our minds, and our souls. Nothing less than this. And, when we fail to give this freely, God doesn’t just accept our terms, our haphazard efforts. Instead, God reframes our story, based upon divine terms. God gives us a new chance, a new way, to reconcile all that has gone awry by our action and, in some cases, our inaction. This is the opportunity that God gives us, even now.
This is what Lent is all about, turning back toward God by making right what we have done wrong, by moving back toward God and the gifts of God’s kingdom, all the while shedding those things which only make our lives darker. God promised Abraham and Sarah a blessing of abundant life manifested through many generations, many peoples, and many nations. With this promise of blessing also came a call by God to “walk before me and be blameless.” Neither Abraham nor Sarah could fully live up to it. They failed on many days just as we fail, neglecting to honor God’s blessing in our lives, choosing to cast away instead of love, damaging others rather than building them up. But, even when our human ways are destructive, God doesn’t take the blessing back. This promise, this covenant, is forever, not dependent on us or our obedience but given to us through a grace which has no end. May we so believe it. Amen
Friday, March 2, 2012
A Quiet Moment
Today is the first day since January that I have had a bit of space to be alone. Between spending last moments with friends preparing to leave this place for good or the myriad of crises which have plagued my unit over the past few weeks, I have been alone only when walking to and from appointments and meetings. We live on a fairly small camp, so there are always people around to greet and visit with momentarily. Being alone has proved difficult, particularly in my line of work. It’s my job to be with people, and there are always people who long for companionship or just a chance to get something off their chest with a safe listener. In these months, even my extroversion has been put to the test.
This morning, however, as I force myself to remain in my room for a few hours without the company of a favorite television program as a distraction, I find that being with myself, alone, has made me sad. The adjective “sad” seems rather juvenile. This is a describer that children often use to express their emotions as they are learning to differentiate between shades of feeling. “Sad,” might mean a whole spectrum of emotion from discomfort to sorrow to heaviness, yet when such a feeling descends upon one’s heart, sometimes it’s too painful to investigate it any further. Being “sad” is a simple name for a complex experience. The etymological journey of this word certainly reflects this fact. From Latin roots meaning “enough” to Old, Middle and now contemporary English, it has carried such meaning as “weary,” “weighty,” “steadfast,” “sober,” and “sorrowful,” this list somewhat in chronological order. It would seem that over time this word has not so much altered in meaning but just added dimensions along the way. On some level, being sad encapsulates all of these at once.
I am strangely grateful for my sadness this morning. In this rare moment of stillness, life has finally caught up with me, and I have had the space to feel the loss which I have been able to keep at bay by until now. Buffering oneself from grief is easy when there are so many distractions. But, I should feel sad, and probably more than just on a quarterly basis. We have sustained our own losses over these months. While they have not been through bodily death, for which I am deeply thankful, these losses have still been significant.
Recently, a few of soldiers had to go home without any notice. For those who work with them on a regular basis, their absence has been described as a kind of death, and a traumatic one at that because there was no warning, not even a chance to say good-bye. When people leave here, most of the time, they never return. On a cognitive level, we may realize that there will be a chance to see them sometime in the future, but on a more visceral level, because they are departed from this strange alternative universe we call “deployment,” it feels like they are gone from us forever.
When a friend with whom I often visited with in the bathroom- of all places, I know- went home because it was the end of her deployment, I literally stopped going to that bathroom. It was just too painful. I knew that I would look for her whenever I was there and hope that she might come in every time someone started to open the door. It was just easier to avoid this altogether by changing my habits and leaving the old ones behind. As ridiculous as this must sound, because it sounds completely silly as I write it down, it is a strange experience to feel such loss, when in reality, no actual loss has occurred. She is just in California.
But, even when a death has not taken place, loss still exists. Even now as I write, I listen to a “playlist” of South African choirs which was given to me by a dear friend in Cape Town. Whenever I listen to one particular song, it brings me back to a moment in my car which I shared with her on the way to my farewell luncheon. I remember us listening quietly and the feeling I felt then, that things would inevitably change once I got on the plane to travel back to the US, returns to me. I miss her as much now as I anticipated I would then. I know I can’t go back in the same way, even when I wish that I could.
For today, at least, I have allowed myself to miss the people and the places I have known and loved. They are surely worth my sadness for I know in many ways what I knew and loved of them has slipped through my fingers forever. Yet, even as I type, I remember that their threads are still part of me and mine a part of them. I also know that in surprising ways I will meet them again somewhere down the road, perhaps not as I could have ever expected. This doesn’t make me feel better right now. Life is sad at times. None of us are immune. But, that’s ok. It’s just the way it is.
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