Easter Sermon; April 20, 2014

Rev. George N. Miller
John 20:1-18
“Sharing the Resurrection”
April 20, 2014

6 years ago the country was in survival mode. The recession was really kicking in and it was especially felt throughout the state of Michigan.

I was living in Grand Rapids at the time and it was heartbreaking. The economy was at its worst; unemployment was at its highest and Michigan’s main source of revenue was outsourced oversees.

This was not just a tope; a minor speed bump. It was a major traffic accident that left many lives, many dreams destroyed on the roadside.

Plants shut down, churches closed their doors, and once thriving department stores were left empty, their buildings like deserted, bloated dead bodies.

It was easy to lose focus. Easy to lose hope. Easy to give in to tears and fears and to feel absolutely deserted by God...


...and yet in the midst of what seemed like certain death there were flickers of hope.

For example, in Ferndale, a suburb of Detroit, I experienced a shared moment of community that left a positive mark on my life; an opportunity to witness musical history being made.

Trivial history; the kind you find in the Guinness Book of World Records: a 50 hour marathon performance of the song “Danny Boy”.

Scheduled to coincide with St. Patrick’s Day, this music fest featured over 1,000 singers, groups, musicians and spoken word artists.

It took place at AJS Café in which their slogan is “Where family and friends come together.”

And boy were there family and friends.

There were bald black men in green ties, young white guys with guitars, old ladies with feathered boas, women holding infants, men in kilts playing the bagpipes, people of all types sporting long dreads, and a man in a green dress complete with wig and high heels.

People sung to piano, people sung to recorded tracks, people sung off key, people sung a capella and as a crowd.


There were people who sung with confidence, people who sung with uncertainty, those who had talent, those with no talent whatsoever. There were instrumentalists, vocalists, choirs.

And not once during my time there did it get tired. Not once was I bored. In fact, I found myself amazed, astounded and moved to tears.

This was an event that was bigger than me, bigger than the people at the table next to me or those who were on the stage.

The event was bigger than us. It was an event that created community.

It was also my first time hearing “Danny Boy” and when I looked at the lyrics I was astounded to find out what the song was about: death.

And love.

The change of seasons.

The promise that through it all the love we share with one another prevails over all other things.

No wonder why we were gathered; no wonder why the song was so moving- it spoke to where we, as residents of Michigan, of the United States, of the world, were as a people during those difficult days of the recession.

I looked around, listening and realizing that what had brought us together was a song about death that ends with the lyrics “And when you end and tell me you love me I’ll sleep in peace again until you come to me.”

Those moments that we shared at AJS Café were not about a failing economy, or the shutting of businesses or outsourced jobs.

It was a celebration of love and the power it has over all of life’s circumstances.


And it was there, at AJS Café, over cups of coffee and a crowd of folk, that I came to understand that we all share the same thing: life, death and the promise of resurrection...

Friends, visitors and family, we have gathered here as a community of Christ to celebrate Easter.

We have come here to stand witness to and testify that in the end of all things God is in control.

We have come to share the good news that not only is Christ resurrected, but that we share in that resurrection as well.

We have come here to shout “Hallelujah!” knowing that new life and new hope exists in our hearts.

Today’s scripture is one of the most poignantly written pieces of literature you’ll ever find.

It is a reading that moves us from weeping to joy, from fear to jubilation, from loss to new beginnings as we are right there in the garden with Mary Magdalene as she realizes that through it all, the love of Christ is still with her.


The gospel writer tells us that Jesus was crucified. Mary was there when he said “It is done.” The writer has told us of how Joseph of Arimethea and Nicodemus prepared the body of Jesus and laid it in the tomb.

Sunday morning, somewhere between 3 and 6 a.m., Mary makes her way to where her preacher, her teacher, has been buried. But the stone has been rolled away and his body is missing.

She runs to tell the disciples. They check it out themselves. They leave Mary, filled with grief, standing by herself.

Bad enough she lost Jesus to death, but apparently she has now also lost him to grave robbers.

Weeping, she meets a man she confuses with the gardener. Until… he calls out her name: “Mary.”

And she realizes, she knows, she discovers that Jesus is right there beside her. He has not left. He has victoriously been...transformed.


Her grief turns to joy and her emptiness turns into radical embrace.

And here we encounter the breathtaking, mighty mystery of the Resurrection and of our faith:

that through God, death does not have the final word, but becomes a transition into something new, something greater than ever before or ever even imagined.

It’s amazing when you think about this story and about Christianity. In the beginning we were just a small group of men, women and some children who followed a man whose teaching could be simply summed up as:

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul and with all your mind…and love your neighbor as yourself.”

He certainly wasn’t the first person to teach this. He certainly wasn’t the first preacher to come into town and begin a new movement. And he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

But an interesting thing happened. Usually when a leader of a group dies or leaves, the group dismantles. No matter what their best intentions are, they stop gathering; they stop believing. The group dies right with its leader.


But not this group. Not this time. Not in this circumstance. Here they were, a rag tag community of sinners, widows, fishermen, and tax collectors.

And something happened; something inexplicable.

Jesus is slaughtered by the powers that be. But he is not silenced.

His teachings continue to inspire. His love continues to transform. He is present in everything they do, everywhere they go and everyone they meet.

God has won: Jesus has been resurrected.

The authorities could not stop God; the crowds could not stop God. The cross could not stop God.

Jesus, the Son of the Most High, was so filled with graceful love and glorious light that the love and light lived on.

In the garden.

On the road to Emmaus.

In the upper room where they huddled in fear.

On the shore by a campfire.


In large gatherings of people.

…When the bread was lifted up and broken and the cup was poured…

Christ lived on.

The people discover that it was not just the good news that Christ has been resurrected but that they themselves have also experienced transformation.

Mary Magdalene is moved from tears to joy. The disciples are moved from fear to courage; Thomas from doubt to assurance. Years later Paul moves from persecutor to evangelizer.

They discover that they have now entered into a new relationship with Christ in which they’re no longer just disciples, but children of the living God, brothers and sisters of God’s eternal household.

They and we become beneficiaries of the Resurrection because we are liberated and we are set loose from whatever may hold us back.

And because of this, we sing because we are happy; we sing because we are free.

Family and friends, we gather today to celebrate the resurrection of Christ because we discover that in the long run it is not just about politics or economics, it’s not just education or the environment.

And it’s not just about ourselves.

It’s about being part of something that is bigger than it all: the stars, the trees, the sky, the people, the color purple, and red and green and white.

The entire cosmos.

It’s about God and how there is nothing God can’t do. Nothing that can stop God.

Not a long, drawn out winter filled with snow; not a summer season filled with non-stop rain. Not wars that rage on or governments that can’t play nice and get their acts together.

Not a world whose history is filled with discrimination, domination and destruction.

And most certainly, not a cross and three measly nails.

The promise of the resurrection is not that we won’t ever be scared, or lonely, or cry or be upset again.

The promise is that we don’t have to allow these events to have final say or to rule over our lives.

Why?

Because in the big scheme of things they are simply topes; because as residents of the Kingdom of God we are recipients of the resurrection good news.

This means we are empowered to move from surviving to thriving; from the fear of having too little to the assurance of having enough.

We know that in the end, in the ultimate end of all things, there is God, and God is in control and in God we have the victory.

Christ is resurrected, and we, as his children, are resurrected as well.

No thing, no person and no principality can ever take that away from us…

…Six years ago surrounded by economic death and difficulties a group of people gathered in a small Detroit suburb to sing.

Infants and elderly, black and white, male and female, single, married, divorced and widowed, they sung about love, they sung about death, they sung about the changing of seasons.

And they sung about the promise of return that only love can bring.

Not only has Christ been resurrected, but we have as well.

Now that the journey to the cross is over and the resurrection has occurred, may we go out into this thriving world singing lyrics of life; may we be reflections of the Good News.

Let us sing praises to God the highest; let us sing praises to the Holy Spirit that fills us with song.

Let us sing “Hallelujah!” to the Son, Jesus Christ who proved that death will not be the final note.

Amen.

Sermon for April 13, 2014

Rev. George Miller
Matthew 21:1-11
“Quarters for Christ”
April 13, 2014

A new minister moved into town. One day he takes the bus to the downtown area. When he sits down he discovers the driver has given him a quarter too much change.

As he considered what to do, he thought to himself, “You’d better give the quarter back. It would be wrong to keep it.”

Then he thought, “Oh, forget it, it’s only a quarter. Who would worry about this little amount? They will never miss it. Accept is as a gift from God.”

When his stop came, the pastor paused at the door, then handed the quarter to the driver and said, “Here, you gave me too much change.”


The driver, with a smile, replied, “You’re the new preacher in town. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about going somewhere to worship. I gave you that extra quarter to see just what you would do. I’ll see you at church on Sunday.”

When the preacher stepped off the bus, he literally held onto the nearest light pole and said, ‘Oh God, I almost sold your son for a quarter.”

Though this story is not fact-based, it is full of truth: for some people, our lives and actions are the only Bible they will encounter.

Remember this when we call ourselves Christian.

Remember as well that being a Christian means trying our best to do the right thing, even when the right thing is not the easiest thing to do.

Today Jesus enters into Jerusalem. Taken by itself it’s a joyous celebration of the Messiah’s entrance into history with people shouting “Hosannas” and songs of blessings.


But look ahead to the cross and we realize that today’s entrance into the Holy City is another step towards the eventual arrest, trial and murder of an innocent man.

What we’re witnessing is not a party that leaves all feeling well, but a man confronting his very death.

Today we are invited not to focus so much on Jesus or the crowd or the donkey and colt, but to focus on the disciples.

When we begin the reading, they are with Jesus at Bethphage, the Mont of Olives.

Bethphage is the city where Jesus’ close friends lived: Martha, Mary and Lazarus. It is a place where he is loved, where he has a place to rest, where he is fed, where he can just be.

Bethphage is also a symbol of hope.

According to the Old Testament, the coming Messiah will stand on the Mount of Olives before delivering his people.

Then there is Jerusalem which has been hovering in the background. It’s where King Herod presides. It’s the place where the Temple is located, but it’s also been called a city that kills prophets and stones those who are sent to it.

We have been prepared for this moment in time. In Matthew, ch. 16 Jesus told the disciples that he must go to Jerusalem to undergo great suffering.

In ch. 20 he pulls the disciples aside to tell them that in Jerusalem he will be handed over and condemned to death.

Both instances are enough to make a sane person say “It’s been nice knowing you, Jesus, but let’s call the whole thing off.”

Instead, the disciples stay by his side and he teaches them that to follow him means to deny oneself.

He teaches them that to be a disciple means to willingly pick up their own cross, for as Jesus states: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world but to lose their life?”

These are not easy teachings to hear or to live by.

Imagine being with Jesus that day.

Before meeting him you were a nobody going nowhere and now, because of him your life has purpose, direction, and you are warmed by the mystery of love.

Imagine you’ve spent a year to three years following him, observing miracles, seeing people’s lives transformed.


Imagine you’ve shared meals with Jesus, gone fishing with him, witness him reaching out to all of those society has neglected.

Imagine that he’s told you twice that in Jerusalem he’ll be humiliated and killed and now here you are, standing on the Mont of Olives, looking out on the city of Jerusalem, knowing full well what comes next.

Behind you, in Bethany, is the house of Mary and Martha, a place you have visited, a place where you know Jesus is welcomed, safe and cared for.

Ahead of you is the city where you know Jesus will be captured and crucified.

Imagine you are one of the two disciples Jesus asks to go into the village to get him a donkey and a colt so he can ride in.

What would you do?

Would you obey his direction for the sake of the Kingdom or would you say “No: it’s not safe for you there.”

It’s not an easy question, is it?

Giving back an extra quarter. Now that’s easy.

Knowingly bringing a man to his death- that’s a different story.

A few weeks ago I preached about stirring up the mud, but this is too much…

Following Christ isn’t so easy.

Being a faithful disciple is more than just reading scripture and saying your prayers.

It’s a complete way of life. A way of life that brings so much joy and feelings of completion.

But it also involves sacrifice, going against the popular norm, and doing things you’d rather not do for the sake of Christ.

Think of the United Church of Christ. How we, as a denomination, have a history of doing things that we believe Jesus wanted us to do, even if it meant that it could stir up the mud.

For example, being the first denomination to ordain a woman. That surely caused a few rifts in the body of Christ back in the 1800’s.

How many denominations are still debating that issue in 2014?


Sometimes doing the will of Christ is something we’d rather not do, especially if it seems like it could hurt the church.

For example, what happened in Biloxi, Mississippi in the 60's.

Back before there were casinos, decades before Hurricane Katrina, Biloxi was a sleepy southern city with a thriving fishing industry with beautiful beaches along the Gulf Coast.

Winter, spring, summer or fall, you could go to the beach, walk up and down the peer, do some fishing, and when it got hot enough, go for a swim.

You could, that is, as long as you were white. The beaches in Biloxi were segregated.

If you were black, it did not matter if you lived ½ a block from the shore, you could not enter the waters.

We’re not talking about one beach; we’re talking about 29 miles of beach.

One day, a black doctor, named Gilbert Mason, had enough, and with 9 other people, he waded into the water as a form of non-violent protest. They were arrested and a movement had begun.

A year later, more wade-ins happened. Although the protestors were peaceful, the authorities were not. Police were called in, arrests were made.

This led to the bloodiest race riots in Mississippi’s history as bullets sprayed the air, innocent people were killed, cars were overturned and set afire, and protestors were placed in unventilated trucks that sat in the hot Mississippi sun.

I tell you this because this story became part of the UCC’s story. At the time, the UCC was a presence in Biloxi with two churches and an outreach organization called Back Bay Mission.

Their pastors (Rev. Gallagher and Rev. Aregood) participated in the wade-ins, believing they could not sit back and watch as the city discriminated.

Though white, they too waded into the water with other protestors and sure enough they were arrested and thrown into those unventilated vans.


One night Back Bay Mission held a special session for the NAACP and was besieged by an angry mob of people who threw rocks and smashed windows.

To the sound of broken glass, the two UCC pastors joined the NAACP leaders in singing “Life Every Voice.”

They paid a price for walking in the footsteps of Jesus in those difficult days of the early 1960. These UCC pastors not only gave back their quarter but they were willing to go get the donkey.

And their churches paid the price. Word got around that the UCC was filled with troublemakers. Bosses told their employees that if they continued to go to “those churches” they would lose their job.

Eventually so many people left the two congregations, the churches had to close their doors. Until recently, there has not been a UCC presence in all of Mississippi except for Back Bay Mission.

That’s a big price to pay for following Christ. Talk about standing between Bethphage and Jerusalem.


They could have ignored the call of Jesus to do justice and continue living their nice southern lives by the nice waters of Biloxi.

Maybe they could have signed a petition or two or given a sermon about how segregation is wrong. Doing so would have kept them in Bethphage.

But they heard a call from Jesus to get the proverbial donkey and enter into Jerusalem when they joined hands with the other protestors and waded into the waters of Biloxi.

This is but just one example of how following Jesus is not always an easy thing to do. There are countless others and there are people right here in our congregation who have done bold things in their belief.


But it’s not always easy; it’s not always neat. And, as demonstrated by Jesus himself, it is rarely without ramifications.

As we talked about two weeks ago, Christianity is not a religion of just the prim and proper. It’s also for those who feel the challenge to dig in, get down and dirty, and to get their hands muddied.

Jesus doesn’t just call us to worship by solely saying a few prayers and reading choice scripture, but Jesus calls us to worship him and to show our appreciation by caring for others, by reaching out, and in doing the things he calls us to do, even when we wish we did not.

And sometimes Jesus may even call us, as a body of Christ, or as a member, to say or do something that may seem, in the short term, to hurt the body.

But thanks to the resurrection Good News, it may actual strengthen the universal body of Christ and make the Kingdom of God even that more real.

For in Jesus, we are not only empowered to bring change, but we are glorified, and although up close the cross may seem oh so frightening, in the end it is in, with and through God that we have the victory.

God’s ways are not always our ways. That’s part of what this week is all about.

May we find in Jesus a fearless leader we are willing to faithfully follow with loud Hosannas!

May the Holy Spirit empower us to continue being faithful participants in this amazing story called life. Amen.

Sermon for April 6, 2014

Rev. George Miller
Romans 8:6-11
“Whole; Holy”
April 6, 2014

I have a story to share, it’s one I’ve already told, but it fits perfectly into the theme of yesterday’s memorial service for Joy Spencer. And it’s all true.

Once upon a time, a priest, a Baptist minister, and a UCC pastor were out boating on Lake Jackson when they discovered the cabin was filling with water and they were sinking.

"Oh, Lord," said the priest, "if you let us walk on water as you did your Son, we could make it to the Fountain Head and be saved." He stepped off the stern of the boat and drowned.

"Oh, Lord," said the Baptist minister, "If you would part the waters just as you did for the Israelites, we could make it to Veteran’s Beach and be saved." He stepped off the bow of the boat and was eaten by an alligator.

"Oh, Lord," said the UCC pastor, "did you say to turn the handle on this valve right or left?” When the water left the boat he went to the Sunset Grille for a basket of fish and chips and a nice, cold vodka martini.

It is good to laugh after saying goodbye to a beloved member of our church community.

It is good to laugh as the world holds its breath for more information about the Malaysian airplane.

It is good to laugh knowing people are still reeling from the mudslide in Washington, the earthquake in Chili and the fires in Avon Park.

Laughter is good because it means life still goes on, it means the darkness has not won out, it means that the human will to live stays strong.

Laughter means that we are resilient.

Resilient. Perhaps my second favorite word in the English language. Behind “mm-hmm” and before “no.”

Say it after me: resilient.

It’s a word to describe Celie in The Color Purple. It’s a word to describe the Woman at the Well who we met two weeks ago.

It’s a word to describe those in the Philippines.

Remember back in November when they were hit by a typhoon? Neighborhoods were destroyed. Roads were overflowing with debris, homes were sandblasted, and the city of Tacloban was reduced to rubble.

The landscape was covered with uprooted trees and dead bodies which lay by the roads or were buried under the wreckage.

Over 4,000 people died. Hundreds of thousands of survivors endured the unimaginable: hunger, thirst, makeshift shelter, and waiting days for help to arrive.

About a week later a journalist named Todd Pitman went to visit and was unprepared for what he saw.

There were plenty of people with hopeless, fear-filled faces, but then there were also moments of flickering hope and of life.

For example a group of boys found a basketball hoop in the ruins of their neighborhood. They propped up the backboard with broken wood beams and rusty nails scavenged from the wreckage.

And there, on a bit of land where no debris, no dead bodies, no uprooted trees lay, they played a game of basketball.

Todd was stunned; he was even more stunned when he heard the basketball net was one of the first things the neighborhood rebuilt.

Why did they do it?

The kids needed to play so they could take their mind off of things. Spectators needed something to watch, so they could forget, if even for a moment, what had become of their homes.

Resilience.

The journalist noticed that hope had begun to flicker; people smiled if even briefly. They joked, even in passing.

A kid wearing grimy, mismatched shoes rolled the ball towards Todd and he was encouraged to slam dunk. He opted for a free-throw, and when he sank the first two, the crowd cheered.

Amidst the rubble, they cheered.

When he missed the third throw, some “awwwww”ed in sympathy; others laughed.

Later that day, Todd saw 4 giggling kids jump up and down on soiled mattresses; two women on a hilltop high above danced.

A 21 year-old strummed a guitar and sang and when asked why, he stated “I am sad about (what happened to my city) but I’m happy because I’m still alive. I survived. I lost my home. But I did not lose my family.”

This type of reaction to a natural disaster is not always common. It was not seen in Japan when the tsunami hit.

But this form of resilience in the Philippines has been noted. Some say it’s because of an expression they have: “Bahala Na.”

It basically means: whatever happens, leave it to God.

“Bahala Na.”

A local psychologist says her people have grown use to the knowledge that catastrophes happen, from typhoons to earthquakes, even political unrest.

Nationally, they have found a way to make dealing with disaster an art for. Instead of letting life get the best of them, they learn to let it go, let it go, let it go.

Not that they are happy-go-lucky Pollyannas but they are resilient enough to say “I can deal with this. I’m at peace. And whatever happens tomorrow happens…”

Resilience. Bahala Na. Whatever happens leave it to God.

Is this part of what Paul is trying to tell us in today’s letter to the Christians in Rome?

Paul is nearing the end of his ministry and his time on earth. He’s been around the ancient world. He’s done it all, seen it all.

He’s had his share of free throws that made it through; he’s had his share of free throws that have completely missed the net.

He’s had his own dealing with sinking ships and proverbial alligators and religious leaders who thought their way was best.

And through it all, Paul does not lose faith; he does not lose sight. In fact he appears to be even sharper, sounder then before.

Don’t set your mind on the flesh, he states. He doesn’t mean flesh in the sense of what we eat, what we drink, or who we love.

He means flesh as in the ways we can become selfish and self-centered, the ways we can put our egos above all else and the ways we worships ourselves as Gods.

Don’t do that, Paul says. You won’t have a good, full life. You’ll be miserable.

Instead, writes Paul, put your focus on the Spirit. He does not mean spirit as in body, mind and soul.

He means Spirit as in God. As in Holy. As in that which is connected with Christ.

Put your mind on the Spirit because then you will have a good, full life that is stronger than storms, stronger then rubble, stronger then death.

Put your mind on the Spirit, because after all the Spirit of God already dwells within you.

In other words: Bahala Na.

Paul is not separating mind, body or soul here. He is not saying the body is bad and the spirit is good.

I believe that part of what he’s saying is that we are complete beings; whole and holy, and that which affects the body affects the soul, what affects the soul affects the body.

And as Christians we have two ways of living: we can focus on the negative, be in rebellion and only care about what’s in it for us.

Or we can trustingly place our lives in the hands of our Creator and be set free from the things that use to hold us down.

It means that we are no longer just our own, but we belong to God, as made known through Christ, and we belong to one another, and we belong to the greater community around us.

It means we don’t have to stay on a sinking ship. It means we don’t have to hold onto that which pulls us down.

Nor does it mean that life will become perfect and worry free, but it means that when, not if, but when disaster strikes, when storms come along, when we come across a tope, we may suffer, we may cry, we may feel afraid…

…but that ultimately with a combination of faith, trust and good ol’ fashioned common sense we will endure, we will survive, we will have enough.

We will, through Christ, find a way to dig a basketball hoop out of the wreckage and be able to play a game.

We will not be alone; we will be surrounded by others; we will be cared for by Christ.

For after all, the Spirit of God already dwells within us and the promise of the resurrection is ours for all eternity.

Amen and Bahala Na.

***today’s message used a huge portion of Todd Pitman’s excellent article “Signs of Life Amid Misery Reveal Filipino’s Spirit” (Associated Press, Nov. 19, 2013). For an inspiring read, I encourage you to Google it.

Sermon for March 30, 2014

March 30, 2014
John 9:1-41
“Stirring Up the Mud”
Rev. George N. Miller

A few months ago I shared with Council a book called Alligators in the Swamp about ministry, leadership and the use of power.

The author made the claim that each church has its own culture, with three different levels. He used the image of a swamp as a metaphor.

According to the author, a swamp is a beautiful place in which diversity thrives and everyone is interdependent on one another, but it’s also important to acknowledge that if one is not careful and aware of the surroundings, they can be hurt.

According to the author, there are three levels of church culture that correlates to a swamp. On the first level is the shoreline; all the “stuff” we can see, like this pulpit, the altar, the hymn books.

The second level is the water; or to be more exact, the things below the surface. This is made up of the things we say; the symbols behind our stuff.

An example is when we state “No matter who you are or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here.” Or the beginning of service when we light the candles to represent the light of Christ.

Then there is the third layer; the most important layer: the mud. The mud is what holds everything together. It can’t be seen from the shore or the surface of the water, but it’s always there.

The mud is the unspoken, deeply held beliefs that are passed down from generation to generation. The mud comes from real-life experiences, things that happened in the past, things that were taught.

The mud consists of how liturgy should be, how pastors should dress, what kind of music we sing, the kind of flowers we order for Easter, etc.

I knew one church in which red drinks, such as fruit punch, were banned because they might stain the carpet.

You don’t realize the mud is there until someone new comes along and stirs it up, like a pastor who wants to remove the flags from the sanctuary, or wants to use new hymnals or someone creates an after-school program in which juice-boxes are served.

Then the mud gets stirred, which in turn can also affect the surface and the shoreline.

But stirring up the mud isn’t always a bad thing, because that’s also how new things come about; it is how stagnant water becomes fresh again.

Mud.

That’s such a fun word to say, isn’t it? Especially if you put a southern drawl to it.

Say it with me: mud.

I would venture to say not many people think about mud. Where it comes from; what it’s made of.

No one has conversations about mud; not if it’s dry outside. Not if the front yard is looking good. Not if your children are grown and left the house.

We don’t think about mud until something happens such as when it rains and the front yard gets all wet and the brown dirt turns into black mud that spills into your driveway and gets stuck to your shoe.

Or you get new white carpet and your grandbabies come to visit after playing outside all day, and they forget to take off their shoes.

Or, unfortunately, you turn on the news and hear about the Washington mudslide and the lives that have been lost and the community distraught.

Then the topic of mud becomes real, especially if you are trying to clean it out of your carpet, wiping it off of your shoes, or digging through it to find a loved one or a remnant of your home.


Until this week, I’d venture to say mud is not something anyone here thought about unless if you happen to work with the earth for a living.

But go back 2,000 years and people did think a lot about dirt and mud. Back then, the world was a community of people in which you were either in or out, seen as clean or unclean.

The people of the day, desiring to have a close relationship with God, and fearful of being viewed as an outsider or unclean, followed a strict set of biblical laws found in Leviticus and Deuteronomy.

These were laws and instructions about how one was to live and act. Many of these laws made sense: don’t kill, don’t cheat on your spouse, and don’t abuse those less fortunate then you.


During a time when indoor plumbing and refrigeration did not exist, there were laws that dealt with issues of cleanliness and health.

Dirt in the field where crops grow, that’s soil. Dirt on your clothes, or on your dinner ware, well, that’s just dirt.

There were special rules about washing ones hands before a meal, about how to wash plates, cups, cookware; special rules about bodily emissions.

In other words there was to be no fruit punch in the carpeted areas.

If a person did not follow these rules, they were seen as unclean and part of the out crowd.

Just like being back in high school, being seen as part of the out crowd brought with it issues of shame and humiliation, not only upon oneself, but upon ones family and associates.

No one wants to be associated with someone who’s unclean or unpopular.

And yet Jesus did, and the Kingdom of God that Jesus talked about was a kingdom in which everyone, including the unpopular would be welcomed and loved.


In other words, God’s Kingdom is a place where fruit punch is allowed and God’s children don’t have to take off their shoes after playing.

With this in mind, let’s enter into this Scripture. Jesus encounters a man who’s blind. To point the way to God’s Kingdom, Jesus heals the man. But the way in which he does it literally stirs up the mud and upsets the local religious leaders.

First, Jesus performs this healing on the Sabbath, a day in which work is forbidden. Yes, the man was blind, but his condition was not considered an immediate emergency. It was the kind of work that could’ve been done during regularly scheduled office hours.

Second, there is the whole business of Jesus using spit, a bodily secretion, to heal the man.

Third, in order to turn his spit and dirt into mud, Jesus was kneading, as one would knead dough or fashion clay into a pot. Kneading was work.

Jesus was literally stirring up the mud as he violated at least three elemental rules of religious society.

Now add to the fact that Jesus applied mud to the man’s eyes.


Yuck! In today’s society of anti-bacterial hand cream that’s got to gross us out a bit.

Plus who knew what was in that dirt Jesus used: bits of broken down rock, decomposed pieces of vegetation and food, worm and bug excrement, flecks of dead human skin, pieces of feces from local animals, microscopic bacteria and other living organisms.

That’s what makes up dirt and that’s what Jesus used to mix with his spit, kneed into mud and apply it to the man’s eyes.

That’s the reality of what Jesus did. There is nothing neat or respectable about it.

Bad enough the man was blind, but now Jesus uses unclean excretions from his body to mix with the unclean dirt to place onto his eyes. It’s adding shame on top of shame on top of shame…

…and yet that is what Jesus does for the glory of God and for the sake of his children.

Jesus gets down and dirty in a world that tried so hard to be prim and proper, sanitized and saintly.


And here is where the scandal of Christmas continues and carries us into the season of Lent, and brings us one step closer to the Cross.

That the infant boy known as Emmanuel grows into a man who is unafraid to get dirt under his nails, who is unafraid to sit and eat with the unpopular, and who isn’t worried about what others may say about him or his means of ministry.

Jesus doesn’t feel the need to metaphorically take off his shoes when he walks across the white carpets of the day. He doesn’t let some fear of fruit punch stains get in his way.

And in doing so he continues to stir up the mud between himself and the so called righteous, religious leaders of his day.

Jesus wasn’t afraid to get down and dirty for the sake of God’s people, while others try to keep things neat and to always follow the rules.

Jesus enters into history, and the rules change. The kingdom of God is not just for those whom know the proper fork to use for their salad, but the kingdom of God is open to everyone who hungers.

The kingdom of God is not just for those who abstain from fruit punch but is available for all who thirst.

The kingdom of God is not just for those who wipe their feet before they enter a house, but it is also for those who track mud across the carpet.

Today we learn another lesson about what it means to follow Christ: the ability to get down and dirty and to stir up the mud.

Being a Christian is not about looking down upon people so we can keep our clothes and carpets spotless and clean, but it’s being out amongst the people: their bodies, their minds and their souls.


Being a Christian means knowing it’s ok to stir up the mud and to not be so worried about what others may say. It means utilizing the resources we have to reach out to others and introduce them to God.

It means that sometimes we ourselves may be seen as unclean or as unpopular.

Last week, the Gospel of John showed us that Jesus was willing to talk to a woman who was considered the enemy.

This week John shows us Jesus being unafraid to get his hands smudged for the sake of another outsider.

What can we take from this scripture? Perhaps that we should not be afraid to get our own hands dirty, nor our church.

We’ve already become a bit dirtier, with the advent of Vacation Bible School, Trunk or Treat, Sunday brunches and now the Shepherd’s Pantry.

Can we get even a bit dirtier; a bit muddier?

Because at the end of the day, we shouldn’t be so worried that we’ll get dirty, be we should be worried that we won’t get dirty enough.

Dear Ones: God is in our midst, the Holy Spirit has gathered us to worship and experience the Holy in new and astounding ways.

Christ is walking amongst us.

Are we ready to continue following, to do justice, love kindness and to journey humbly, unafraid to stir up the mud, willing to get dirt under our nails, and fearlessly reaching out to those who are hungry for healing?

May God bless our day with new realizations, may the Holy Spirit continue to empower us to work for the Kingdom and may Jesus lessen our fear of spilling fruit punch on the floor or tracking in some mud.

Amen and amen.

Sermon for March 23, 2014

Rev. George Miller
John 4:5-42
“Samaritan Shuffle”
March 23, 2014

(This is a character sermon featuring Jacob of Genesis and the Samaritan Woman at the Well).

Jacob(coming from the left/pulpit side):

I wonder if you heard the story- of how years ago I was just a boy; a foolish boy who made a series of bad decisions; choices I now regret.

My name is Jacob. Once I tricked my brother Esau into selling me his birthright. Another time I tricked my father into giving me the family blessing.

These acts of trickery caused a divide between my brother and I. So much so that he wanted to kill me. So I ran away, as far as I could.

But God has a funny way of working through even our worst mistakes.

Eventually I arrived at this well in the field surrounded by flocks of sheep. A stone covered the well’s mouth.

And there, in broad daylight, came the most graceful, beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her name was Rachel and she was with her father’s sheep.

Immediately I went over and rolled away the stone from the well, and as her flocks drank, I rushed over and kissed her.

Her lips were sweeter than any water I’ve ever tasted.

Long story short, I ended up working for her father. I was tricked into marrying her sister Leah before I got to marry Rachel.

Though Leah and I had many children, it was Rachel I always loved and eventually we had a child of our own, named Joseph.

But things for our family were not easy. My father-and-law and I nearly had it out. My daughter Dinah was attacked and my sons sought out a bloody revenge. And then there’s what happened to Joseph.

People say you’re not supposed to choose favorites, but how couldn’t I? Joseph reminded me so much of his mother. He was an outspoken dreamer, foolish and full of life.

I should have seen it coming: his brothers grew jealous and one day they stripped him of his coat and cast him down a well. Then they sold him into slavery.

They lied to me and told me Joseph had died of an animal attack. I believed them and grieved his death for decades. When we discovered Joseph was still alive, I rejoiced, but a part of me is still dead.

Knowing my own history, it was foolish for me not to realize that my own children were capable of hurting each other in such a way.

I still carry the shame and the sadness of knowing that Joseph was cast into a well. What it must have been like for him to be down there, yelling for help, begging for mercy, but never receiving any.

It used to be that wells reminded me of when Rachel and I first met. But now they remind me of what my sons did to Joseph.

It used to be, that for me, a well represented life and unity, love and peace.

But now the only thing a well represents is death and inhumanity, unkindness and the war that is waged between brother and brother.

Can anything good come from a well again? Only God knows… (Jacob stands aside as the Samaritan Woman enters)

Samaritan Woman (coming from lectern side):

I wonder if you’ve heard the story. Of how Jacob built this well; how he gave this plot of land to his beloved son Joseph.

That would have been 2,000 years ago. We know all too well about Jacob’s experiences with wells.

One well is where he met his future wife, Rachel. Another well is where his son, Joseph, was cast down.

Time has erased for certainty where exactly that well is located. But sometimes I wonder if it’s not this one, the well from where I draw my water each and every day.

Just like Jacob, the history of us Samaritans is not so care free and easy.

At one time we were just like the Jewish people who live south of us in Jerusalem. We believed in the same God; we shared the same stories.

But 700 years ago we were attacked by the Assyrians. Those in the south said it was all our fault, that we brought it on ourselves by living a sinful lifestyle worshipping fake gods and not keeping the commandments.

Then 150 years ago the Jewish army came into Samaria and destroyed our place of worship on Mount Gerizim. It would have been the same as if we had marched into Jerusalem and tore down their temple.

Needless to say, the Samaritans and the Jews do not get along. For nearly 700 hundred years we have been seen as the enemy. They accuse us of consorting with their foes.

Things are so bad that people will avoid traveling through Samaria even though it is the quickest way from Judea to Galilee.

They call us unclean and will do anything not to speak with us or to touch us, afraid that doing so will contaminate them.

Can you imagine how that makes us feel?

Though we both worship the same God and claim to share the same Father, we are like divided siblings who can’t make up because our wounds are so great.

That’s what made my recent encounter at this well so fascinating.

Let me tell you what happened. I was at this well which Jacob had built. It was noon and the sun was out and it was hot.

I was by myself, because…well, see- I’ve been married five times before and the current guy I’m staying with is not legally my husband.

You know how it is. People talk. When people talk they say some of the meanest things. Because I had 5 husbands they think there’s something wrong with me.

Like I’ve done something bad. Like I’m to blame. Or I’m a black widow.

No one asks me my side of the story. No one stops to think that perhaps my husbands beat on me, or cheated on me or realize that if a husband dies sometimes the only choice a woman has to survive is to remarry.

Because of this, I am treated like an outsider…an outsider of the outsiders.

So I wait for all the other women to leave the well before I come out to get my water.

I get to the well, and there is this guy sitting there, alone. Clearly he’s not from around here, clearly he is a Jew, and clearly he’s a man.

Jewish men are discouraged from talking to an unknown woman alone. And I was all three of those things. Not to mention a Samaritan. Unclean.

But he speaks any way: “Give me a drink.”

This shocked me and I told him so. He spoke again, this time about the gift of God and of living water.

It was too hot and I was too tired to understand what he was saying at first. I thought he meant the kind of living water you find in a river or a creek, you know, the kind of water that moves.

Like the fountains that kings have in their palaces.

Oh, I thought, how wonderful it would be to have living water that flowed in my house; I’d never have to leave home again and face the judgmental looks of others.

But apparently this was not the kind of living water he was talking about.

He continued on, speaking to me. Speaking with me. Engaging in a conversation like no one had ever done before.

He had a gentle, steady strength that made it seem as if he was comfortable with who he was.

He acted as if I was smart. He acted as if I was worthy. He acted as if I was his equal and not a second or third class citizen.

He talked as if we were no longer Jew and Samaritan, male and female, but as if we were peers; brother and sister of the same Father.

I asked if he was greater than Jacob who gave us the well. He told me that whoever drinks this water will never be thirsty again, that they will experience eternal life.

I thought of the stories of our past, the common stories both he and my people shared. Of the spring that watered Eden. Of how the Israelites experienced water in the desert during the Exodus.

I thought of the songs that spoke of the Messianic Age when we will have more than enough water to drink and to be happy.

I thought of how he seemed to embody the Good News; that he carried himself as if he knew for sure that he was loved by God.

That’s when something inside of me clicked, and I realized who I was talking too. He may have had no robe, he may have had no crown, but he was certainly God’s own Son.

I thought to myself “Why is he here, talking with me, I am just a girl?”

But in his eyes, I felt like I was something more. More than just a girl, more than just a Samaritan, more than just a woman who had been married 5 times.

I felt like I was somebody, and I was someone. I felt like I was deserving of this living water he had to offer, whatever it may be.

So I was bold. I put myself out there, and I asked him “Give me this water so I may never thirst again.”

And he knew who I was. He knew my story. And he did not judge, he did not condemn. Nor did he demand I stay silent.

He asked that I believe him and know that the hour has come for true worshippers to worship the Father in spirit and truth.

At the well of Jacob, in the heat of day, I felt peace. I felt kindness.

I felt loved not for what I can do or what I can offer, but for who I am.

Finding the courage to say what I knew to be true, I said “I know the Messiah is coming. When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us.”

The man responded “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.”

…2,000 years ago Joseph had been ruthlessly tossed into a well by his brothers, forced to look at death and cruelty in the eye.

2,000 years later I was standing beside a well, blessed to look at life and kindness in the eye.

My soul was satisfied far more than any water could have done.

What could I do but to go into town to bring all my neighbors to him?

Many people from the city listened to what I said and came to believe in him and to feel the same as I did.

For two days Jesus stayed with us, talked with us, slept in our homes, listened to our stories, and ate with us.

That first night as we shared a meal, he asked me my name. I can’t tell you the last time somebody asked me that.

And I found the courage to tell him: “I am Mary Agnes. I may be a Samaritan and I may be a woman but I too am a child of Moses, a daughter of Joseph. I am the daughter of Jacob and the daughter of Abraham and Sarah.”

Jesus smiled, and simply said “Amen.”

By giving me space to acknowledge my past and my present, Jesus empowered me to create my new identity.

…Did Jacob ever wonder if anything good could come from a well.

I am here to say that yes it can.

Because of my meeting with Jesus, this well is alive with life and I thirst no more.

In Jesus shame and sadness are gone and the pains of the past no longer linger.

In Jesus, the pits of loneliness and despair are transformed into living fountains of kindness and peace and the things that used to divide us are no more.

In Jesus, death and inhumanity, unkindness and the war that is waged between brother and brother is replaced with the living waters of life and unity, love and peace.

In Jesus, brokenness is restored and spiritual thirst is quenched.

And I am so glad, for I believe that he will save the world.

Amen and amen.

(This message is inspired by the song “Just a Girl” by Brandon Heath, the spirit of Alice Walker’s novel The Color Purple and by all people who found a way to have a voice despite what difficulties they have faced)