Get Behind Me, Jesus!

Mark 1:21-28

Having both been pastors for so long 
                my husband and I have developed a strange

                        kind of religious humor

                                    yhat only the two of us understand

Whenever he suggests, for instance

            that we get some dessert

                        when I’m trying to watch my weight

Or if he suggests we give ourselves a break

            and not go to some event that we promised to go to

I’ll look at him and say, “Get behind me, Satan!”

And he knows that he’s tempting me to do something

            I’d really like to do but feel like I probably shouldn’t

Although he’s never actually tempted me to do any kind of evil

            and so calling him Satan is probably a bit over the top

                           but it’s our little joke

It's a reference to Jesus and Peter being on the road to Jerusalem

            When Jesus lets the disciples know

                        that he is going to have to die

and naturally, Peter pipes up and says,

            “Whoa!  Hold the phone!  Let’s turn around, Jesus!

                        You don’t have to do this!!

                                    You can’t die! 

                                                 Please, let’s turn around!”

And Jesus says to him, “Get behind me, Satan, you’ve got your mind

            set on human things, not divine things…”

Which to us, probably sounded a bit harsh

            Peter, after all, was just trying to save Jesus’ life…

But I understand

            Jesus didn’t want to die, either!

                        Nobody wants to die!

But he knew that if he was going to be faithful to God

            and not turn away from that commitment

                        he was going to get killed

To turn around would mean to abandon his faith, his commitment

It would save him a whole lot of pain

            but then he wouldn’t be able to live with himself….

                Jesus couldn't get a break.   He had just started his ministry, he was announcing himself to the world. It was his coming out party, time to introduce himself and who we was, what he was about--and he was doing well.  Everybody in the synagogue was impressed that day, he was a dynamic speaker, he blew people away…. When he taught, he taught with unusual authority; not authority that comes with a degree from a university, but a different kind of authority.  It wasn't just book learning--he didn't quote chapter and verse of the Scriptures.

His teaching held them mesmerized, they couldn't not listen.  He spoke to their souls ...

               Who was he? 
                     Where did he come from? 
                                  How did they not know him?
                                         What school did he go to? 
                                                Who was his mentor? 
               Man, he had them, had them in the palm of his hand when all hell broke loose.  The man came running down the aisle, hair disheveled, clothes torn, self-inflicted marks on his body.  People in the congregation cringed.  

"What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazereth?? 
Have you come to destroy us? 
I know who you are, the Holy One of God,"..

Nobody moved 
he might be armed 
people froze in place, 
frozen in fear 
the man was wild and crazy with rage 

But it doesn’t make any sense

Why is that man there?

He came running up to Jesus as if he wanted help

             like so many people did in those days

They heard him preach

and were moved to believe that this man could actually help

when no one else could

And yet he’s screaming,  “What have you to do with us, Jesus??

What do you want?  Have you come to destroy us??”

It doesn’t make sense

It looks like the man wants help

and yet he’s saying “what do you have to do with me?

Are you trying to destroy us?”

It would seem the man doesn’t know what he wants

He’s there, in Jesus’ presence

He didn’t have to come anywhere near him

Jesus would not have been a threat to him

If only he’d stayed away

and yet his body carried him there

“What have you to do with us, Jesus??

Have you come to destroy us?” 

What have you to do with us, Jesus?

Its’ a very good question

In this political climate these days

So many people are claiming to love Jesus
               and to want to do the right thing, the moral thing

and yet they do it with some vehemence, such hatred and meanness

              claiming to be Christian

                  claiming to be on the side of God

Damning, judging, excluding, justifying killing,

            all for political credibility, power and votes

damning the opponent, declaring them evil

            and worthy of death

                        in the name of God and morality

What have you to do with us, Jesus?

               Indeed, what?

It seems that there are a lot of folks who use Jesus’ name

and believe that all we have to do is believe in Jesus

                 and from there on out,  we have a free pass

to judge anyone who don't share our same beliefs

They stop listening to the rest of the story

they don’t listen to all that Jesus came to teach

Love your neighbor,

Feed the hungry,  empower the poor
             set the captives free

BE JESUS in the world

           Serve, love, give, don’t seek your own gain

but care for those who are broken

                    even if they seem downright crazy to you

What have you to do with us, Jesus??? They scream

          we scream

Are you trying to destroy us?

Are you trying to make us into something we don’t want to be?

Are you asking us to give up our lives as we know it

In order to better resemble you??

GET BEHIND ME, JESUS!  I can imagine them saying

         Don’t talk to me of the things of God

                  Don’t make me change my ways,
                        Don’t make me love the ones I hate…

GET BEHIND ME JESUS!!

Jesus, unlike the rest of the crowed, seemed unfazed 

            by the craziness in the man’s eyes

                       the rage, the conflict, the agony and violence


Jesus reached out his hand 
             and with a loud voice, and seeming anger in his own eyes, 
he said, "Be silent! Come out of him!" 
              and the man was thrown back onto the floor 
                     he squirmed and convulsed 
                              as if he were having a seizure 
                                       as if he didn't want this to happen 
                                                 as if he was holding on with all his might 
                                                          to keep the demon inside 

because, after all, he knew his demons so well

                                 they’d become like family!

and then with another ear piercing scream
the man came to rest on the floor, still as death


the unclean spirit was gone 
            I bet you could have heard a pin drop in that room 
people stared at the man 
                 nobody moving, maybe no one even breathing 


They looked at the man, 
           laying peacefully on the floor, 
               starting to rub his face, and groan,
                     and they looked up at Jesus, 
                           his face still stern and determined, focused 


"What is this?" someone said, breaking the silence 
                   "what is this?" they said fearfully 
                          "a new teaching? with authority! 
                               "even the unclean spirits obey him!" 
                                          and they looked at Jesus with fear 


Who was he, that he was that powerful? 
            that his words, his mere words 
                 had that kind of powerful effect? 


They didn't know whether to kiss his feet 
              or drive him out and send him over the cliff 

Get behind me, Jesus!

But for better or worse, 
             his fame spread throughout the region 
Everybody was talking about him 
            and nobody quite knew what to think 

This is one of those parts of the Bible 
            where people, including myself, 
                        feel somewhat justified in turning off their minds 
                               and resting for awhile 
'Ah, it's the demons, again,' 
                another one of those stories about Jesus casting out demons 
                       whatever that meant

Modern minds tend to believe 
               that the demons of that time were probably just your normal 
                      everyday mental illnesses 
People were primitive back then, 
         and didn't understand psychology or science 
                and so what do we do with these stories 
                      if we don't believe in demons anymore? 

Fred Craddock, a retired preaching professor once said, 
               "not believing in demons has hardly 
                        eradicated evil in our world.." 

They were also called unclean spirits 
                another word for unclean, is well, dirty 
                        dirty spirits 
I never knew how to relate to the image of unclean spirits 
               until Larry and I were appointed to a church in Pennsylvania 
                     right after the  pastor of 18 years 
                             had been abruptly removed 
                                      for several counts of sexual misconduct 
We moved into his house 
          and it was the only time I felt like I lived in a haunted house 

Have you ever been the unfortunate one 
            to uncover secrets that nobody wants to know about? 
The congregation had an image of their pastor 
          to be bigger than life 
                 amazing, wonderful, they adored him 

He was, after all, charismatic, a dynamic preacher

and he showed himself to be caring-- especially to women

We moved into his home 
        where he had lived for 18 years 
We only lived there a year 
              because that's as much as we could stand 

In his anger at being kicked out, 
         the pastor had locked his dog and cat into one of the bedrooms 
                 for a few days 
For weeks we could not understand where that smell 
           was coming from 
We shampooed all the carpets in the house 
           we aired out the house, 
                   but still there was that persistent, awful, 
                               nauseating smell 
                                         coming from the back bedroom 
The carpet back there was saturated 
            had to be pulled, and the wood underneath needed to be treated 
We found fist-size holes in closet doors 
               broken windows that were covered up in duct tape 
We got phone calls in the middle of the night 
              and when we answered, the caller hung up 


I always referred to that parsonage as the Amityville Horror 
          I couldn't stand to be in my own house 
There was an unclean spirit in the house 
         as crazy as that sounds 
                a spirit of intense anger, violence, lies, 
                       broken relationships, 
                              and many many days, all I could say was that there was
                                        a spirit of evil in every room 
                                                  brokenness, deep pain, intense anger 
After that, I believe in unclean spirits 
            dirty spirits that linger and fester like untreated wounds 
                      spirits that make you sick, literally 
                            that cause irrational dissension 
                                   that keep bitterness and hate alive 
It had filtered out of the parsonage into the church 
           and it infested everyone there 
                  like a virus 
                        and there was nothing the two of us could do about it 
                               by ourselves 
                                        and we had to leave 

I believe in unclean spirits 
         unclean spirits are spirits that keep people sick 
                 that keep relationships from being healed 
                        spirits that keep hate alive 
                              and fan the flames of bitterness and dissension 


Unclean spirits are spirits that keep the work of Christ 
           from going forward 
I've sensed them in all the churches I've been in 
             when someone is excited about a ministry opportunity 
                       a chance to reach out to those in need 
                             and they feel a passion and excitement 
                                    about being Jesus to someone else 
                                           but then someone says, 
"what about liability issues? 
          can we get sued? 
            what if they damage the carpet? 
                        what if they leave a mess?
                               how much will this COST?"

When the ministry of Christ among us is interrupted 
            there are unclean spirits at work 
Whenever good things are kept from happening 
             or volatile arguments and fights 
                   keep our focus off of serving Christ, 
                        there are unclean spirits at work 
When the truth is told and someone is punished for it 
              because we don't like truth that is hard to hear, 
                         there are unclean spirits at work 

We may know a lot more about what causes 
            various mental illnesses 
                         but for the person who is caught up in that mental illness 
                                    it doesn't ultimately matter what science knows 
that person's spirit is still so painfully broken and in chaos 
             unable to receive love and mercy 
                    unable to feel the goodness of wholeness 
whatever the scientific explanations are, 
                that spirit is still unclean, burdened, tortured 
                         separated from God's peace 

Not believing in demons anymore 
has hardly eradicated evil in our world….. 

They didn't know if he was good or bad 
            They didn't know if that kind of power 
                   could possibly be a good thing 
But Jesus did it again and again, 
                 he drove unclean spirits out of people 
                         and restored them to wholeness and health again 


It's easy to dismiss these stories 
           as ancient, and therefore irrelevant 
but you know, I think you're crazy 
          if you ever think that unclean spirits aren't real and very much alive 


We are all possessed, really 
        and we're fools if we don't admit that 
We're all possessed by something 
             something or someone that keeps us from wholeness 
                     keeps us from knowing peace in ourselves 
                               keeps us from speaking truths that need to be spoken

We're all possessed 
           it's just a matter of knowing what it is that possesses us 
               so that we can be healed 

And we won’t always want to be healed

              won’t want to let go of those precious demons

                      we know so well…

We may come willingly to Jesus

            and yet say,  “leave me alone, don’t change me,

                        don’t heal me,  it will be too hard, there's too much to lose….”

Over and over again in the Gospel of Mark 
                 it is the demons and only the demons who know who Jesus really is--
                        the Holy One of God 
Those who were crazy, those who were dismissed as being sick 
           they were the ones who called him the Son of God 
                   and it was the so-called sane ones 
                          who finally put him to death 


The ancients believed that unclean spirits 
            were more powerful than human beings 
                 but less powerful than God 
                          and I think they're right 
                                  they didn't know the science or the psychology 
                                        but they knew the basic truth 
unclean spirits possess us 
               and are too powerful for us to heal on our own strength 
                       the only way we can be healed is by the power of God 
                              in Jesus Christ 
Over and over again, 
         we try to heal ourselves 
               we try to control our lives 
                      we try to fix it all by ourselves 
                               but it's only when we have the strength 
                                         to surrender to God 
                                                 to say, "God, I can't do this alone 
                                                         I am powerless over this thing-- 
                                                             this addiction, this rage, 
                                                                       this hate, this pain, whatever…" 
and then to say,
       "God, you take it 
                you take me, and heal me..
                         let me get out of your way and surrender my own control…" 
Wow, that's hard 
         We are a fix-it kind of people 
                we are a self-help culture 
             Read a book, attend a workshop, take a course!
                        Take a pill!and be healed! 

But we're all just crazy, when you come down to it 
we're crazy because we live in a crazy world 
and we are fools if we think that that's not going 
to rub off on us daily 
We are possessed because we live in a world that wants to possess us 
We join the mob spirit 
we believe what we read on the internet 
we let our emotions take over 
and take us to places that aren't pretty 
We are easily possessed 
because we haven't learned that we can't be in control 
and be healthy 

Unclean spirits are, as they always have been, 
more powerful than humans 
but less powerful than God 
and the only way we can be whole and healthy 
and a little less crazy, 
is to surrender daily to our life-giving God 
the only one who can drive out unclean spirits 
from our souls 
and make us clean 

But, beware, 
those spirits never leave quietly, do they?         

Change never comes easily
When Jesus rebuked them to come out, 
the spirits didn't just come willingly 
they were forced out 
and they didn't like it 
they convulsed the poor men and women 
threw them around, injured them and exhausted them 
on their way out, 
leaving them vulnerable and weak 

In another part of the Bible 
Jesus talks about being careful --
that if demons are driven out, 
then something good and healthy 
needs to fill that empty place 
otherwise, the door is left open 
for more vicious and more plentiful demons to enter once again 

In other words, when we are healed from our demons 
we need to still be vigilant, faithful, prayerful, 
actively filling that empty place with good things, 
good thoughts, good spirit--
or worse and more powerful unclean spirits will come to live in us 

Not believing in demons has hardly 
eradicated evil in our world 

Evil is alive and well 
we fan the flame of it every day 
we are easily caught up in it 

Especially when it comes in the guise

Of religious language and propaganda
Our only hope is to trust the Risen Christ 
our only hope is to stay closer to him 
surrender our spirits every day to him 
trusting him to fill us with good things, right things 
It's hard to let go of that control 
It's hard to not to fight good things 
Unclean spirits never leave quietly 
or without trying to get the last dig in 
before they are banished 
Don't give them voice 
don't give them room 
allow your hearts, minds, and souls 
to be filled with the powerful spirit of the Living Christ 
whose presence banishes unclean spirits 
whose power threatens and overwhelms them 

Every day, 
Every moment, 
let the spirit of Christ come in 
with each breath of air you take 
and someday, we pray, 
they'll all be gone 
forever 
and everyone will be at peace

In Plain Sight

In Plain Sight 

     I haven't written many short stories since I was a kid, but this one just came to me a couple of years ago.  There was a patient in one of our local nursing homes named Elvis J. Presley.  I never met him, and his door was always closed, so I couldn't even sneak a peak.  He was a very private person, I was told, and got annoyed after awhile by the attention he got from his name.  The nurses insisted he was older than the singer, but I glanced at the spine of his chart and noticed that his birth year was a couple of years later than the Mississippi-born superstar.  But my imagination ran away with me....

         Elvis woke up startled.  The dream had felt so real.  The same dream he’d been having several nights in a row.  He could see her so clearly, a young teenage girl with short blond hair and startling blue eyes, weeping.  God, those eyes!.  Every night it was the same thing.  Sometimes she was weeping with such sorrow.  Other times she was dancing joyfully in her bedroom.  It was like he was watching just outside her door, mysteriously drawn to her spirit, her soul, her heart. Then she turned around, seeing him, her hands suddenly covering her mouth —and he woke up. 

The old man swung his legs out of bed, shoving his feet into the slippers on the floor.  He rubbed his hands over his face and tried to wake up, reaching for his cane that leaned up against the wall. 

            He heard the noises outside of his door that indicated the rest of the nursing home had come back to life.  He kept his door closed whenever he was in the room.  A lot of people coming through visiting loved ones always wanted to get a peek at the old man who shared a name with the famous rock star, Elvis Presley.  Yes, he was born with it, he told them one more time.  His mother named him.

He never ceased to be amused at the attention his name got him, even in this tiny Midwestern town.  People needed to get a life, he thought.  At first he enjoyed listening to people’s stories of how they’d seen Elvis in concert and what his music meant to them.  But after awhile, he just wanted to be left alone, be another anonymous face in the white-haired Bingo crowd.  Sometimes he pretended to be asleep on the couch when visitors came walking through.  Occasionally he heard someone whisper to the nurse on duty,    

“Do you really have a resident here named Elvis Presley?” 

            “Yes,” the nurse would say patiently, “But he’s older than the singer.”  And the person would look around the room, wondering which one he was. 

            He depended on music to soothe his soul.  His repertoire consisted of Ray Charles, Beatles, Johnny Cash, blues, but mostly gospel.  He had some CDs of the Imperials and J.D. Sumner and the Stamps Quartet.  It wasn’t easy to find these things, but the nurses were good about getting online for him and even getting some old vinyl albums.  He’d given them the money to get one of those new record players. He loved to listen to the crackling sound of a vinyl record.  He would listen for hours.  No one disturbed him unless it was time for his meds or meals.  He preferred to take meals in his room, but sometimes he’d shuffle out to the dining room and sit with the ladies.  He preferred their company to the men who usually griped about the government or how their sons were messing up their farm businesses. 

Susan was a chaplain who came to the nursing home to visit with some of the residents.  Sometimes she’d lead a worship service in the chapel, but Elvis never went.  They were usually too tame for his taste. However, he’d overheard Susan talking to the other residents occasionally and she seemed to be alright.  She had an infectious smile and a beautiful voice.  Sometimes he overheard her singing to a resident in one of the neighboring rooms.  Her voice was sweet and pure, like a lullaby.    

            One day he was shuffling down the hall when he heard her singing, “Peace In the Valley.”  He stopped and listened for a moment.  His mama had loved that song.  He smiled and peeked into a nearby room.  He saw Susan kiss the forehead of an old woman lying in her bed.  Susan prayed over her, stroked her cheek, and quietly left the room. 

            Elvis was still standing there.  Susan looked up and saw him.  “Oh, hello,” she said, startled. 

            “Hello,” he said shyly, struck by the piercing blue of her eyes. “I’m sorry to startle you, I just heard you singing to Mavis. You have a beautiful voice.”

             “Thank you,” she said, blushing.

            He cleared his throat.  “I love gospel music. My mama used to sing to me all the time. There ain’t nothin’ like a good gospel song,” he said, turning into his room.

            Susan smiled, “That’s true,” she said, intrigued.  She saw the name plate by his door.  “Ohmygosh, I’d heard that they had a resident named Elvis Presley here, so you’re him, huh?” 

            It was Elvis’ turn to blush, though he’d played out this scene many times. “Yep, guilty as charged.” 

            “My daughter is crazy about Elvis.  Ever since she was a little girl and heard his music in a Disney movie,” she said.   

            Elvis looked into his room, and back at Susan.  He nodded.  “Yeah, he was the best,” he mumbled. “You wanna come in and visit a bit?”  He asked without thinking.  Damn, he was planning to take a nap.  

            “Sure,” Susan said, following him into his room. She often got a little bored with her job.  It’s not that she didn’t care, but many of the residents she visited had severe dementia and couldn’t participate in conversation.  She was beginning to wonder if she ever made a difference.

There wasn’t much in Elvis’ room that revealed anything about this man with the famous name.  There was his record player, a pile of records and CDs.  There were no pictures of family, just a few pictures of horses, motorcycles, and an old picture of Jesus above his bed.  A tattered Bible lay open on the nightstand.  King James.

            Susan looked around before sitting down on a nearby chair.  “So,” she ventured, “I bet you get a lot of questions about your name.”   

            “Yeah, I guess I do,” he said, sighing, but not offering any more information. 

            Susan wanted to ask so many questions.  How had his parents come up with that name?  Was it a common name back then?

            Susan tried again. “Do you have any family?”  It was one of her usual segue-ways into conversation.  People loved to talk about their family.

            Elvis turned toward her.  “Nope,” he said, “just me.” Silence.

            Susan studied his face.  He looked between 75-80 years old.  His eyes were a faded blue, his hair white.   He seemed weary, protective.  His face was a locked door.  She felt an unexpected kinship with this private man.

            “What did you do for a living?” she asked.  At this stage of life, many people loved sharing their memories, and just wanted someone to hear—be a witness—to their lives.  She suspected that this man had some fascinating stories. 

            Elvis drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat.  “Well,” he said, “a little of everything.  I drove truck for a while in my younger days.  Believe it or not, I tried doing some music gigs.  But it’s hard to be taken seriously when you’ve got a name that’s already taken by someone famous.”  

            Susan looked around the sparse room. Clearly he wanted to remain a mystery, retreat into the safe sanctuary of himself.  He wasn’t rude.  He was very courteous. Elvis looked around the room, obviously uncomfortable, and it was clear to Susan that he wanted her to leave.

            “Well,” she said, “I do need to head back to the office.  It was wonderful to meet you, my daughter will get a kick out of it when I tell her.”  She smiled.  Elvis suddenly noticed how beautiful she was. There was something in her eyes.  Behind the smile there was pain, and he knew pain.  This woman, he thought, is recovering from something.    

            Suddenly he felt anxious.  He didn’t know what triggered it. Something about her face looked so familiar.  For a moment he studied her brown hair and blue eyes, but couldn’t figure out what unnerved him. 

            “Uh, yeah,” he said, quickly recovering.  “Nice to meet you too, ma’am, take care,” he said, reaching for some albums and pretended to sort through them.

            Susan wondered what shut him down quickly, but cleared her throat and got up to leave.  She stared at the back of Elvis.  He was still trim for an “old man,” and well-kempt.  He clearly cared about his appearance.  She quietly left the room and pulled the door shut.  She lingered in the hall for a moment and heard the harmonizing sounds of the Imperials singing “Sweet, Sweet Spirit.” She listened for a moment and  heard another voice-- that of the old man, singing along.  His baritone voice was rich and full of emotion.  What a strange man, she thought.  With an ever-so-interesting name. 

            Susan walked slowly down the hall, looking at the residents playing cards at a table in the activity room. She didn’t notice Audrey, the charge nurse standing nearby, looking over a chart.

            “So you met Mr. P, huh?”  Audrey smiled.

            Susan jumped a little.  “Oh, yeah --- he’s not easy to get to know, is he?”

            “No,” said Audrey.  “He never has any visitors, no family to speak of.  In fact, we were all shocked that he let you in.  We’re not sure where he’s from, his records are pretty sparse.  We all call him Mr. P around here, because, well, it’s just too weird to call him Elvis.  He’s a dear man, but he’s a mystery.  We don’t know why he’s here.  He doesn’t require much care at all.”  She was careful not to give out too much information.

            Susan smiled.  She wanted to pry, but she knew the rules.  Characters in real life always fascinated her and she was a little frustrated that she couldn’t find out more about Mr. P.  Why didn’t he live at home?  Where did he come from?    

            Mr. P dozed off in his chair, listening to his records.  He dreamed he was on a beautiful beach, walking with a young woman, laughing and chasing her in the sand.  He smiled in his sleep.  He loved women!  But most of them hadn’t seen beyond his handsome face and charming ways.  They didn’t see his longing, his deep hunger.  For peace, for God, for a rest from the darkness that plagued him. His only relief was when he listened to music.  It was a feeling he could never sustain or store up to draw upon when he needed it.  Late at night  was the worst.

            The dream faded and there she was again. That girl with the blonde hair.  In the dream he could see she was an old soul. Someone like him.  She had a spirit of wisdom that exceeded her years.  He sensed that she understood how he felt.  Like an oddball or misfit who felt so deeply and profoundly that it made one feel like they could burst wide open. It was like he could see her soul. Somehow he knew that she wasn’t a musician, but loved music.  Music was in her skin, her blood, her being and it was as important to her as the air she breathed.  He loved this mystery girl in his dream, but not like he’d loved so many women in his youth.  Like a soul-mate.  She understood and loved him for who he was.  When he saw her in the dream, she turned and smiled with absolute joy,  as if she had been waiting for him. 

            “THERE you are!” she said, and he woke up with a cry that jolted him.

            He lay awake, not moving, needing to hold onto that feeling of connection, that sense of being completely understood.  Something he’d never really had in his life.  He never truly trusted people after his Mama died. God, that woman adored him.  He was the center of her universe, and she was his.  When she died, it was like someone cut out his heart and buried it in the ground.  He could never quite figure out how to breathe after that.  In his younger days, he’d tried to fill the void with lovers. He tried to share things with them that excited him, inspired him, and they’d end up looking at him as if he were crazy.  They wanted so little and he wanted so much.  Sex was just a drug to try to keep away the pain of isolation. 

            Now he didn’t need anyone.  He’d resolved that he would be alone and he did everything he could to keep it that way.  He sighed heavily as he rolled over and got up.  He put on an album, savoring the crackling sound of the needle on vinyl.  He didn’t understand the technology of online music, music that was disembodied, in a computer file.  He liked the certainty of an album, the solidness of it, the security of knowing that the music was held within its grooves and couldn’t be lost. 

            Susan got to see a lot of Mr. P over the next several weeks.  He waited for her, which surprised the facility nurses.  He wasn’t one of her patients, but their visits were a spiritual lift for her in the midst of her daily travels.  She got frustrated with him as she tried to coax some stories out of him and he remained tight-lipped.

            For Mr. P, the dreams became more frequent and intense. The Blond Mystery Girl was passionate and beautiful.  His heart ached and he’d wake up with his hand out into the air, reaching for her.  It was as if he was a distant observer, watching her as she wrote stories, poetry, journal entries in her room.  Her heart was broken often.  He knew that her passion and sensitivity made her more prone to hurt.  He wanted to protect her, shield her.  He knew a thing or two about how vicious the world could be.  He was amused that she was comforted by the Gospel songs of Elvis. The Blond Girl haunted him.  But he couldn’t speak about her to anyone.  The dreams left him sad, and quiet.  The nurses began to notice when they came in to wake him in the morning.

            “Did you have your nightmares, again, Mr. P?”  They’d lean over and touch his shoulder, seeing the tears at the edges of his eyes.  He shrugged them off.

            “Just the dreams of an old man at the jumpin’off point,” he said.

            Mr. P liked the young chaplain-lady.  He couldn’t pinpoint what it was about her that drew him to her.  Getting close to people was terrifying for him, and yet she was the first one in a long time that he could trust.  They talked about music, God, history, etc.   Mr. P was very good at diverting the subject when it got too close, and sometimes he’d just chuckle and point at Susan. 

          “Ha!  You almost got me there…” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

          One night she was called to the nursing home to be with a patient who was dying. She’d been out with her daughter to a late movie and was just leaving the theatre when the nurse called.  Susan hadn’t had time to drop Sarah off before heading over, so she came along.  Sarah always carried a book with her for such emergencies, so she curled up in the waiting room with her book and soon fell asleep. 

The family all left shortly after the death, and Susan went into the staff room to see if there was any coffee left.  It was 1:00 a.m. and the building was silent and dark, except for small lights along the floor. After the mortuary people had gone, the nurses went back to their stations.  The calm after the storm of death.  Susan felt suddenly very tired, and sat down in a recliner to catch a power nap before driving home. 

            She woke abruptly, remembering that Sarah was there, too, and probably anxious to head home.  She stretched and yawned, willing herself to get up.    

            Mr. P had been disturbed by one of his dreams and decided to wander down the hall to get a cup of coffee .  He shuffled toward the little kitchenette and passed the family waiting room just as Sarah was sitting up and stretching.

            Mr. P glanced into the room and came to an abrupt halt that almost threw him off balance. His heart started racing and his hands were suddenly cold. 

             “MotherofGod!” He whispered.  He stood transfixed, staring at the young girl yawning and turning over, oblivious to his presence.  Mr. P felt dizzy, his knees trembling.  He stood still, not trusting his legs to work. It was her. My God. The Blond Girl.  From his dreams. 

            Susan came up behind him and gently touched him on the shoulder, and he jumped, turning toward her with a sudden look of terror. 

“Are you ok, Mr. P?” She asked gently.

            “What the hell are you doing here?!” He blurted out, angry that he’d been caught off guard. 

            “Mrs. Osenbach passed away tonight,” she said, “they called me in to be with her and her family.” 

            His wide eyes stared at her as he moved away from the door.  His eyes moved to the floor, trying to stop the shaking in his hands. This was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him.  What had happened?  What terrors did he carry around in that soul of his? 

            His eyes were teary, and she assumed it was the news of Mrs. Osenbach.  “Did you know her well?” She gently asked.

            “What?”  He looked up, again confused.  “Oh, no, Rita was a bitch, actually.  I stayed away from her. Uh…” he cleared his throat, “I just woke up from a bad dream and wanted some coffee.  That girl,” he nodded back toward the waiting room, “do you know who she is?  Or what she’s doing here?” 

            Susan peeked in at Sarah, who was now sleeping soundly on the couch, curled up under a blanket.  Susan chuckled.  “Oh, that’s my daughter, Sarah.  She and I were at a movie when I got the call, so she rode along with me…” 

            Mr. P’s face blanched.“Your daughter?  Holy shit,” he said, and hurriedly turned away, apparently no longer interested in his coffee.  Susan started to speak, but he was no longer listening, anxious to get back to his room.  She stared after the old man, wondering if she should accompany him, but decided to just leave him alone. 

            Mr. P crawled into bed, shoving his cane aside, ignoring the noise it made as it hit the floor.  He got under the covers, slippers still on his feet.  When he closed his eyes, he saw Her again.  Those blue eyes from his dreams.  Now peaceful, sleepy as he’d just seen them in the waiting room.  Eyes that looked at him as if she knew him.  But how could she?  He’d never seen her in person before tonight.  He put his arm over his eyes to shield his mind from her image, but he fell asleep with her smiling gently at him, telling him… she understood.  Everything. 

          Susan didn’t make it back to that nursing home for a couple of weeks because of her busy schedule.  But she couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. P.  Sarah hadn’t mentioned anything about that night, of course, she slept through most of it.  She hadn’t seen Mr. P in the hallway staring at her.

            Susan got a call just as she was getting into bed one Friday night.  “Susan,” the night nurse said very grimly, “Mr. P isn’t doing very well.  The Doctor thinks he may have had a stroke a couple of days ago, and he hasn’t been the same since. Tonight he’s real bad and he’s asking for you.  He doesn’t want to talk to anyone else, just you.  Can you come?”   

            Susan’s heart sank.  Not Mr. P.  Whenever she met a new patient, she knew death and loss was a strong possibility, but somehow she thought this man would live forever.  She dressed quickly, kissed her sleepy husband and headed out the door. 

            The home was quiet, all the residents tucked in their beds for the night.  Dim lights lit the hallways.  The birds chirped sleepily in the glass aviary, greeting this night visitor.  Susan hurried to Mr. P’s room, where a nurse was just leaving. 

            She looked so sad. “He doesn’t look good.  I hate this,” the nurse shook her head and squeezed Susan’s arm. 

            Susan peeked into the dark room.  There was a nightlight near his bed, and J.D. Sumner was singing softly, his deep bass voice filling the otherwise quiet room.  The nurse was right, Mr. P didn’t look so good.  Shit, Susan thought.  She approached the bed just as he turned toward her. 

            “Hey, Preacher,” he said with a slurred voice.  “I’m not doin’ so good.  But it’s ok.  I just wanted to talk to you ‘bout some things.  I’m not afraid to die, hell, I’d come so close before-- sometimes I thought it’d be a relief…”  Tears streamed down his face as he said, “I’m not so afraid of where I’m going,  it’s just, well, my Mama.  I didn’t always live the kind of life that made her proud.  I got better, but I was pretty messed up when I was younger.  I don’t think I could stand to see her disappointed in me,” he said, and it struck Susan how young he suddenly seemed. Like a scared little boy.

            She smiled, the tears spilling from her eyes as well.  “Oh, Mr. P, your Mama sounds like a special lady.  From what you’ve told me, I think she’ll be so glad to see you, she’ll forget everything else.  She loves you. You’re ok.”  She reached out to stroke his face.  Dying has a way of melting all barriers.

            He smiled, a tear falling sideways onto the pillow.  He looked toward the record player. “God, isn’t that beautiful?” he said.

            “Yes.” 

            “Do me a favor,” Mr. P whispered.

            “Sure, anything,” 

            “Tell your girl, it’s gonna be alright.  All of it.  Tell her I understand.  It’s a hard world for people with tender hearts.  Tell her to just keep bein’ herself, stayin’ true to herself and to take no shit…” he bit his lip, as if he regretted the last part.  Susan chuckled. 

            “It’s ok,” she whispered. 

            “She’s got a beautiful spirit.  Just… tell her she’s gonna be ok,” he said.  “And…” he hesitated, “tell her thank you.” 

            Susan swallowed.  She wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it didn’t seem the time to ask.  She knew Mr. P hadn’t had a chance to talk to Sarah that night, he only saw her from a distance.  But she also knew that there are many mysterious things that she’d never understand, and whether it made sense to her or not, she would pass on the message. 

            “And thank you,”  he said softly, his blue eyes staring into hers.  He chuckled softly. “Thankyouverymuch.” 

            Susan laughed out loud through her tears.  “You’re welcome, Elvis.” she said, holding his hand.  J.D. finished his song and the needle picked up as the player shut itself off.  Susan began to sing “Peace In the Valley” to Mr. P as he closed his eyes with a gentle smile on his face.  She followed with “Amazing Grace,” and “How Great Thou Art.”  As she reached the end of they hymn, she placed her hand on his chest.  It was still.  And she wept.  She sat there a long, long time, holding his hand.

            The next morning at breakfast, Sarah asked her immediately what was wrong, as Susan’s eyes were puffy and swollen from the tears.  She would wait till later to tell her the mysterious message.  Susan took a deep breath and responded,

            “Elvis Presley died last night.” 

Digging In the Backyard

Matthew 25:14-30 

Sermon preached at Franklin United Church of Christ

November 16, 2014

       Being a storyteller myself, I've always appreciated Jesus' method of teaching.  I always remember things better if it's taught through a story that engages me, and as we know,  Jesus loved to tell a good story.  When you engage people through the heart as well as the mind, they tend to remember things better.  I know I do!  However, with this story, one might wonder, what in the world does this have to do with me?  With my life in the 21st century?  First of all, though we may have heard the story in Sunday School, we probably don't know what a talent is, at least in Jesus' use of the word.  And burying money in the backyard just sounds silly.  

      I grew up in the Church, so I've heard many stories on this passage, and it seems to me that a lot of preachers struggle with what to say about this passage.  If we're honest, though, we might often wonder what the Bible has to do with us and real, everyday lives.  All of these stories of men in robes or togas-- which in the Christmas Pageant always look like bedsheets-- wandering through the Middle East wearing sandals and hanging out in the marketplace, or dragging in nets full of fish from the sea.  All this happening two millenia ago!   How can we relate to any of this in our technologically driven world where we can travel via computer and talk to our friends or relatives across the world?  

     A few years ago I took a Theater class for fun at the Community College in Grand Island.  One of our assignments was to give an oral presentation on a subject of our choosing.  The subject of my presentation was the influence of the Church on Medieval Theater--something in the range of my expertise, anyway.  What I found #1) Did not surprise me, and yet #2) was still a bit disturbing.   I love theater!  I love going to see live theater, especially when it's done well.  I can enjoy a good musical at the University in Kearney just as much as a traveling Broadway show in Omaha.  But back in the Dark Ages, the Church was very influential in getting rid of live theater altogether.  The Church had a lot more power back then and used that power to literally ban certain things in society.  So, in the Dark Ages, the Church successfully got rid of all live theater because it could.  Some of it, mind you, was a bit risque and had gone too far.  As in most things, humankind has a way of taking a good thing too far-- we seem to have trouble with balance, don't we?  

We too often think of most things in Black and White, All or Nothing, Good or Bad.  So theater, with the exception of traveling minstrels and jugglers, were dismissed from the world of the Dark Ages.  (Keep in mind, this time was called the Dark Ages....)  What was most interesting-- and terribly ironic to me-- was the fact that in the Middle Ages theater came back to society-- through the Church.  

      Illiteracy was an epidemic in those days, and the Church looked for a way to teach the Bible and Christianity to those who couldn't read.  The best way, they found, was through drama.  They already had the seeds of the dramas in the common liturgies of the Church that went through the cycle of stories of Creation, The Fall, Sin, and Redemption.  So people learned about Christianity and the Bible by some folks acting it out in a theater-type demonstration.  Sometimes they inserted some comedy into the play to keep it interesting, but they didn't have to look far.  If you've read the Old Testament, you know there is plenty of absurd and entertaining dynamics, as well as stories fit for modern day soap operas.  If you're looking for family values, don't look for it in the Old Testament!!  

        And out of all that the theater began to be born again-- pun, I suppose, intended-- and the dramas eventually spilled out into the streets to entertain the masses.  Theater was back. 

        As often happens, a good thing could go too far, and the theaters acted out stories that the Church didn't approve of or want told, but it was too late.  The Church eventually disowned the theater, threatening censure again, but the theater took on a life of its own.  

        I say all of this because once again, I was disappointed to see that throughout history, the Church has had a reputation for spoiling parties, raining on parades and being very suspicious of Fun, Joy, and Good Feelings.  Somehow, Joy and Freedom couldn't be good.  

        In my experience, many preachers use this passage to tell us, hey! God has given you talents to use, and you need to use them, share them!  God wants you to sign up for a committee or take a leadership position in the Church that the pastor is trying to fill.  More often, this passage is used in stewardship sermons.  It's about money, and how we use our money wisely.  God has blessed you with money and so, give it to God!  Put it in the offering plate and God will be pleased... but neither of these interpretations make much sense to me.  More specifically, they don't stir me up and resonate with my heart.  I think it's about more than money.  Jesus was not one to be too concerned about money, you  may notice.  

       I did notice that Jesus told this story amid many other stories not long before he was going to die.  He was very aware of the fact that he was dying soon.  He knew that he'd made a lot of people angry and that some powerful people believed that he was in fact, not the Son of God, but more an enemy of God.  Of course, we don't that anymore, do we?  If we disagree with someone in leadership, we don't start spreading or believing vicious rumors about them that could get them killed by fanatics, right?  And we don't demonize anyone, like maybe Arabs or Muslims or worse yet,  Democrats!!  No.... 

         Anyway, Jesus is about to get himself killed and he knows his time is short.  He knows, too, that whatever happens to his ministry-- the message that he came to deliver, to teach-- he knows that message is now going to be in the hands of those 12 disciples.  If I were him, I'd be pretty worried.  They haven't always shown themselves to be too bright or reliable or clear-headed! But they're what he has to work with!  So he know they have to get it-- get HIM-- who he is, why he came, and most importantly, what he came to teach... so they can spread the Good News and little by little work with God in transforming the world.  So he does this by telling them stories, that even they can understand.  This one, about a man who goes away for awhile and entrusts his slaves with his property... He's a very rich man, by the way, and so he must have an unusual amoutn of trust in his slaves-- either that, or he's just stupid for leaving.  Because before he leaves town, he divvies up his property-- not equally, mind you-- between the three slaves.  Five talents to one, Two talents to the other and just one to the third.  

        If you haven't studied up on this story, you may not know that a talent was a form of money that was worth about 15 years worth of wages for the average worker.  Fifteen years worth of salary for someone who works perhaps at Baldwin's, Cabela's or Eaton's.  One talent equals 15 years of wages, so you multiply that by 2 and by 5-- that's a lot of money.  A lot of money to be placing in the hands of someone who isn't used to having that kind of money available at one time.  The man had to be pretty careless in his financial management. 

         But as it turns out, his slaves were honest and reliable.  Better than that, they increased his wealth by double!  The first two slaves increased his money, though we're not sure how.  Either they were very shrewd or just very lucky.  The third guy kind of freaked out, though.  The master gave him one talent-- 15 years of wages-- and he didn't know what to do.  He'd never seen that kind of money before.  We're not sure what happened-- maybe he didn't trust himself, maybe he knew that he could be tempted by that wealth and run off with it.  Maybe he knew he could easily spend it all, squander it and leave the master with a serious deficit.  He could just imagine the consequences of that!  he'd be whipped, brutally tortured and die a painful death, he was sure!  He knew his master to be a harsh man.  It was almost cruel to do this to the poor guy.  So the slave responded by doing the best thing he knew to do-- he dug a deep, deep hole and buried the money.  But that wasn't enough!  He was sure that someone would see the earth disturbed in that area of the yard, so he got nervous that someone would go digging.  He watched over that hole day and night, night and day, checking again and again, looking over his shoulder, jumping at every sound, every footstep.  He didn't dare move too far from that hole.  

      When the master returned, he called for an accounting of his wealth.  He wanted to know what they did with his money, and how much he still had!  The first two slaves were thrilled to report that they'd made him an even wealthier man!  As you'd expect, the master was overjoyed.  He told them that now they'd proven themselves trustworthy in a few things, they would be entrust with many things!  "Well done, good and trustworthy slaves," he said, and I bet they felt really, really good.  They'd pleased the master and certainly things would go well for them from here on out.  

       The third slave approached him dragging a muddy sack.  His eyes were a bit bloodshot, his face strained from lack of sleep.  

        "M....Master," he said, "I knew you to be a harsh man, and so I was afraid, and so I went and hid your money in the ground.  Here,"  he said, shoving the muddy sack towards the master, "you have what is yours..."  he backed away, bowing, wringing his hands nervously.  

        Whaaaaat???  The master was furious!  He let the guy have it!  Called him "worthless, lazy," even "wicked"!  And he said, "throw him into the outer darkness where there is only weeping and gnashing of teeth!"  

         I don't know about you, but I think the master is overreacting a bit here.  Ok, the guy was a bit foolish, but hey, he didn't lose anything.  Sure, the guy could have put it all in the bank and gotten interest on it, but why not chalk it up to just bad management, be thankful nothing was lost and let him go?  And if that's not strange enough, Jesus concludes the story by saying, "For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance, but to those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away...." Well, that doesn't sound good!  Isn't that the way things already are?  The rich get richer and the poor get poorer?  I thought Jesus liked the poor!  In fact, in the very next story he tells, he says that we will see his face in the face of the poor, and when we turn away the poor, we turn away Jesus!  So what's this about?  Is Jesus contradicting himself?  

      I don't know about you, but I've always kind of identified with that poor third slave.  What was his problem?  He said it himself.  He was afraid.  He was terrified of his master.  And on top of that, the master put this magnificent responsibility in his hands, and by doing so, said essentially, you are trustworthy.  You are awesome.  I trust you with my very life and livlihood.  The guy was just a slave. 

       Have you ever received a gift that was just too heavy?  One that was so remarkable that you uttered those ridiculous words, "Oh, I can't accept that!!"  It doesn't have to be a piece of jewelry or a car, it can be a friendship, a relationship.  I think when we truly fall in love, we have that sense that wow, this is too good!  I'm not worthy of this!  and we're humbled.  Some people--tragically-- push away the gift, and never get to receive it.  The third slave was terrified of the gift... No, no, he said, I can't do this, I'm not worthy.  I'll blow it... and then I'll be punished.  And so, in anxious terror,, he buried it in the ground to make sure he didn't screw it up, and made sure he could contain it and maintain control over it.  

       His greatest fears were revealed in that moment that he was handed that responsibility.  After all, what did the master give those three slaves?  He gave them everything.  Everything he owned, and if they blew it or stole it, he'd be destitute.  The third slave realized this.  He was afraid of failing.  He was afraid he wasn't trustworthy.  So he punished himself before anyone else could.  He buried it, buried the magnificent gift deep in the ground.. and then worried over it, paced, stewed about it.. and even that wasn't enough.  He essentially buried his life in that ground.  He put everything in that hole.  And it makes me think that many of us are all too often like that third slave.  We don't know what to do with gift!   We can relate, even accept the idea that we are all sinners in need of redemption.  Who knows us better than we know ourselves?  We know what we've done, what we've thought, what petty jealousies we've had, whom we've hurt.  We know why we're not worthy of God's great trust in us.  If you're like me, when something wonderful happens, or you get something that you'd never thought you'd get-- you're almost apologetic.  As if you don't deserve  good things, good feelings-- or JOY.  I think a lot of us build rigid boundaries around the Gift.  We want to make sure we don't lose it, so we try to control it, protect it, contain it.  Some people are afraid of losing God, I think.  So they try to keep God within strict, measurable boundaries, little boxes they can understand-- black or white, good or evil, either/or, heaven or hell-- nothing in between.  No gray areas!  

       But trying to protect God or even God's grace is way beyond our capabilities.  And trying to protect God is not trusting God.  The third slave's tragedy, I think, was anyone's tragedy.  Too often we bury the richest treasure we have.  We do that by not becoming the people we might have been-- by not taking that leap of faith, not allowing ourselves joy in our love life with God.  And so we, too, can cast ourselves into that outer darkness where there is only weeping and gnashing of teeth.  For that is the natural consequence of burying your most beautiful and sacred treasure.  Your body may keep on living, but your soul is buried, your life is buried... and you are utterly alone.  To all those who have, more will be given, and to those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away....When we bury our treasures that come from God we don't grow; in fact, we shrink more and more and our light grows ever dimmer.  When, in fact, God gave us that light within ourselves to share with the world, to light up our little corner of the universe-- to help others know peace, and most of all the transforming, empowering love of God..  What is Jesus trying to say?  I think he's telling us, Do not let your light go out in this world, don't use my words for death instead of life, don't hole up in your self-dug graves and bury the treasure that I am giving you now....

       The Church historically has a well-earned reputation of stomping out anything that brings joy, freedom of expression and absolute fun...Yep, it still goes on.  We still hear of Christians trying to ban this or that in an effort to keep out all evil.  We still hear of Christians bringing judgment and damnation to an otherwise exhilerating event.  In the recent elections it wasn't about who you voted for and why-- but I heard too many people making it about good and evil, Them and Us.  Christians making other Christians feel damned for voting for the other guy, as if politics is ever more than just politics.  You may notice that Jesus never ran for any official office or even sponsored anyone seeking official leadership. 

      Why are we here?  Why do we come here?  Is it just another burden that we bear?  Something we do out of guilt-- something to win points with God?  Do we come because that's what good people do?  They go to church?  Do we come to put in our time-- check it off for the rest of the week?  Or do we come to be transformed?  Do we come because we find joy here?  Do we come because this is family?  Do we come because we have a sense that God has given us a remarkable gift, leaving the future of the Kingdom of God in our shaky, all-too-human hands?  Do we come, because we remember who we are, truly, when we are here?  Do we come out of sense of obligation or have we opened up our lives to the extravagant transformation of the Gospel and to a life of adventure in Jesus Christ?  Do we bury our greatest treasures in the ground only to spend our time and energy running in mad circles over things that will not ultimately last?  

        I hope you haven't lost that sense of gift.  I hope you don't bury that gift in the ground or in the deep recesses of your hearts and souls, or tuck them away on the highest shelves of your storage room and wonder why you've lost all sense of joy in living....  The gift is ours, the gift given from a dying friend who promises us that he will in  fact live again, and that when we join him on the journey, life can be so extraordinary, adventurous, radically joyous beyond our human comprehension... So let's stop digging around in the backyard.  There's a whole world out there in need of what gifts you have to give.  It's a tough world, yes, and it gets scary.  But don't be afraid.  Life with Jesus can be an awesome adventure.  So put down your shovel.... and enter.. into the joy of your master.  

Autumn

it's the smell
that gets me
every time
the crispness of the air
aroma of dried leaves

and the sound
of fallen leaves tumbling
across yellowing grass
mowing done for the season

the aroma of wood burning
anticipation of fires in the fireplace
cozy evenings spent
bundling up and turning in

also on the air is a sadness
a letting go
remembering of other
deaths

relinquishing an old life
for the unknown new
holding your hand
as you said goodbye

to the lake
the geese
sandhill cranes
the stuff of this world you loved

it is the in-between time
summer warmth
and bitter winter cold
light and dark

the shadows creep
over the earth slowly
the trees brightening, glowing
before their seasonal bow

it is the season of remembering
growing, leaving,
relinquishing, loving
it is the season of Color

and of life
renewed.