THE LORD OF LIFE

 

                Long before Christianity came to northern Europe and the British Isles, Oct 31 and Nov 1 were special days for the Celtic people. These days marked the death of summer and beginning of winter. They recognized this with a special feast named for the Celtic Lord of Death, Samhain (Sow-een). His name meant “summer’s end.” It was not, however, a happy occasion. Since winter is the season of cold, darkness and death the Celts soon made the connection with human death. The Eve of Samhain (Sow-een), Oct 31 was a time of Celtic pagan sacrifice, and a time when Lord Samhain allowed the souls of the dead to return to their earthly homes. Ghosts, witches, goblins, and elves came and frightened people. In Ireland people held a parade in which they followed a leader in a white robe with a mask from the head of an animal. They went door to door asking for food. The Scots walked through fields and villages carrying torches and lit bonfires to ward off witches and other evil spirits. From Sunset on Oct 31, when their day began, the Lord of Death reigned supreme.

                 Sometime after the Celts began honoring the Lord of Death a very different Feast began in the Mediterranean world. It too focused on death, but in a very different way. At first, it was a day to commemorate martyrs who had been killed because they refused to denounce Christ and worship the emperor. Later it expanded to remember and honor those special people named saints by the church. Eventually, the church recognized what Paul knew from the beginning – that all who profess faith in Christ are saints. They are – we are – the holy people of God. Several dates were used at first but eventually the church settled on Nov. 1 for the Feast of All Saints Day.

                 When the church came to England and spread throughout Northern Europe, the Anglo-Saxon word, “Hallows” was the name used for the Feast. They called it, “All Hallows Day,” and the evening before was called “Halloween.” We still use this word when we pray, “Hallowed be thy name … “.

                The two traditions, the feasts of Samhain and All Saints Day, clashed and are still in conflict today. For the Christian the question must be faced: who do I honor today, the Lord of Death or The Lord of Life? Is my focus on the unholy, the dark and scary things of death, on ghosts and goblins, werewolves, and zombies, or on the Holy One who not only died for us but was raised to new life? Our confession of faith answers that question as we meet the Lord of Life at His table. Here we honor and remember the Lord of Life. And we do it with all the saints. My long life and service in many churches has allowed me to know a lot of saints. I wish I could name all of them now, because I feel, as Heb. 12 says, “surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses,” those who have passed on and those still living, who have chosen on this day to honor the Lord of Life. We can join them now in remembering and honoring the Lord of Life by saying together our confession of faith.

 

 

 “Samhain” pronounced Sow-een, or Sow-in (as in cow).

OUR STORY

              

                It’s the fourth of July – a day to remember the birth of our nation. Lately, I have been reading biographies of presidents and other important figures present during the early years of our nation. These stories have helped me understand more fully who we are as Americans.

                 Stories play a powerful role in our lives. They entertain and teach us. They preserve culture and pass on cultural knowledge from one generation to another. Perhaps the greatest role that stories play in our lives is that they form and reveal who we are. Stories form and express our beliefs and values. Stories create and shape our world view and can also change it.

                 I heard while living in Oklahoma that many years ago a Native American child was taken to his grandmother’s home and left with her for several days. She spent that time telling him stories, the stories of his people. He went there, not thinking about who he was; he left there knowing he was a Kiowa.

                 Stories come out of our past, out of what has already happened. Which is why history is so important. Psalm 105 and several others demonstrate how important Israel’s history was to it. Psalm 105 opens with a series of imperatives: “Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name … make known his deeds … sing praises to him … tell of all his wondrous works … glory in his holy name … seek the Lord … remember the wonderful works he has done.”

                 “Remember!” it says, and then proceeds to tell Israel’s story, beginning with the covenant God made with Abraham and continuing with their time in Egypt and the miraculous Exodus.

                 Why was it important, centuries later, for Jewish families to tell Israel’s story over and over again? Why was it important for Israel to periodically re-enact that story during elaborate feasts and festivals? Because that story made them and told them who they were. It gave them their way of life, their ethics, their faith, and set the direction for their journey in the world.

                 The story of God’s saving acts throughout history, culminating in the coming of Jesus, the master storyteller, has become our story. 1 Peter 2:9-10 uses ancient texts from Israel’s story to summarize how that story identifies us with these words: You are a chosen nation a royal priesthood, a holy nation his own special people, that you may proclaim the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light; who once were not a people but are now the people of God, who had not obtained mercy but now have obtained mercy.

                 The Lord’s Supper is one of the stories that identify us as those who have been chosen, have received mercy, and now are the people of God. We acknowledge that now as we make our confession of faith.

         "I believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the Living God

            and my Lord and Savior."

“My days are like an evening shadow”

                 Memorial weekend is considered by many to be the unofficial start of summer and they look forward to picnics, a trip to the beach or some other pleasurable activity. Originally, the day was meant to honor fallen service men and women, as well as loved ones who have died, and many people will visit cemeteries to do just that.

                Visiting a cemetery is a time to remember others, but it is also a time to reflect. The silent headstones tell us more than names and dates. They speak to us of mortality. Including our own mortality. We may not actually go to a cemetery but Memorial Day still prompts us to reflect on our mortality.

                I thought of this recently while reading in the Psalms. More than one psalm speaks of our mortality. Many echo what the psalmist said in Psalm 102: “My days pass away like smoke . . . my days are like an evening shadow; . . . I wither away like grass.”

                Poets have picked up on the imagery of the words, “my days are like an evening shadow.” Gerhard Frost wrote these lines:

                    “Time to come in now!” The mellow voice of love in

The darkening dust of a distant day,

my barefoot, carefree days of firefly lanterns,

cricket-chirped curfews

and the serious business of play.

No harshness to remember, but firmness born of care,

The loving care of Mother; She knew how much we liked to play.

“Time to come in now!” I seem to hear God say

in the deepening dusk of my sunset day.

God knows how much I want to stay.

                (Gerhard Frost, “God Knows,” in Seasons of a Lifetime, p. 153)

                 How shall we face our mortality and the “evening shadow?” This unexpressed question must be in my mind when I go to bed because I often, not always, but often go to sleep reciting another poem to myself. It is a short poem, written by a woman of faith, Jane Kenyon, whose “evening shadow” came early because of breast cancer. It is titled: “Let Evening Come.”

 Let the light of late afternoon

Shine through chinks in the barn, moving

Up the bales as the sun moves down.

 Let the cricket take up chafing

As a woman takes up her needles

And her yarn. Let evening come.

 Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned

In long grass. Let the stars appear

And the moon disclose her silver horn.

 Let the fox go back to its sandy den.

Let the wind die down. Let the shed

Go black inside. Let evening come.

 To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop

In the oats, to air in the lung

Let evening come.

 Let it come, as it will, and don’t

Be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

                (The Best Poems of Jane Kenyon. Graywolf Press, 2020, p. 58).

                Jane Kenyon could write this because of her faith in one whose life was cut short by a cross. His “evening shadow” also came much too early, as we humans count lifespans. But he trusted in the all-powerful God of creation to see him through “the valley of the shadow of death” to the victory banquet that lay ahead.   

                 On this Memorial weekend, as we consider our mortality, God does not leave us comfortless because of him who died and rose again on our behalf. Because of him we face our mortality with a living hope. Today, especially, we heed his invitation: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

ENOUGH!

 1 Corinthians 11:23-26

             In his book of meditations on the psalms, Ben Patterson tells of a professor who was lecturing from Paul’s letter, First Thessalonians, in which the apostle is teaching about the return of Christ. He was in Uganda and his students were young men preparing for ministry. These young men were living with horrendous reminders of what they had endured during the murderous reign of Idi Amin. Some were missing an eye or an arm. Several had bulging red scars from what had been deep machete wounds. In the eyes of all was the shadow of the horror they had seen. But there was also the light of the hope of Christ.

             The professor read verse 16 in chapter 4: “The Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the trumpet call of God.” Immediately, a student’s hand went up.

             “Yes?” said the professor. “What is your question?”

             The man who had raised his hand hesitated for a moment and then asked softly, “What will the Lord shout?”

             The professor didn’t know what to say. Who would? Yet the accumulated suffering of the students in that classroom seemed to demand some kind of answer. What will the Lord shout when he returns as Lord of Lords and King of Kings?

            “I don’t know,” the professor admitted. Then he looked around the room, pausing to look at each student, and asked, “What do you think he will shout?”

             A student’s voice came from the back: “I think he will shout ‘Enough!’” That’s a good answer.* Enough violence, enough sickness and pandemics, enough tears, enough suffering, enough hatred. It’s a time we all look forward to.

             Paul reminds us in 1 Cor. 11 that the Lord’s Supper looks forward to that time as he says, For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” His words remind us that we look not only to the past with thanksgiving but to the future with hope. As we partake, we look to the future when he will return, and all will be well.

             To be sure, in the meantime, even now to some extent, we can experience the wholeness and peace that he has promised, but we know that all will not be realized until the final shout is heard. Paul’s words invite us to look toward that day: “For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.”

*Patterson, Ben. God’s Prayer Book. Carol Stream, Ill., Saltriver, 2008, p. 184.

A TABLE IN THE WILDERNESS

 

            I sat in the living room early on a quiet morning, with a cup of tea, and looked out upon a tranquil neighborhood bathed in bright sunshine and thought, “it appears that all is well.” But looks can be deceptive. I had also just picked up the morning paper. It told a different story – a story of over ½ million deaths from Covid 19, of thousands who have lost their jobs, a murderer was killed by the police in a standoff, a governor who is accused of sexual assault and a cover-up of Covid 19 deaths. There are threats of domestic terrorism, political deadlock, a pending ecological disaster and protestors being gassed. You get the idea. It’s a jungle, a wild wilderness out there and we must travel through it.

             It’s enough to make us question God. Israel certainly did. They were in the wilderness of Sinai, weary, frightened, hungry and thirsty. In their desperation, says Psalm 78:19, “They spoke against God, saying, ‘Can God spread a table in the wilderness?’” They were asking, can God give us the nourishment we need to survive in this environment? Can God really produce a sense of hope and promise in the midst of such a depressing, mind-boggling situation?

             Yes, said the psalmist, he can and he did. Psalm 78 reviews their history in the wilderness and asserts: “He commanded the skies above and opened the doors of heaven; and he rained down upon them manna to eat, and gave them the grain of heaven. They ate the bread of the angels; he sent them food in abundance” (Ps, 78:23-25),

             Can God spread a table in our wilderness? John’s story in chapter six says he can. A few days after feeding the 5,000 in a “secluded” and “desolate” place (Mk. 6:32,35), Jesus was found again, as John tells us, by a large crowd (Jn 6:25). When some, seeking more bread, spoke of Israel being given manna in the wilderness they quoted Ps 78:24 which says, “He gave them bread out of heaven to eat.” Jesus responded, “It is not Moses who has given you the bread out of heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread out of heaven. For the bread of God is that which … gives life to the world.” When the people said, “Lord, evermore give us this bread,” Jesus replied: I am the bread of life; he who comes to me shall not hunger, and he who believes in me shall never thirst” (Jn 6:31-35).

             The Lord’s Supper reminds us that God can spread a table for us in the wilderness. Jesus is our Table in the Wilderness. He is our bread of life. As he said, “this bread is my body, given for you.” And this cup is my blood shed for you.” He is our table in the wilderness.

             A communion hymn invites us to that table with these words:

                             All who hunger, gather gladly; Holy Manna is our bread.

                            Come from wilderness and wandering. Here in truth we will be fed.

                            You that yearn for days of fullness, all around us is our food.

                            Taste and see the grace eternal. Taste and see that God is good.

                                                                                (Sylvia Dunstan, 1990; Chalice Hymnal, 419)

UNPRECEDENTED!

 

                Ordinarily the editors of the Oxford English Dictionary elect one word to characterize the previous year, but in the case of 2020, they had trouble doing that. In an article titled, “Words of an Unprecedented Year,” they said that they couldn’t settle on one word but instead chose several, with words related to the Pandemic in the lead. Words like, locked down, shelter in place, covid-19, bubble, and others. As they said, it was an unprecedented year and perhaps the best choice for a single word to describe the year is simply “unprecedented.” 

                The disciples of Jesus could say that they had an unprecedented experience also. It happened when they were in a lockdown. They were “sheltering in place.” There was a deadly enemy out there and they were afraid to venture out. They had seen Jesus crucified. There was nothing unprecedented about that; there were lots of crucifixions. What happened next, however, was unprecedented. Here is how John describes it in chapter 20:

 “When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit”).

                 Knowing how shocked and troubled they were, Jesus said, twice, “Peace be with you.” Then he showed them his hands and his side, as if to say, “look, I am the one they crucified, but I’m alive.” Then they realized that he had defeated death and they rejoiced. His living presence gave them hope and joy.

                 Then he said to them, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” His words gave them purpose. They were not a bunch of individuals, devastated and at loose ends. They had a reason for existence, a mission to accomplish.

                 Next he breathed upon them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” Not only were they given a purpose, they were also given the power to carry it out, the Holy Spirit, the very presence of God in their lives.

               It was indeed an unprecedented experience. They went from a devastated, frightened people, destined to be scattered and forgotten to a joyful, powerful group that would change the world. All because the living Christ was in their midst, giving them peace, joy, purpose and power. 

                We are fortunate to share in this unprecedented experience as we meet with our Lord in communion this morning, and because of his presence, we too can experience peace, joy, purpose and power.