When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proof, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams,

to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured

with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

            I’ve recited this beautiful piece of poetry to myself a number of times over the past week because it’s a message that I’ve needed to hear. You see Whitman was aware that in so many ways the real danger in life is to be so caught up in trying to understand the world that we fail to see the beauty – the real, infinite, and Divine beauty in the world around us. It isn’t wrong to look at the stars and to add, divide, and measure them, but when that quest to understand so overwhelms us that we lose sight of the sheer wonder of it all, the vastness and glory of a beautiful night sky, when this happens we miss something glorious – the chance to sit in the mysterious presence of God.

            There are moments when I am guilty of this penchant to add, divide and measure. There are those moments when I look at my wife Melissa and ask the questions of every married person (questions I am sure she ponders when looking at me). What is she thinking? Why is she the way she is? What do I need to do or be for this relationship to grow? Now I don’t think I’d be accused of over-thinking relationships, but I do think that often I miss the moments of just looking at my partner, of looking in perfect silence and being grateful for the Divine beauty that resides within her and every human, of being grateful for the presence of God in her and in our marriage.

How often I spend my time with my children in a directive mode. Do this! Eat your food. Put on your pajamas and go to bed. Stop fighting!. I am guilty, I think, of looking at my children only to add, divide and measure them. Isn’t it even more important to once in awhile just watch them and glory in their little lives, and be grateful for the Divine beauty that resides within them?

And certainly I am guilty of over-analyzing when it comes to this parish community. I spend so much of my time and thoughtful energy thinking about the next step on our journey, the next program and bigger picture and long-range plan. Pastors have a natural inclination to do this, to add, divide and measure their communities of faith and their ideas about God. What pastors (myself included) do not do well is simply affirming the Divine beauty that resides within each parish community.

            In the end I suppose what Walt Whitman is trying to say is what Jesus in the gospels is trying to teach – that we don’t have to have everything all figured out and life isn’t about having all the answers. Sometimes it’s enough just to look at this life we’ve been given, and people we have been given to love…and to be grateful. That’s it, just be grateful! Maybe tonight I’ll do as Whitman suggests – I’ll revel in my spouse and be grateful for my children and pray with a full heart for the people of Messiah Church and somewhere this evening –

I’ll rise and glide out; I’ll wander off by myself

In the mystical moist night air, and from time to time,

Look up in perfect silence at the stars.

Every time the father would put something into the cart, the little boy would grab it and throw it back out. If the cart went close to the shelves, the three-year old boy would just rake stuff off onto the floor. At one point, the little boy crawled out of the cart and ran down the aisle knocking over every display he could get his hands on, with his father in hot pursuit.

People who were in the store at the time could hear the father saying out loud over and over: Just be patient, Tommy. It won’t be much longer Tommy.

It’ll be O.K., Tommy. Be calm, Tommy. Hang in there, Tommy.

Finally, a distinguished looking woman came up to the man and she said: I just want to compliment you. I’ve been watching you and I want you to know that I admire you and the remarkable patience you have with little Tommy.

O, but Lady, the man said. You don’t understand. His name is Michael. I’m Tommy!

            It’s a cute story but one with a remarkable point – if there is ever to be change in others, we must concentrate on change within ourselves first. It is what I refer to as the first principle of the gospel challenge – Jesus was always, always preaching the need for metanoia – a Greek word that simply means to turn around in the other direction. Jesus meant that each person needed to turn around and not wait for others. Metanoia was a personal event, and metanoia was a decision that each person had to make, and mostly metanoia had to begin with the one standing before Jesus. That’s why Jesus spoke about not speaking of the splinter in your neighbor’s eye until you removed the plank from your own; why he reprimanded the Pharisees for their attitudes of judgment; why he made personal demands like come and follow me – and stand up and live – and go and sin no more. For Jesus it always began with the individual. In short, metanoia starts with me!

            This is I think the hardest lesson of life to learn. Every day we watch the news and complain about the thoughtlessness and wastefulness of corporations like BP – and certainly it is right to hold them accountable – but what is even more challenging is to examine our own thoughtlessness and wastefulness when it comes to the world around us. Do we consume in extravagant ways? Do we care for the world around us? Do we waste food, and fuel and water? Every day we judge our celebrities for shallow lifestyles- and while it is not wrong to have strong opinions, it’s even more challenging to look at our own lives. Are we faithful to our spouses? Do we balance our lives in healthy ways? Do we control our own egos? Every day we condemn the violence in the world – and we should be aware of violence – but we should be even more aware of the violence in our lives. Do we use violent language? Do we exercise forgiveness? Are we working for peace in our families and relationships?

            Jesus was concerned with metanoia – turning around in the other direction. Metanoia is a personal decision that each of us needs to make every day. Metanoia is not first about others.  Metanoia begins with me.

  I spent the day with my daughter last week and we ended up at Orton Park on a lovely late spring evening. After Rachel spent the better part of 30 minutes swinging on the playground, she wandered off to pick dandelions – not the fresh, yellow blooming ones mind you – but the white puffy dandelions that have gone to seed. She brought one to me and held out this weed, this thing that I so devoutly eliminate from my own lawn. She handed it to me and said: It’s so pretty daddy, isn’t it? She reminded me of a poem.

He was just a little boy, On the week’s first day.

Wandering home from Sunday School, and dawdling on the way.

He scuffed his shoes into the grass; He even found a caterpillar.

He found a fluffy milkweed pod, And blew out all the filler.

A bird’s nest in a tree overhead, So wisely placed up high,

Was just another wonder, That caught his eager eye.

A neighbor watched his zigzag course, And hailed him from the lawn;

And asked him where he’d been that day And what was going on.

“I’ve been to Bible School”, he said And he turned a piece of sod.

He picked up a wiggly worm replying, “I’ve learned a lot about God.”

“It’s a very fine way,” the neighbor said “For a boy to spend his time.

If you’ll tell me where God is, I’ll give you a brand new dime.”

Quick as a flash the answer came! Nor were his accents faint.

“I’ll give you a dollar, Mister, If you tell me where God ain’t.”

      What wisdom from my little Rachel! What wisdom from the boy in that poem! You see the real question is not Where is God? Rather the question should be Where Isn’t God? And perhaps the real gift of this summer season is the chance to recall again the wisdom of these children – that God is in each moment of life and in every breath we take.

            I suppose that it is simply the nature of my work that I hear people constantly asking the wrong question. They run from task to task, always running and never slowing down and their lives are this whirlwind of chaotic activity and the want to know: Where is God? They struggle with their teenagers and care for their aging parents and argue with their spouses and they cry out: Where is God? They read about the tragedies of life, the wars and disease, the tornadoes and earthquakes and they ask again and again and again: Where is God? And while I understand where the question comes from, the scriptures remind us that it’s the wrong question. The question that we should be asking ourselves everyday even in the chaos, even in the difficult relationships, even amidst the tragedies is this – Where isn’t God? Jesus was always reminding his followers that in the chaos of the world’s activity, if they looked and if they listened they would find God working with them and laboring with them. He reminded them that in all of love’s struggles and heartaches that if they looked and if they listened they could find God walking with them and guiding them. Jesus told parables reminding his followers that even in the greatest tragedies of life if they looked and if they listened they would find God crying with them and carrying a cross with them. Jesus was always trying to teach his followers that God was around them and within them.

            In this beautiful season of summer breathe deeply of life; look around you at the world we have been given; listen to the sounds of earth and ask the right question – Where isn’t God?

Just yesterday I was thumbing through the Wisconsin State Journal and I began thinking about this whole issue of character. On the front page alone I read about the coal mining executives in West Virginia who thought they could get away with unsafe mining methods because no one was watching; and again about Vatican officials who thought they could get away with covering up scandal because no one was checking; and yet again Goldman Sachs who thought they could get away with bilking their investors of hundreds of millions because no one was regulating the derivatives market. In all of these examples and a few others as well, the issue was really character – what you are, and what you do when no one is looking.

It was all the more surprising then, that when I turned as I always do, to the sports section and I read a story about a man with amazing character. Last Sunday on the final round – or rather the first hole of sudden death – of the Herizon Heritage Golf Tournament, in South Carolina, Brian Davis of England, hit a short pitching wedge from a hazard next to the 18^th green. During his backstroke he ever-so-slightly nicked a reed before he brought the club forward. To the naked eye, it was almost invisible, but Davis had thought he had moved it and so he called the rules official over to look at the tape. Apparently rule 13-4 in The Rules of Golf states that a loose impediment (like a reed) can not be moved during the swing’s take away in a hazard. The super slo-motion replay confirmed that he had indeed just nicked the reed. In effect Brian Davis called a two stroke penalty on himself! Instead of lying three on the green and an almost certain par putt, he was lying five and his opponent Jim Furyk won by two strokes. Not only was I surprised when I read of this self-imposed penalty for something no one had noticed, I was aghast when I read that the difference between 1^st and 2^nd place was $411,000! This would have been Brian Davis’ first PGA Tour win and probably landed him loads of endorsements and yet he still took the penalty. Why? When asked about why he had called the penalty on himself, he replied I could not have lived with myself if I had not. I put the paper aside and thought about my Dad – Character is what you are when no one is looking.

In this month of May when we celebrate the Feast of Pentecost, it is right to reflect on this notion of character. Pentecost is the moment when the disciples suddenly stopped worrying about themselves, about what was in it for them, and took to the streets with the character of Jesus Christ – the man for others. Pentecost is that moment of transformation when the disciples of Jesus learned character – to live everyday as Jesus Christ even when no one was looking.

And I suppose that even at 50 years old I’m still learning this lesson of character. I still hear my Dad’s voice in my mind calling me to reach out to others, and to take care of my private life, and to be a faithful spouse and dedicated father NOT because others will think that I’m a nice person and a good pastor, but because these are the right things to do. And further, in this season of Pentecost I am challenged as we all are to be radical disciples of Jesus. We are called to put on the character of Jesus Christ – the man for others. This time of year calls me to get out of myself and stop worrying about how everything will affect me. Pentecost reminds me again that life is not about my ego or my satisfaction or my selfish concerns, rather life is about a radical living for others. Sometimes that will demand a sacrifice. Often that will come as an intrusion on my comfort. Occasionally I will have to do the hard thing and perhaps call a two stroke penalty on myself and give up a sense of victory and advantage. It all comes down to character, the character of Jesus Christ. I still have a lot to learn about character – what you are, and what you do when no one is looking.

            All the way to the hospital he is thinking about what to say to this Christian woman, what words of comfort he can give her to prepare her for her eminent death. He thinks of how young he is and how completely unprepared for this moment and he mumbles a quick prayer that God will give him the strength and courage he needs. When he finally arrives at the hospital he heads up to her room for a visit. The room is darkened and the hospital wing is quiet. The nurses move in and out of the room gently so as not to disturb her final hours. The young pastor sits on a chair next to the bed and talks with her for a few minutes, just small talk really, nothing earth shattering. When he finally makes ready to leave he asks the old woman if she would like him to pray for her and she answers, Yes of course. That’s why I wanted you to come. He then politely asks, And what would you like me to pray for? The old woman looks him straight in the eye and says in a bit of a surprised voice, Why, I want you to pray that God will heal me.

            The young pastor is a bit surprised by the question and he takes her hands and starts fumbling over the words. Still, somewhere in all the blizzard of words he ends up praying for what she asked – that God would heal her. When he finally says the Amen at the end of the prayer, the woman says, You know, I think it worked! I think I’m healed! And she gets out of bed and begins to run up and down the hallway of the hospital yelling, Praise God! I’m healed! Praise God! I’m healed!

           Meanwhile, the young pastor in a stupor, stumbles to the stairwell, walks down five flights of stairs, makes his way to the parking lot and somehow manages to find his car. As he fumbles to get his keys out of his pocket, he slumps back in the seat and looks heavenward and yells, Don’t you ever do that to me again!

            Fred Craddock tells that story and then connects it to the mountaintop moments of life. Professor Craddock says that we are all like that young pastor – profound moments, mountaintop moments – yes even – resurrection moments fall into our laps and we are not prepared; we are caught off guard and are unsure what to do with them. And I share that story with you in this Easter season because I suspect that the apostles before us were also caught off guard. The apostles hiding behind locked doors in an upper room were simply unprepared for the resurrection. They said that they believed in God; they claimed to follow Jesus as Messiah and Lord; they claimed to have faith in the power of God working through this man from Galilee, but when they felt the living Christ welling up within their midst and had a sense that Jesus was with them in the room and believed that they had seen him alive – when the resurrection happened – they ran off and hid in an upper room. Don’t you ever do that to me again! This was their response. Why? Again, I think they were unprepared! They didn’t want to admit that if God could work through the cross of Jesus then God could also transform their crosses and now crosses could be embraced – and to embrace a cross is frightening. They weren’t ready to admit that if God could work through Jesus in his humanness, in his weakness, in his death, then God could work through each of them. They too were instruments of God – and to believe that you have the power of God within you is frightening. They just were not ready to admit that if God has the final word and death has been defeated then they could take risks with their lives, and lay their lives on the line, a face death with courage – and to face death is frightening. They simply were not prepared for the resurrection. And neither are we!

            Easter is our chance to face our fears. Easter is the greatest of mountaintop moments. Easter is our chance to ask ourselves the questions of faith: Do we really believe in the power of God within us and around us? Do we really trust that God can lift us from our failures and deaths? Do we believe that we come from God and go to God and in between we are always held by God? Do we believe in resurrection? This Easter look for the mountaintop moments – believe in the power and presence and promise of God – and most of all – do NOT fear!

            One day the Master asked his disciples, What, in your opinion, is the most important of all religious questions?

            He received many answers:                  

                        Does God exist?

                        Who is God?

                        What is the path to God?

                        Is there life after death?   

            No, said the Master. The most important question is: “Who am I?” 

            Who am I? How can this be such a great religious question when for me anyway, the answers are pretty simple? Who am I? I am a husband and father. I am a pastor and preacher. I am a musician, a singer, and storyteller. I am an extrovert who enjoys people and loves to laugh. I am deeply emotional and can get angry quickly. I enjoy sports and theater, going out to dinner with Melissa. I love playing with Benjamin, skating with Joey, and dancing with Rachel. This is who I am – not a very difficult question right?

            Still, de Mello’s parable is getting at something much deeper than the hats I wear, or the jobs I do, or the hobbies that I enjoy. The most important religious question is Who am I at the deepest core of my being?  Who am I apart from my relationships and work – apart from my talents and titles? Who am I when I stand stripped of everything that I use to define myself? Who am I?

            Each year as a church we celebrate the Season of Lent to get us back to this question. The scriptures that make up the Lenten services are readings about people who discover who they are. We read each year about the people of Israel wandering in the desert, King David standing accused of murder before Nathan the prophet, Jeremiah and Isaiah calling out for repentance and justice, the Samaritan Woman at the Well, the man born blind, Lazarus, and so many others – these are the characters of our Lenten journey and all of them share a great secret. The secret is simply this – they are completely, absolutely and utterly dependent upon God! The characters of Lent understand who they are. They know that they are imperfect and broken. They realize that they have made terrible mistakes. They understand that their lives are not what they should be. They have come to realize that their one hope is God and God alone, and thus they are completely, absolutely and utterly dependent upon God.

                 So every year at this time we are asked to fast and pray and give alms (something for the poor) not because these things are good in and of themselves – NO! We do these things to remind us of who we are. When we fast from food we remember that all food is a gift from God, and that every bite we eat and breath we take is sheer grace and gift. When we pray we remember that we are not worlds onto ourselves but that we are creatures standing before the Creator. When we give to the poor we remember that all of our possessions and all of our wealth are given to us that we might give to others.

                 Everything we do in the Lenten Season reminds us of our dependence upon God and God alone. This Lent my morning prayer every day will begin with this question: Who am I? In my fasting, in my praying, and in my giving, perhaps I will realize what the great characters of scripture realized – that I am imperfect and broken, yet loved more than I could ever imagine and given a future greater than I could have ever hoped for. Who am I? I am, as you are, completely, absolutely and utterly dependent upon God!

525,600 minutes, 525,000 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes – how do you measure, measure a year?

            The words are from the Broadway hit Rent http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8iTeDl_Wug and entitled Seasons of Love. While I’ve never seen the play, I have heard the music throughout this year. It is this song that has been on my heart the past few weeks as I’ve reflected upon life here at Messiah Church, because I have been asking that same question of our parish community.

            How does one measure the growth of a church? Do we measure by membership? We are indeed growing as evidenced by an increase of nearly 100 people in parish membership just this year, and an attendance level at worship that has increased as well. Do we measure the growth of our faith by our giving, our tithing, and our stewardship? Certainly this community is giving more each year – we are on firm financial footings and I think we have made prudent financial decisions while increasing our charitable giving. Do we measure our faith community by our educational/formational programs? It’s amazing the number of children that are present in Sunday school and the young people in pre-Confirmation and Confirmation classes. The laughter that comes from our adult bible study is engaging, and every year it seems, more adults want to be a part of this process? Do we measure the church by the fellowship at our common meals? The Lenten Soup Suppers and the Harvest Meal, the youth pizza gatherings and the Autumn Barbeque are such festive life-giving moments filled with joy. Do we measure by the new construction – by the sheer size of the building – by the organization of property? Certainly the building plant is increasing as is our visibility on the east side of Madison. How do we measure a family of faith – how do we measure a year?

How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love. Seasons of love.

            This one line from Seasons of Love haunts me, and challenges me, and inspires me. We should NEVER measure ourselves by our membership, or attendance; by our tithing or our giving; by our programs or our fellowship; by our building or our possessions! It is fine to look at these figures to get an idea of where we are going, and to use them to plan appropriately. Still, the only measure of Christian community is Christ. Have we been more Christ-like this year? Have we been more open to the poor and the weak? Have we grown in our understanding of brokenness and our willingness to forgive? We measure in love – Seasons of love.

Now while I can not quantify how Christ-like we have lived, I can say that I have often been moved by the service I’ve witnessed from parishioners. So many times this year people have served food at the shelters and spent their vacations on mission trips and worked at the food pantries. I’ve been impressed with the patience parishioners have shown to one another even in disagreements. I have heard people suspend their judgment and speak words of patient tolerance. These are the measures of love – the moments that we try to be like Christ, and there are so many more.

I do think we have come far this year – and always – I am so proud to be your pastor. Still, the measure of love is a difficult one. There is so much to do. There is so much room to be ever more like Christ. There is still so far to go! How do we measure a year? Measure in love. Seasons of love.

A man whispered, “God speak to me,” and a meadowlark sang – but the man did not hear.

So the man yelled, “God answer me,” and the thunder and lightening rolled across the sky – but the man did not listen.

The man looked around and said, “God let me see you,” and a star shined brightly – but the man did not see.

And the man shouted, “God show me a miracle,” and a life was born – but the man did not notice.

So the man cried out, “Touch me God and let me know that you are here with me,” whereupon God reached down and touched the man – but the man simply brushed the butterfly away and walked on in despair.”

How often do we miss hearing the voice of God, miss feeling the touch of God, miss seeing the presence of God because the entire world looks too ordinary? Yet if there is anything to learn about the story of Jesus it is this – God comes in ordinary ways to reveal what is indeed extraordinary. The gospel tells us that God is made visible in an ordinary carpenter’s son, and the church is birthed by ordinary fisherman, and the kingdom is proclaimed through ordinary parables. God uses the ordinary to proclaim the extraordinary.

 I suppose this thought has been on my mind this past week as I’ve suddenly realized that the Holiday Season has already come and gone and 2009 is now a memory. In my prayer this morning I asked myself how I’ve spent this past year – this gift from God that will never come again. I must admit that I haven’t listened well to the voice of God, or looked for God’s face, or felt God’s touch in the ordinary. Rather, I’ve moved through this year more annoyed with the chaos of my schedule, or the noise of the construction project, or the decisions that need to be made. There have been so many times that I was simply irritated by the cries of my children. I have been overwhelmed by the responsibilities that come with marriage. I have not always been graceful handling the demands of being a Dad and a spouse. I’ve complained about winter snowfalls and have run hurriedly through summer rains and I have been very much like the man in the story – and the thunder and lightening rolled across the sky – but the man did not listen.

            How often this past year have I been like that man – Lord let me see you! And the snow sparkled like a billion diamonds, and the hot chocolate smelled divine, and the Christmas tree shimmered in beauty – but I did not see! How often I have been like that man – God show me a miracle! And I’ve witnessed a family surviving a death, and the courage of a little boy with cancer, and a dozen marriages and multiple baptisms and such laughter and joy on Sunday mornings – but I did not notice! How often I have been like that man – Touch me God and let me know that you are here with me! And Ben and Joey and Rachel snuggled with me on the couch, and Melissa held my hand, and a butterfly touched my cheek – and I simply carried on as if there were a thousand tomorrows!

            We have come to the New Year and 2010 gives me a chance to begin again. These are my New Year’s resolutions. In the laughter and cries of Benjamin, Joey and Rachel, in the conversations with Melissa, in the singing of this congregation I will listen for the voice of God. In the warm breezes of August afternoons, and in the snowfalls of January, in the hazy stillness of summer evenings, and in the howling winds of winter, in the thunder and lightning, in the calm and the storm I will feel the touch of God. These are my resolutions – this now is my new beginning!

            Every moment of every day is filled with such ordinary miracles. Let’s remember the story of Jesus. God is revealed through the ordinary. God uses the ordinary to reveal what is indeed extraordinary!

Twenty Years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones that you did do. So throw off the bow lines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

                                                Mark Twain

            Every year when I sit down to write a Christmas message I usually turn to the birth of Jesus and highlight the miracle that it is – the entrance of God into the ordinariness of the world. I often write of the mystery of Emmanuel, that is, God-with-us, and I always point to God’s plan, and God’s action, and God’s love for us. Still, as in every event of scripture, while God does the inviting, there needs to be a response. This past week as I discovered the above quotation from Mark Twain, I began to reflect a bit more on the response to God in the lives of Joseph and Mary.

            Joseph is the central character of Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth. Joseph is the one to whom dreams are given. Joseph is the one who is instructed not to fear, to take Mary as his wife, to name the child Jesus, to flee to Egypt, and to return to Nazareth. Joseph is the one given the invitation by God in Matthew’s Gospel. And certainly Luke the Evangelist places Mary at the center of his story. The announcement of the pregnancy, the visitation to Elizabeth, the journey to Bethlehem and the birth in a stable all revolve around the young girl from Nazareth named Mary. And while there is so much in each Christmas story that is unique, there is also a common thread that moves through each – that to follow the call of God demands risk!

            Each year as I recall the infancy stories of Matthew and Luke, I am always surprised at the amount of risk involved. How much safer it might have been for Joseph and Mary had they chosen to ignore the call of God. How much more comfortable their lives might have been had they played it safe and done what their families expected of them. How much more ordinary their lives might have been if they had simply walked away. And yet the reason why we read these Gospel stories two thousand years later is that they are incredible stories of risking everything in the name of love, in the name of life, and in the name of God. Joseph and Mary chose to take the great risks of faith and they were rewarded with a wonderful adventure, the adventure of God in Jesus.

            How often in our own lives we are tempted to play it safe and to turn from the risks of real love? How often we want to walk away from change and turn from the invitation to love? Still, I believe that our God calls us to take the risks of love every day. I believe that God invites us to throw ourselves into relationships of love and risk being vulnerable. I believe that God calls us to get up from our dead-end jobs, entrenched routines, and safe habits to strike out on a new paths, and risk being little insecure. I believe that God calls us to drop old hurts and wounds, challenge our prejudiced opinions, forgive old enemies, and risk being more than just a bit uncomfortable. All life, or rather, all real life demands risk.

            In the end, the Christmas stories are stories of invitation and risk – risks that lead to wonderful adventures. God invites us every day to enter ever more deeply into the journey of love. It is usually uncomfortable, often times unsettling, and always frightening but the reward is great. What is God calling you to risk this Christmas? Take heart from the Gospel; remember Joseph and Mary’s response; take the risks of love!

Twenty Years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones that you did do. So throw off the bow lines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

This past week we had a short reprieve from the cold October weather. Once again the skies were blue and the sun shone brightly and the world was filled with the sounds of life. It seems every year we get a shot of Indian Summer and every year I return to a favorite poem by Emily Dickenson:

These are the days when birds come back’

Avery few, a bird or two,

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on

The old, old sophistries of June, -

A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, sacrament of summer days,

Oh last communion in the haze,

Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,

Thy consecrated bread to break,

Taste thine immortal wine!

                        Emily Dickinson

. Like all great poets, Emily Dickinson can take an ordinary event like an Indian Summer day and show its extraordinary beauty. Even more, she lifts up this sort of ordinary occurrence as a moment of God. Emily Dickinson calls a beautiful Indian Summer day a sacrament and a last communion in the haze. She writes that breathing in such a day is like breathing in the life of the Divine, and that to live an Indian Summer day is like eating consecrated bread and drinking life-giving wine. What a beautiful piece of writing, and what a tremendous challenge. How often do we limit our sense of Sacrament to Sunday mornings when we gather for worship? How often do we search for God in the holy places and miss the Holy in the ordinary places? How often do we fail to see the sacraments that are all around us? Sacraments are, after all, glimpses into the God who is all around – sacraments are moments of Good News. 

            Martin Luther once wrote: God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone but on trees and flowers, and clouds and stars. If this is true, then for those who have the eyes of faith there must be sacraments all around us. If I have the eyes of faith, then every time I hold Ben or Joey or Rachel, every time I hear them giggle or watch them dance, every time I see their mother’s pride in them and love for them – all of this must be a sacrament, a glimpse into God. It tells me that God is like the innocence of children and the joyfulness of play, and the tenderness of a mother. There should never be a day that goes by when I do not break consecrated bread and drink immortal wine in the life of my children. If I have the eyes of faith then every committee meeting, and council meeting and congregational meeting – all of these must be sacraments, glimpses into God. Every time we gather to do the work of church we are reminded that God is about relationships and taking care of one another, God is about challenging each other to continue the mission of Jesus. God is about listening to one another, and caring for one another and standing side by side with one another. There should never be a day that goes by when I do not break consecrated bread and drink immortal wine here at Messiah Church. If I have the eyes of faith then even the painful moments of my life, and the ugly moments of the world, and the struggles that grip humankind – all of these must be sacraments, glimpses into God. Every time I experience pain, or see the brokenness of war, disease and poverty, every time I see the struggles of others I am reminded of humanity’s need for God, for a love that will continue to hang on the cross with us, and love us in the pain and through the death.  There should never be a day that goes by when I do not break consecrated bread and drink immortal wine even in the darkness that surrounds me.

            This Autumn I wish all of you a few more Indian Summer days. But more than this I pray for you the eyes of faith. See the sacraments that are all around you. Breathe in the life of God who surrounds you. Pray…

Thy sacred emblems to partake,

Thy consecrated bread to break,

Taste thine immortal wine!