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Lectionary Readings for September 9, 2007
Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time

Jeremiah 18:1-11 with Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18 or
Deuteronomy 30:15-20 with Psalm 1 and
Philemon 1-21 and
Luke 14:25-33

Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
These two thoughts guide these Lectionary reflections.

Life is speaking as we sense the Sabbath’s approach long before its arrival.

We read over the texts that connect us with God.
We discern their meaning and trace the tread of coherence that runs through them.
We know they are intended to influence our words, our actions.
We are grateful for the hope they inevitably give.
And we anticipate our study, our worship, our observance of the Sabbath will be a blessing.

Life continues to speak we, we make a choice. Will it be Jesus’ admonition that we are to “hate” interfering relationships? Does he really mean “hate?” Or is it a Semitic way of saying “prefer?” Is the text linked with Deuteronomy because it also asks us to make a choice for life? And isn’t an embrace of life the gist of Paul’s words concerning Onesimus? And that clay in the potter’s hand, isn’t it the clay of creation? Where to begin.

I go to the clay.

Jeremiah 18:1-11

The word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: ‘Come, go down to the potter’s house, and there I will let you hear my words.’ So I went down to the potter’s house, and there he was working at his wheel. The vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him.

Then the word of the Lord came to me: Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done? says the Lord. Just like the clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel. At one moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom, that I will pluck up and break down and destroy it, but if that nation, concerning which I have spoken, turns from its evil, I will change my mind about the disaster that I intended to bring on it. And at another moment I may declare concerning a nation or a kingdom that I will build and plant it, but if it does evil in my sight, not listening to my voice, then I will change my mind about the good that I had intended to do to it. Now, therefore, say to the people of Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem: Thus says the Lord: Look, I am a potter shaping evil against you and devising a plan against you. Turn now, all of you from your evil way, and amend your ways and your doings.

Like you I can’t help but first ground the text in experience.

There is a hymn based on the lines of this text. Its melody is easy, its harmonies pleasing. Much as I find it soothing, I realize it misses the raw power of God’s formative words to Jeremiah. I had a plan for you, but it spoiled. So we started again. Chose life this time and let’s see how it turns out. If it turns out well; good. If not, I will reshape it again. I am the planter; I am the builder; I am the crusher; I am the reshaper. Turn from your evil ways and amend your doings.

First an experience flashes through my mind and then a thought. There were few parts of church life I loved more than working with seventh and eighth graders as they came to own their faith. What had worked for their parents might or might not work for them. And so their confirmation experience had to be authentic. For each one of them there came a Sunday when they were to give the sermon after a year of preparation in which they considered the intersection of the Word with their lives.

I had an admonition for them. “You can be good; or you can be bad; but you must not be cute.” They inevitably took the words to heart and Sunday after Sunday, the congregation inevitably reached for the tissues beneath the pews to wipe away their tears. An easy choice is often no choice at all. Following Jesus; taking the Deuteronomist’s teaching to heart; running against the prevailing norms of slavery—these choices are too deep, too wonderfully complex to not receive serious attention. The reshaping of life, on the part of an individual, or on the part of God is a serious matter.

And now the thought.

A pastoral application of the Leading Causes of Life requires an appreciation of time. No institution is better suited for such an appreciation than the church. When you are born your church receives you. When you graduate your church celebrates with you. When you wed your church clarifies the moment. When you did your church lifts your name in prayer. When you have an argument with you pastor your pastor does not abandon you. When a committee meeting appears to be the very last straw, your church stays with you and you stay with the church.

A piece of clay.
A plan for that piece of clay.
A piece of clay, misshapen.
A piece of clay reworked.
A piece of clay fired.
A piece of clay warned.
A piece of clay shaped yet again.

“There will be times in your life that you fall away from the church,” I’d always say to the kids. “But your church will never fall away from you.”

Is it as true as it sounds? Not quite. Ministry has an intent. Ministry falls short. Ministry is reshaped. Ministry makes choices to begin anew.

Thanks be to God for the gift of time that allows us to take the word to heart over, and over again.

Larry

I have returned to Big Timber after two days with cancer families. We met at the Methodist Camp on the Boulder, a place that understands hospitality as well as the St. Columbo Center that is a spiritual home to the Memphis contingent.

There were 35 people present. Teenagers with cancer; nine year olds who have
sledded with it for nine years; parents with cancers; the mothers, fathers, husbands and wives, all of whose lives have been touched by cancer. Perhaps one could say connection” was the central thread, but actually the coherence of healing, and life’s fierce call to the future provided the glue.

Sunday and Monday mornings we made space for the gift of casual conversation;
gathering stories; feeling the pain in some faces, and sensing exuberance in others.
Some stories come quickly with such sharp intensity one can only give thanks that there are five days to unpack them, that the river is there to walk along.

Some of the people have attended this camp, called the Cancer Family Network of
Montana, for many years.

I met with a group of adults on Monday afternoon. One could say my task was to talk a bit about LCL. But that actually wasn’t the task at all. The task was to help us engage in the discernment of life. If “Pretend” walked in the door he or she would not survive ten seconds. If “Despair” walked in and tried to dominate the gathering, it would not have had a chance.

When one talks about circumstance the conversation is usually brittle. When one allows time to make its gentle presence known life begins to come into view and lingers for a while.

I did not start off by talking about LCL. Instead I shared a few stories and the stories, of course, opened the way for others to share some insights. These people did not want a program. They wanted life. There is a difference.

Instead of talking about the five, I just threw out the words. “The story of our
lives could be written with a script called connection,” I said. And . . . sure
enough . . .

One oncologist said he always comes to the camp to connect with stories that most of his colleagues miss. But for him they are a priority.

A woman’s 15 year-old daughter has survived thyroid cancer . . . so far. . . but two years ago her husband collapsed on Christmas morning and was found to have a cancer of the brain. He then died. She tells a story about collecting paw paws in a basket. Each story of survival, each story showing how one navigates is a gift and she puts them all in the basket of her life. Those are my connections she says, connections that come from people who are not afraid to ask me about my life.

Another woman lost her husband; has lost much of her sight; and been through chemo. She speaks of a friend, who is sitting there beside her, who took the time to walk up 28 stairs to have a note that said, “Are you okay?”

This woman has cancer . . . she knows. Two stories of connection bring grateful tears around the share story of coherence.

We move a bit more around the circle. Three years ago an 11 year-old was diagnosed
with leukemia. She is still alive, everyone on pins and needles to see what will happen. “I think she’s doing okay,” says her mom. “But it’s not that easy, says her dad. They give her a bead for every procedure. A red bead for transfusion. Another bead for a blood draw. Another for days in the hospital. All these beads,” he says. “She has over 1,600 beads.”

This giving of beads . . . this gift . . . this connection with the experience of
healing.

Her dad had a black and blue ankle. He fell off his horse the day before. “Good
horse but since the diagnosis I haven’t been able to spend time with him so he’s out
of sorts.” Connection yet again . . . take it away and one falls, even horses forget.

For each speaker, each sharer, connection keeps giving itself. Pretty soon I notice
them using the word like a friend.

Coherence also presents itself but coherence is a 25-cent word that does not present
itself as easily. Hope emerges. And so does blessing when one woman who was in
almost too much pain to be present said, “I’ve been blessed . . .”

Time after time, for these parents, we found that cancer itself wasn’t the worst part of their experience. The most difficult part was (and now I wish you all didn’t work in a hospital, because I don’t want you to take this the wrong way) realizing that there was absolutely no way they could pay their bills. What do you do when you get a bill for $200,000? Or two million dollars? How do you reconcile the doctor’s statement that he doesn’t care about money (if I’m cynical I’d say most docs can say that because they’ve got some) but the business office that keeps sending statements? When disease divorces a person from any possibility of taking “responsibility” it is devastating and makes gatherings like this one all the more important.

So . . . over the days I was there . . . LCL took root. Walking up a mountain path
with the camp leader and the woman whose husband died . . . she says, “I don’t go to
church. I’m too angry with God for that.” “Well, if church is the place that tells
you how God works, I’d stay away too.” But what if church is more about connection
than it is one theology or another? The cancer doctor said he doesn’t really believe what the church says about God. But he goes, and has gone for over 30 years because he knows that someday he’ll need some friends.” “Oh, she says. That’s
right.” In talk after talk we discern the layers of coherence, the intricacies of
connection, and the way these are markers.

One closing vignette.

I am at dinner Tuesday night and Mary, the nine year-old whose mom
teaches school a nearby reservation. Mary, whose name means God Provides, diagnosed with cancer at 15 months. The tumor caused her to lose vision in her left eye. This little Mary, who travels to Children’s Hospital in Seattle thanks to Angle Flights . . .

Mary looks across the table at me and sees the patch and metal screen over my left
eye and says . . . “Don’t be afraid about your eye. I don’t see out of my left eye and I’m
fine.”

“Mary,” I say, “I thank you. We have a name for what you just said. We
call it a blessing. And I will carry your blessing for many, many years.”

As usual, if you want to clarify life go to places where it seems to be in
short supply . . . surround yourself with those affected by cancer, or traumatic brain injuries or, or, or, or . . . and then watch what happens as our five causes find ways to speak with unforgettable eloquence.

Walk softly,
Larry

Grace, mercy and peace to all who read these words.

Tomorrow is the Sabbath, Sunday, July 22. In the afternoon I will drive up into the mountains, 20 miles on paved road, and then 20 miles of dirt road. Once I arrive a camp there will be 30 or 40 other people each of whom shares a common calling. In one way or another cancer has touched their lives.

Some children with cancer will be there; so will their siblings, their parents, and perhaps a friend or two. Some adults, some of whom may be in the midst of chemotherapy, some of whom may be recovering from radiation. Some will be in remission. Some will be adjusting to the fact that cancer came their way and now they must figure out how to live with it.

For three days we will be sharing life. I am sure there will be laughter; there will be tears; there will be quiet conversations as the experience of cancer draws us together. I have been asked to speak about the Leading Causes of Life, which I am glad to do. I do so with a hint of hesitation because I know how very much is on the line.

Each of the causes will come into a play with a newfound clarity . . . of that I am sure.

Cancer came their way . . . and so what’s to be done?

Together the families band together to share the “new normal” with others people who walk that same path. Healing should not be a lonely experience and thanks to camps like this it needn’t be. . It is the gift of connection that allows for learning. It is the gift of connection that helps us navigate our way through a forest frought with fear.

But connection isn’t the whole story. We require a theme. It is a theme of life. Just the word “cancer” is enough to disrupt our lives and throw our worlds into chaos. And so we must re-organize our priorities. What mattered before the diagnosis may not seem so important now. What had been neglected before may now come into the light of day. Perhaps the theme of the three days will be healing. Perhaps it will be truth. Perhaps it will be authenticity. For sure we will find it out.

I do not have cancer. But I have had to survive when the odds are against me. I remember as a child going to the Rexall Drug Store with my father to buy insulin. Without that insulin my life would suddenly end. The drugist knew us. My dad and I did what we could to keep the demon of diabetes at bay and to celebrate life inspite of the circumstances. The key is to be about life. And we’ll find, I think, that what applies to an individual also applies to institutions. The hospital’s diagnosis is “a budget shortfall.” The church’s diagnosis may be the same. And so, what’s to be done? We must organize around life.

At cancer camp that’s precisely what we’ll be doing. As usual, the Lectionary for the day fits perfectly. Jesus said to Martha’s sister Mary that she had made the better choice when she chose a conversation whose blessings could not be taken away from her. Yes . . . we may have met the panther that will run us down . . . but neither connection, coherence nor hope are dependent on circumstance.

So what is to be said about life?

I suspect our five causes will lead the way . . .

We are there together . . .
We are looking for meaning . . .
We’re taking time to drive into the mountains . . . mission is always about doing something . . .
We’re listening to hope . . .
We’ll find blessings that will sustain us upon our return home, during visits to the hospitals, during new doses of treatment . . .

I suspect it will all be about life.
As Edna St. Vincent Millet put it, “I shall die but that is all I shall do for death.”

And so our conversation will be about life.

Take care, and I’ll let you know how it went.

Larry

How often does the clock of your life “tick?” For some of us in the hospital world one tick a second is way too slow, especially for those managing information technology and bouncing electrons bearing patient data around the city and to our remote hosting center in Kansas City. Yesterday our link went down for a nano or two which made for a very bad day. Usually our budget cycle ticks once a year, but this year we’re needing to find about $20 million in cost savings mid year as our expected pattern of reimbursements and balance of out and in patients is different that expected. Some aspects of the life of the system tick once a decade when fundamental strategic choices are made about where to build or rebuild a major facility (downtown or in the burbs?). In our IHP Institute for Public Health and Faith, we teach leaders to focus on a half-generation vision—about 14 yeras. For a mom sitting next to the bed of our sick kids life is marked by the drip, drip, drip of the meds flowing into the veins.

Danny Hillis, one of our generation’s wise geniuses who happens to be the kid of former missionaries, Bill and Argye Hillis. So he tends to think about things that are more important than the average genius. He wrote a landmark article in Wired in 1995 (http://www.longnow.org/projects/clock/#clockessay) in which proposed a millennium clock that would help us see the “long now” in which we live by phenomenon measured in decades, centuries and millennium. Tick (wait a thousand years) tick (wait another thousand) tick…… (http://www.longnow.org/projects/clock/ )

Hillis tells the story of the new dining room (built in 1386) where the craftsmen built expecting it to last for one of the thousand year ticks. When the room had to be repaired in the late 1800’s the new new carpenters used the oak trees their original brothers has planted for just that purpose. Imagine the life of those original workers, who lived in a thousand year web of blessing where trees have a chance to grow. No wonder they built with a quality admired across centuries! Such quality reflects the life of the craftspeople and their life reflects the web of life that held them up.

Tick, tick…..tick…………………tick.