Relationship, Respect, Resources: A Model for Mission

uganda school

This is the sermon I preached on Sunday, October 28, at First Church Simsbury.

 

Mark 10:46-52

Some of you know that this summer, with a team from First Church, I visited the clinic we helped establish in Masooli, Uganda. Our Masooli Project board is hosting a fundraising dinner for the Faith Mulira Health Care Center on Friday, November 9, to which those interested in supporting the clinic are invited. So, I have hoped to, in some way, feature the clinic in this morning’s worship service and sermon.

But every sermon should be rooted in the biblical text, so let’s begin with the story of Blind Bartimaeus from the gospel of Mark. In some ways this reads like many stories where Jesus heals someone who is sick or disabled. But there are a number of unique aspects of this particular story.

  • Not only is the blind man given a name, he is located in relationship. Bartimaeus son of Timaeus. It is fair to assume that Timaeus is someone who is known and provides a connection to Mark’s audience.
  • In the gospel of John Jesus heals a man born blind. Because this story does not say this, we might wonder if he wasn’t rendered blind from some trauma, illness or accident.
  • Bartimaeus strongly advocates for himself, repeatedly crying out, “Jesus, have mercy on me!”
  • Many among the disciples try to hush Bartimaeus, believing that Jesus should not be bothered with the likes of him.
  • And, when Jesus invites Bartimaeus to come forward, the beggar shows himself to be quite capable, springing up and throwing off his cloak.
  • And lastly, Bartimaeus simply names his need to see to Jesus, and Jesus responds, restoring his sight.

I suggest that these themes encapsulate an approach to giving that we might call: Relationship, Respect, and Resources.

Think of the ways we might respond to a beggar like Bartimaeus today, sitting on a sidewalk, loudly crying out for help and healing. We might see him as helpless and pitiable, broken and hopeless. In response we might drop some change in his cup, buy him some food, bring him to a shelter, or try to get him into a program that could help him live independently.

But just as we might want to “help” our modern-day Bartimaeus, we might also quietly judge him, wondering if he wasn’t somehow responsible for his situation. And our blame would likely lead us to distrust him. We might wonder if he was trying to manipulate our emotions, or outright scam us. Or, could he be mentally ill and dangerous?

The more we thought about these things, the more we might, like the disciples in the ancient story, talk ourselves out of responding to his need, and just wish he would be quiet.

While thoughts like these might have been behind the disciples’ hushing of Bartimaeus, Jesus thought nothing of the sort. Jesus took Bartimaeus as he presented himself, as a good, capable and competent man who had a particular need for help. So Jesus met his need.

Yesterday, First Church hosted an event put on by the Connecticut Conference of the United Church of Christ, called Reviving Justice. Following a spirited worship service participants attended presentations and panel discussions on a variety of justice issues. My colleague, Rev. Damaris Whittaker, was the Revival Preacher. Some will remember Pastor Whittaker; she participated in my installation and has preached here.

Now serving Fort Washington Collegiate Church in Manhattan, Pastor Whittaker has led her church on five mission trips to Puerto Rico since Hurricane Maria devastated the island a little more than a year ago. Herself Puerto Rican with family still on the island, Pastor Damaris provides a meaningful connection between her mission team and the people they were serving. They made their first trip there just as soon as commercial airlines resumed service, and they were the first ones to enter with relief supplies in some of the areas they visited. They went door to door, delivering non-perishable food and kits to purify drinking water. As they approached one of the central cities, they passed a hand-painted sign that read, “Los Olvidados,” The Forgotten Ones. Despite the complete absence of any government relief, the residents of the city were unwilling to wait passively for help. When they arrived, the church’s mission team found that the residents had already cleared the streets and highways themselves. Pastor Damaris describes being deeply moved when residents would end every encounter with the words, “We are alive, thanks be to God.”

Relationship, Respect, and Resources.

Note that these mission trips to Puerto Rico have many of the same qualities as Jesus’s encounter with Bartimaeus. The help provided is grounded in a personal relationship and respect. Even as leaders passed them by, like Bartimaeus, those that needed help proved to be faithful and capable advocates for themselves.

Which brings us to our mission to Uganda. Some of you know that the founding of the Masooli clinic began with a relationship between Nancy and Gordon Crouch and Faith Mulira. A nurse in Uganda, Faith fled the violence of Idi Amin’s regime and worked as a nurse’s aide here in Connecticut which is where she met Gordon and Nancy. Faith dreamed of returning to Uganda to open a clinic for people in her hometown of Masooli. And after lots of faith, hard work, and generosity from Gordon, Nancy and many others, the Faith Mulira Health Care Center opened its doors about twelve years ago.

Each year, our local board, the Masooli Project, has raised over half the income for the clinic. But no one from the church or board has been back to the clinic since it opened, until this summer.

Just as many in the crowd and among the disciples were quick to judge Bartimaeus, it would have been easy to question the work of the clinic, especially as the years went by without meeting the clinic staff face to face. In fact we had begun to ask seemingly reasonable questions. Is the money being well-managed? Is the staff well-trained and committed to their work? And most of all, is quality, affordable health care being delivered to those who need it most. Of course there is nothing wrong with these questions themselves, but without the respect that is born from relationships, the questions could imply suspicion and judgment.

I described the way we might react to a modern day Bartimaeus begging on the sidewalk, with pity and a desire to help, but also with suspicion and fear of being taken advantage of. I confess I wondered about these things when we set out on our 32 hour journey to Uganda.

Any doubts and judgements were quickly dispelled upon arriving at the clinic. Not only did we create new relationships, we were able to see the need with our own eyes. And just as Jesus respected Bartimaeus as able and competent, we got to see the entire clinic and its staff as extraordinarily capable. The clinic director, doctors, nurses, pharmacist, lab technician, and business manager were all the equivalent of their contemporaries in the United States, and the clinic functioned like a well-run American community health center.

And like Bartimaeus, through no fault of their own, the Faith Mulira Clinic simply lacks the resources necessary to entirely succeed on their own. Remember, I wondered whether some trauma had rendered Bartimaeus blind, unable to live independently. In Uganda we don’t need to wonder; the country suffered first under Idi Amin’s violent dictatorship, then experienced a series of civil wars that claimed hundreds of thousands of lives over decades. Though more stable now, the current government is also a dictatorship, and clinic staff joked with us that they might be jailed if they opposed the government.

I share this background because, like Bartimaeus, who maintained faith, hope, agency and competence despite the trauma that rendered him blind and dependent, so the people of Uganda in general and the clinic staff in particular, have likely experienced trauma unimaginable to us, yet remain extraordinarily faithful, hopeful, capable, and even cheerful. They lack only the resources to be successful on their own.

Relationship, Respect, and Resources.

As I said, on Friday, November 9, the Masooli Project board, of which I am a member, will be hosting a fundraising dinner. A video filmed and edited by son of the church Kirk Scully will debut there, and Karen Callahan, Heather Duncan and I will tell stories of our time there while showing some stunning photographs of our visit (you will see some of those photos displayed in Palmer Hall this morning). Those who attend the dinner will be asked to make a gift or pledge to support the clinic. There is an invitation in your bulletin, and you may rsvp to heather at the email address listed there.

Relationship, Respect, and Resources, a good model for our mission to the clinic in Uganda, an important model for stewardship, a faithful model for our lives, and an essential model for our world.

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Catholic Sex Abuse Scandals: Who Knew?

This is one of the more sensitive things I have ever posted about. So, let me first say to my Catholic brothers and sisters that I have enormous respect for the Catholic faith. I have attended any number of deeply meaningful mass, loved and been inspired by priests, nuns, and Catholic lay people, taken classes in religion at a Catholic university, and consider Catholic Liberation Theology to be foundational to my faith. The continuing sex abuse scandals break my heart, most of all for the victims, but also for all Catholics whose faith is being rocked to its core.

It is with all this in heart and mind that I say this. It appears that sex abuse has been so pervasive in the Catholic Church, for so many years, around the world, that it seems likely that few if any priests, bishops, or popes were unaware of its prominence. This does not necessarily mean that every cleric knew of particular instances of abuse, though many must have, but just about every clergy person must have known that such abuse was prevalent.

I was an officer in the Navy for seven years, from 1984-1991. I don’t know if this is still the case, but at the time, it was part of the Navy culture that when a ship would pull into port, many of the sailors, officers and enlisted, would head to the bars and engage the services of prostitutes. Tales would be told with great bravado of the wild times had with these “bar girls.” Of course not everyone participated in these activities, and some would quietly express their disapproval. But EVERYONE in the Navy knew that this behavior was pervasive. It was part of the fabric of Navy life, and went largely unchallenged.

I knew of the Navy culture that demeaned women through unbridled prostitution. I was present for some of it, attending shipboard parties in such bars. Though I never joined in the gleeful celebration of this behavior, I also never protested.

I am not saying that abusive priests would brag like a sailor about their predatory behavior. But I can only imagine that most priests knew that such behavior was part of the fabric of Catholicism. Many no doubt quietly disapproved, but did not actively challenge it.

Certainly, those who sexually abused anyone should be prosecuted to the full extent of civil and church law. And those who used their power to actively cover up such crimes should also be held accountable. And efforts at reform must acknowledge and confront that this is about so much more than some (a lot of) sinful priests, but that systemic and cultural issues underlie it all. I am hearing such acknowledgment in recent critiques of Catholic patriarchy and clericalism.

But, if I am correct in my assessment, there must also be a reckoning with the fact that many priests knew, dare I say, all priests knew, and few if any challenged the behavior or the institution. The silence of the presumed “innocent” perpetuated the sins of the guilty.

Any sincere effort at repentance and reform leading to forgiveness and healing must include this confession.

Of course I welcome any discussions of or challenges to this perspective.

 

Shane the Barber: Our Scars and God’s Mercy

haircut

This is the sermon I preached at First Church Simsbury on August 6, 2017.

Matthew 14:13-21, Genesis 32:22-31

In 2008 I had open heart surgery to repair a leaky valve. With no guarantees of whether I would live or die, entering that surgery was, hands down, the scariest time of my life. I lived, of course, but was left with a thick, red rope of a scar right down the middle of my breast bone. Though the scar has now faded considerably, for several years it served as a stark reminder of my vulnerability and fear.

I thought of my scar when I read this morning’s story about Jacob. I don’t have time to share Jacob’s entire back story, but in short, he was a scoundrel. First he manipulates his twin brother Esau into signing over the inheritance from their father, then Jacob tricks his father Isaac into blessing him instead of his brother. Understandably, Esau is enraged after twice being cheated by Jacob, causing Jacob to flee for his life. After living on the run for twenty years, Jacob finally decides to return home to face his brother. But still fearing for his life, he sends his wives, maids and children ahead without him and settles down for the night. There, the story says, he wrestled with a man until daybreak. Many scholars believe that this “man” represents God, but I would instead suggest that the man is a metaphor for Jacob’s failure and fear. As he anticipates seeing his brother 20 years after swindling him, Jacob is finally required to confront the suffering he has inflicted face to face. Though Jacob refuses to give in to his past failures, this “wrestler” strikes Jacob’s hip causing him to have a permanent limp.

 

The next morning, Jacob looks up to see Esau approaching. Esau runs to meet Jacob, embraces him, kisses him, and together they weep. But even after Jacob is forgiven by and reconciles with Esau, his limp will forever serve as a painful reminder of his former treachery. As my scar gives evidence of my once broken heart, so Jacob bears the mark of his brokenness.

Last Sunday, having just returned from our mission trip to Back Bay Mission in Biloxi, Mississippi, one of our church youth Mason Thomsen shared his testimony about an encounter with a homeless barber named Shane. Like this morning’s story about Jacob, this is a story about the scars we carry, and the fear and failure they represent. Both Shane’s and Jacob’s story also point us beyond our brokenness to acceptance and reconciliation.

It was our second day in Biloxi and my small group was scheduled to work at the Loaves and Fishes soup kitchen, preparing and serving a meal to Biloxi’s homeless. We pulled up in our minivan to park in a dirt lot across the street from Loaves and Fishes, and there, under a tree, just outside my driver’s side door, were two men. One was sitting on an upside down, five gallon paint bucket. The other, Shane, was standing behind him giving him a haircut, electric trimmers plugged into an electrical box on a lamppost. Shane was going about his business as if outside haircuts on paint buckets was the most normal thing in the world.

Those of you who heard me preach a sermon about my barber Elvis know that I take my haircuts seriously; and I know a good barber when I see one. The first thing I thought when I pulled up was that this guy knows what he’s doing. The second thing I thought was, I need a haircut. I had every intention of getting a haircut before I left Simsbury, but didn’t find the time, and was feeling a little shaggy. So, on impulse I asked, “Hey, can I get a haircut?”

Shane looked up from his work and it was then that I saw that he bears some terrible scars, big, thick and red like the one that once ran down the center of my chest. One side of his face was badly scarred, and one arm had extensive, deep, disfiguring scars. “Sure, he said, you’re next.”

His scars were jarring, but I was not deterred. I indicated to Shane that we would be across the street at Loaves and Fishes. Once there, we quickly got caught up chopping vegetables for salad and were soon serving lunch to a long line of hungry people. I hadn’t forgotten Shane and my promised haircut, but did begin to further analyze my impulsive request. In particular, I wondered how he cleaned his clippers and whether going from one homeless customer, to another, to me was a sure fire way to get head lice.

Just as I was pondering this very question, Shane came through the soup line and asked if I still wanted the haircut. “Um, sure, as soon as I’m done here,” I said, head lice be damned.

By the time we finished it was pouring rain outside, but there was Shane offering to cut my hair right in the entry way to Loaves and Fishes. I did ask him if he had a way to clean his clippers and he assured me that he did, and so began my haircut from Shane the Barber!

Mason and the other youth in my group soon gathered around to watch this odd spectacle, and Shane and I began to talk, the way you do with your barber. Shane said he wanted to be a barber all his life. When he was six years old he would go to a barber shop across the street from his Mom’s beauty parlor and help clean up, and he began learning the trade by watching the barbers there. As if it wasn’t already obvious, Shane soon confirmed that he had had what could politely be called a hard life. He had done hard-time in prison where he further honed his barbering skills by cutting other prisoners’ hair.

He soon volunteered the story behind his scars. He had been driving in his van with his girlfriend and they were having a terrible fight. He said he pulled his van over to the side of the road to “take five.” I took that to be something he had learned in an anger management class, meaning to step away from a volatile situation. Unfortunately, when he stepped away from his van, his girlfriend got behind the wheel and ran him over with it. He described getting pulled up into and through the wheel well before being dragged down the street under the van.

All the while, Shane continued to cut my hair, telling these dreadful stories the way my barber Elvis might talk about a Red Sox losing streak. But I could tell from the feel of the clippers on my head that I was in good hands.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“I don’t feel lucky,” he said. His implication was clear. He would have rather died that night than forever carry these scars as a constant reminder of his fear and failure.

Then the conversation turned.

“You guys are from a church.” Shane volunteered. “I used to lead my church choir. What songs do you know? How ‘bout this one.” And he began to sing.

He’s an on time God, yes he is.
He’s an on time God, yes he is.
He may not come when you want him,
But he’ll be there right on time
He’s an on time God, yes he is.

And that’s when I began to cry. Something about Shane, bearing the scars of all he had been through, singing about an on time God, really touched me.

So, this was the scene. Me, surrounded by five of our youth, getting my haircut in the entryway of a soup kitchen, hearing stories of unimaginable brutality told in the first person, Shane singing of a God that doesn’t come when you want him, but will be there right on time, and me weeping.

Saying that he hadn’t sung since his accident, Shane continued to sing songs we might know, encouraging us to join in. We knew a couple, like Lord Prepare Me to be a Sanctuary, and finally, my haircut done, Shane led Mason, Veronica, Justin, Julia and Thomas in singing a couple spirited verses of Glory, Glory, Hallelujah, When I Lay My Burden Down.

Think about those words in Shane’s mouth, Lord Prepare Me to be a Sanctuary, Glory, Glory, Hallelujah, When I Lay My Burden Down. With each new song I would shed more tears.

I paid Shane the price of a haircut, exchanged a bro hug, then the youth and I piled into the van and off we went.

Shane’s is the Jacob story retold. Shane has wrestled with his fear and failure and bears the marks of his brokenness. Though he has not yet experienced the face to face acceptance and reconciliation that Jacob did, he experiences these from God through his music. Jacob wept with Esau in response to the forgiveness he experienced, and I wept as a witness to that same experience of God’s mercy.

Our experiences of fear and failure don’t all leave visible marks. Some of us carry our scars on the inside and disguise our limp. But, I dare say, we’ve all got them, whether from encounters with loss, betrayal, condemnation, trauma or abuse, by the time we have lived to a certain age we will be required to wrestle with our shadow in the dark, and will leave these encounters with indelible evidence of our brokenness. And this isn’t a bad thing. Our scars and limps serve as a necessary reminder of our need for God’s grace and mercy.

And that mercy awaits each of us. Because we serve a God who doesn’t always come when we want him, but is always right on time. Glory, Glory, Hallelujah, When I Lay My Burdens Down. Amen.

 

Pentecost: Seen, Heard, Known, Accepted and Affirmed

fire 3

 

This is the sermon I preached at First Church Simsbury on Pentecost Sunday, June 4, 2017.

Note: At the end of each vignette, I describe a tongue of fire descending upon the story’s subject, symbolizing the Holy Spirit. Each time I preached these words, I lit and released a piece of flash paper, allowing it to rise into the sanctuary.

Acts 2:1-12

This is one of my favorite stories in the New Testament. Pentecost is the Greek name for the Jewish festival called Shavuot, or Festival of Weeks. Shavuot was a harvest festival, and also celebrates the giving of the Torah to Moses at Mount Sinai. Shavuot was also a pilgrimage festival, so in this morning’s story the streets of Jerusalem are crowed with diaspora Jews from around the Roman Empire.

Jesus has gone home to Papa, leaving the Apostles behind to figure things out for themselves. They are hanging out in a Jerusalem home when a mighty wind roars through the house and flames descend and alight upon each of them. Filled with the Holy Spirit, the Apostles begin to speak in other languages. Hearing the wind and seeing the flames, the crowd outside turns to see what is going on and, we are told, each person hears the Apostles speaking to them in their own language.

I have always interpreted this story to mean that the Holy Spirit empowers us to transcend our differences, and I have preached a variety of sermons on such themes. The naming of all the different nations offers a parallel to present day ethnic and racial differences. But I am led in a different direction this morning. Through the power of the Holy Spirit, each pilgrim there that day heard the word of God in a way that spoke directly to them. By hearing in their own language, each person understood that God saw them, heard them, knew them, accepted them, and affirmed them exactly as they are.

Have you ever felt alone in a crowd? Times when we are surrounded by apparently happy, fulfilled people while there we sit, unseen and unknown, consumed with our own troubles. I expect many of us have experienced times in our lives when it feels like no one understands us. There may be some here this morning who feel alone in this way.

Let’s look in on five people who were in that Jerusalem crowd that day. Maybe you will recognize them. Maybe you will recognize yourself.

There is a woman from Phrygia, distracted by her anxiety; her mind is churning from one worry to the next. She is a widow; the husband she loved, raised a family with, and enjoyed a good life with, died ten years ago. She now has two adult children and three grandchildren whom she loves dearly and who love her back. She had thought this would be all she needed to enjoy this autumn of her life. Though she owns her home, Social Security is her only source of income. Ten years ago this seemed like it would be enough. But she recently had to replace the roof on her house, and now her children have faced various crises that have required her to dip further into her savings to help them. Now she may have to sell her house, and her comfort and security in her remaining years is uncertain. All around her people are laughing and smiling, celebrating the bountiful wheat harvest, but she is consumed with thoughts of the scarcity in her life, and feels so alone. Then she hears a voice coming from a balcony up above her, a voice so familiar it is as if it is speaking to her alone. She looks up to see a tongue of fire descending upon her and hears, I see you, I hear you, I know, accept and affirm you. And for the first time in months she can breathe.

Across the street a Cappadocian is also feeling out of step with the revelry around him. He came to Jerusalem because he thought it might help him snap out of the funk he’s been in. There are mornings he can barely drag himself out of bed, and if he does succeed in getting out the door, he can’t focus on his work. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. It feels like he is stuck in a box, a very dark place that he can’t imagine ever getting out of. His doctor told him that he is depressed, but whenever he tells anyone that they tell him, just cheer up. Rather than making him feel better, being surrounded by all these happy people only makes him feel inadequate, embarrassed and ashamed. He feels so very alone. Then he hears a voice. Even though it comes from across the street he knows these words are for him. He looks up to see a flame descending upon him and hears, I see you, hear you, know you, accept you and affirm you. And for the first time in months he notices the sun, and he smiles.

A Mesopotamian rounds the corner and approaches the center of town. She almost knocks over a child because her mind is elsewhere. The child reminds her of when her own son was that age. It was a different time, one more innocent and free from constant anxiety and fear. She only wishes she knew where her son was. He has disappeared again, and given his schizophrenia and addictions he could be anywhere. He could be dead. This is her constant worry, that she will receive a message that he has died, alone. She has tried everything, from sending money to withholding it. From getting him the very best treatment available, to the tough love of letting him figure it out for himself. He will get better for a time; he is a brilliant, funny and caring man, then will slip back into his psychosis. It is heart breaking. Somehow, above the din of the crowd, a voice from above reaches her, piercing her heart. She looks up to see a flicker of fire alight over her head and hears, I see you, hear you, know you, accept you and affirm you. You are my beloved child. And she feels a warmth spreading through her body.

An Elamite couple has stopped in the shade of an Olive tree to share a piece of bread. They don’t speak to each other, but both think the same thing, that this bread is about all they share anymore. Neither is sure what went wrong. They were once young, carefree and in love. But all they seem to do anymore is argue, criticize and blame one another. They thought this trip to Jerusalem for the harvest festival might rekindle their love, but it has done nothing of the sort. Without his work to distract him, and their kids to take her mind off the fact that they seem to have so little in common anymore, it feels like a chore just to carry on a civil conversation. Though unspoken, they are both thinking about what it would mean to go their separate ways. His eye follows an attractive Parthian walking by, as she wonders about taking her kids and moving back in with her parents. But they are both lifted out of their daydreams by a gentle but clear voice addressing them, and they are startled to see a tongue of fire over each other’s head. The voice says, my dear troubled children, I see you, hear you, know your hearts, accept you, and affirm you. In a way they thought they’d forgotten, they reach out and give each other’s hand a squeeze.

In an alleyway between two buildings a young Egyptian woman sits squeezing her knees to her chest, shoulders heaving, tears running down her cheeks. She had left home to come to Jerusalem looking for something better. She had big dreams, but all she ever heard from her parents was that she wasn’t good enough. She was too independent and not pretty enough to attract a husband, and she was told she was an embarrassment to her family. So she left, but all she found was more of the same. No one takes her seriously, and when she does assert herself, men expect something in return.  Would she never be seen for the strong, smart, capable person God created her to be? Not wanting anyone to see her cry, she stepped into the alley, and that’s when she hears a voice and, looking up, sees a tongue of fire alight upon her. I see you, hear you, and know you are a magnificent creation of the divine. There is nothing you cannot do.

The flames remind us that through the power of the Holy Spirit, God knows each of us intimately and affirms us just as we are. This divine empathy is liberating. We are not alone in our troubles, never alone.

These five stories may not be your story. Or maybe you do find yourself in one of the Pentecost visitors to Jerusalem. Regardless, we are assured that a tongue of fire alights upon each of us, and God sees, hears, knows, accepts and affirms you this morning and always.

Of Russia Salve, Tiger Balm, and Gilead

This is the sermon I preached at First Church Simsbury on September 18, 2016.

Jeremiah 8:18-9:1

When I was in the Navy my ship made a port call in Singapore. In addition to drinking the obligatory Singapore Sling at Raffles Hotel, some shipmates and I visited a place called Tiger Balm Gardens.

This was a public garden full of colorful statues and dioramas depicting scenes from Chinese folklore, legends, and history. To this young American the Tiger Balm Garden seemed pretty cheesy, and was subject to lot of jokes from me and my shipmates, especially when we were funneled into the gift shop and pressed to buy Tiger Balm. Tiger Balm is a fragrant ointment that promises to soothe sore muscles, stiff necks, and arthritis pain. Like the gardens, Tiger Balm seemed exotic until I unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. I knew that smell! Vicks VapoRub!

Remember that? Who grew up having Vicks VapoRub rubbed on your chest or dabbed under your nose when you were congested with a cold? My mom would smear a big glob of Vicks on my chest then pin a wash cloth under my t-shirt, part of the magic, I assumed. Well, truth be told, I always hated mom’s treatments with Vicks VapoRub, and never used the little jar of Tiger Balm that I bought at the Tiger Balm Garden either. But I can never read this morning’s passage from Jeremiah, with its reference to a balm in Gilead, without thinking about, and smelling, Tiger Balm, and Vicks VapoRub.

What was that Gilead Balm anyway? Well, it turns out there are several other references to balm from Gilead in the Old Testament. In Genesis, Joseph (he of the technicolor dream coat) was sold by his brothers to merchants on their way to Egypt with balm from Gilead. The verse reads, “Then they sat down to eat; and looking up they saw a caravan of Ishmaelites coming from Gilead, with their camels carrying gum, balm and resin, on their way to carry it down to Egypt.” Later, after the Israelites were freed from captivity in Egypt and entered the promised land, they occupied Gilead, west of the Jordan. The balm trade then became their own. Gilead balm was a highly sought after turpentine like resin that was secreted by a tree that grew there. With its prized healing properties, the balm is said to have been worth twice its weight in silver.

Ah, turpentine! Now, in addition to Tiger Balm, I have another association with this balm from Gilead, Russia Salve! My grandfather, my mother’s father, died when I was a kid. But I remember looking through a box of his nick-nacks and finding an ancient looking tin that said, Redding’s Russia Salve. With a child’s curiosity I brought it to my mother. Mom explained that in the 1800s Russia Salve had been a universal remedy for everything that ailed you, and that Grampa’s parents rubbed it on him just like she rubbed Vicks VapoRub on me! Grampa was a PhD Geologist from Yale, and, using the scientific method he figured out that the key ingredients in Russia Salve were beeswax and, what else, turpentine! So he made his own and filled old Russia Slave tins with his concoction.

So there you go, Tiger Balm, Russia Salve and Gilead.

In these opening chapters of Jeremiah, the people of Israel are mired in sin, in particular they have sought to enrich themselves while neglecting the most vulnerable in their society. In Chapter 5 of Jeremiah we read:

Like cages full of birds, their houses are full of deceit; they have become rich and powerful and have grown fat and sleek.

Their evil deeds have no limit;
they do not seek justice.

They do not promote the case of the fatherless;
they do not defend the just cause of the poor.

 

God judges Israel for their sin and the people suffer as a result. The verses that I read this morning mingle the voices of the people, the prophet and God in a lament over this pervasive and intractable sin and suffering.

The people have assumed that God will save them, but God is offended by these assumptions. God has told the people of Israel all they must do to escape the cycle of sin and suffering, but they have turned their back on God’s teaching.

The Israelites assume that God is absent, “Is the Lord not in Zion? Is her king not in her? Is there no balm in Gilead, no physician there?” These are all references to God’s apparent absence.

But there is a certain irony here, right? Because, we have learned that there is balm in Gilead. Of all places, Gilead is known for its healing balm, meaning that God has provided the people all they need. Like what my Grampa learned, that he had everything he needed to make healing salve; the ingredients were right there.

We certainly know what it is to suffer. Whether from the physical pain of arthritis or sciatica, the loss of a loved one, the hurt of betrayal, the grip of addiction, neglect, abuse or trauma, the anxiety of joblessness, or the darkness of depression, to be human is to suffer.

And we also know what it is to sin. As in Jeremiah’s day, we too often don’t promote the case of the fatherless or defend the just cause of the poor; we are prone to neglect the most vulnerable.

And, as in Jeremiah’s day, God has given us all we need in response.

In the words of the African-American spiritual that the Chancel Choir sang so beautifully, there is a Balm in Gilead to heal the sin sick soul, and that balm is Jesus. But what does that look like in practice. Should we expect Jesus to “take the wheel” of our sin sick lives, as Carrie Underwood sings? Remember, God and Jeremiah are hard on the people of Israel for just assuming God will save them.

Hey, do you know why Tiger Balm smells like Vicks? Both have Camphor and Menthol as their main ingredients. Russia Salve has beeswax and turpentine. So what are the main ingredients for the healing balm of Jesus? I would suggest that the main ingredients in the balm that we need to make our lives whole are faithful relationships and action.

On Thursday I attended a meeting of sixty clergy from the Greater Hartford area. Organized by the Christian Activities Council after two years of meeting with each clergy person one-on-one, the gathering was to build support for a faith-based community organizing initiative. There were Christians of every stripe, Catholic, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist and Pentecostal. There were Muslims and Jews and Unitarians. Men and women were represented in equal numbers, as were white people and people of color, including a sizable number of African-American ministers.

Now, I’m not sure what you think about when you hear “community organizing.” I know in the 2008 election the term was used as something of a Liberal slur against Barrack Obama. But I assure you that there were as many social and religious Conservatives in the room as there were more liberal clergy. Some may also conjure visions of large, angry mobs protesting in the streets. But there was no anger being expressed here, but a shared commitment to act upon a shared faith in a loving, justice-seeking God.

Faith-based community organizing seeks to channel the power of God by bringing churches, synagogues and mosques together to confront and bring positive change to specific problems that everyone has agreed to, these could include safe streets, a good public education for all, or affordable housing. Actions may begin small, by challenging the opening of a liquor store across the street from a school, or bringing more community policing to an especially dangerous block in the city, but the organization builds on these to take on larger issues. Rev. James Manship of Saint Rose Catholic Church in New Haven spoke movingly about the way faith-based community organizing has transformed his parish over the past five years.

So, remember I suggested that the two main ingredients to make a balm for the sin and suffering that surrounds us are faithful relationship and action. Well, faith-based community organizing might sound like lots of action but not so much relationship. In fact, I have had that experience as a pastor over the years. I will get a call from an activist for a particular issue who says, “Pastor, can you bring twenty-people down to the state capitol on Tuesday to advocate for passage of thus-and-such a bill?” “I’m sorry, do I know you?” All action, no relationship.

But what I heard and witnessed on Thursday was a fundamentally different model. In fact, we took about fifteen or twenty minutes out of our two hours together to sit with someone we didn’t know and have a conversation about when we had witnessed a positive, successful use of power. Really, this was just a conversation starter. I sat with Rev. Dr. Jeff Powell of New Antioch Baptist Church in Hartford, an African-American pastor some 15 years my senior. In that short discussion we found we shared a lot in common, we communicated genuine concern for each other, and agreed to meet again over coffee to continue our conversation.

One of the leaders of this gathering described an activity that will come to conclude each of our meetings, where each participant will draw a name of another participant out of a hat and agree to contact that person between meetings to have a one-on-one conversation. In time, everyone participating in the organizing effort will have a personal relationship with everyone else; we will come to care about each other.

Relationship and action, the ingredients for the balm to soothe our sin-sick souls.

Relationship and Action. So what might it mean for us here at First Church?

I think we have the action part pretty well down. We do a ton of stuff, pastoral care, preparation for worship, programs for our children and youth, community outreach.

And how about relationship? Though I look out on a Sunday morning and I see what appears to be a tightly knit community, there is a happy buzz before worship and at coffee hour, I am learning that lots of us don’t know each other very well. I am also learning that there are more differences among us than it appears. This isn’t a criticism, but is true of any church of a certain size. If we are to be a balm to each other and the community in these troubled times, if we are to effectively respond to sin and suffering, we will need to nurture our relationships.

I’m wondering if we might adapt that exercise I described. What if, upon leaving worship one Sunday a month we drew a name of someone else in worship? We would agree to reach out to that person in the month that followed and have a one-on-one conversation with them. Of course someone would have drawn our name and would be reaching out to us, so by the time we came back together we would know two people better.

Let’s think about it.

There is a Balm in Gilead to sooth the sin sick soul. And God has given us everything we need to make and apply it. Amen.

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