St. Michael’s Episcopal Church 
Sunday March 28, 2010 Palm Sunday C
Preacher Christopher McLaren 
Text. Luke 18


Jesus is in the midst of the crowds of pilgrims making their way up the hill toward Jerusalem, surrounded by loud and joyful praises to God. He is traveling with his disciples who are in all likelihood a jumble of emotions, anxious about entering this Holy City as Jesus has been telling them of his coming suffering and death, excited to be in the band of pilgrims, and curious and joyful at the interaction of the crowds with Jesus. Luke’s telling of this story is spare, making but the slightest mention of the crowds, noting that they “kept spreading their cloaks on the road.” If we were to follow Luke’s Gospel it would be called “Cloak Sunday” instead of “Palm Sunday.” For Luke there are no Hosannas ringing, no green leafy branches in the mix of his narrative.

Jesus is a simple itinerant preacher coming into the big city from the country, coming into the heart of religious hostility as an outspoken reformer and critic of the religious institution of his own day.  But for a nobody from the backcountry of Galilee it all seems like a heroes welcome, a kind of ancient ticker-tape parade. Jesus, an unlikely recipient of this kind of lavish praise, rides through it like miracle itself, with a certain nonchalance on the back of a donkey, a symbol of humility and gentleness.  Evidently he has a tremendous reputation among the common people; his fame as a teacher, healer, holy man and prophet has spread like wildfire.  

The Religious leaders of the day are obviously unnerved by this strange political demonstration. They have brokered a fragile peace between the faith of Israel and the power of Imperial Rome. They do not want a common political fanatic like Jesus to endanger the alliance. So Jesus' critics the Pharisees plead with him, "Teacher order your disciples to stop." They want Jesus to tame the outburst, to tone down his entrance to quiet the crowds. Lest we think these politicos paranoid it is noteworthy that during Jesus' earthly life, scholars estimate that there were at least sixty armed rebellions against the Roman occupation forces. People waving palm branches and shouting was a threatening sign, particularly when they were shouting that there was a new king in town.
Upon receiving the demand that he tell his followers to be quiet, Jesus says something interesting on that first Palm Sunday: "I tell you if you could quiet down these people, the very stones would shout."  Nature itself would come to God’s aide. 

There is something about Jesus that can make even a rock want to shout.

So, amid the joyous shouts and praises of the people, Jesus silently plods into hostilities that will inevitably boil over during the High Holy days ahead in this ancient and numinous city with its magnificent Temple and storied history. 

This is a story about a small local parade in the midst of a whole city preparing to celebrate its most sacred feast.  The entrances to the city are jammed with pilgrims from all over.  The air is electric with expectation and the crowds that include Jesus’ disciples begin to direct their attention to Jesus whom Luke pictures as a gentle king arriving in the capital city with no sword in his hand, vulnerable to whatever his enemies will choose to do to him. Jesus the rabbi who taught non-violence, "Do not resist one who is evil,” seems ready to live by his own words and philosophy. He is the kind of king we would all like one that offers a different kind of kingdom, one in which peacefulness toward others even enemies is valued, economic justice for all is not only espoused but pursued, hospitality toward the immigrant and alien is normative, and one where forgiveness is woven into the fabric of relationships.

As the pilgrims climbed up the steep hill into the city they sang the the Psalms of ascent, ancient pilgrim songs.  Somehow in the commotion and emotion of entering the Holy City, Jesus’ entrance became significant for some in the crowd.  Jesus’ entrance into the city was understood by some as prophetic and provocative and by others as deeply hopeful.  Luke is a bit understated in his description, while some of the Gospel writers describe the whole scene as an uproar, as if this small-time preacher from Nazareth is really making a big splash in Jerusalem.  The words "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the lord" are not unusual as they were a typical line used by pilgrims greeting one another while attending a temple festivals.  

The challenge for us to is find ourselves identifying with those who were strewing their garments on the road in front of Jesus’ entourage.  What does it mean to pave the way for the chosen one of God?  What does it mean to throw your North Face Jacket in his path? Or to through your Anne Klein wrap in the mud. One’s cloak was a valuable item.  It was one’s protective covering against the elements and an essential garment. Is it a sign that you are committed to Christ way if you lay your Marmot Jacket on the ground for a donkey to step on. 

 The simple fact is that if we call Jesus our Lord, or see him as the blessed one of God, if we claim to desire to live like him and to be his representatives on earth, then what happened to him may indeed eventually happen to us.  To be a disciple, to be a follower of Jesus is to risk his same fate.  Of course it is easy to join him on the parade route, it is easy to get swept up in the enthusiasm of the crowds.  What is not easy is to realize that the way of Christ leads toward the cross.  To throw in your lot with this Jesus fellow is to know that true joy is to be found in losing ones life to find it “ in giving oneself away for the sake of others in such a way that newness of life is actually discovered in the process. 

Jesus rode into Jerusalem as a champion of sorts.  He was a peculiar man whose life was spent in ministry to those on the margins of society, those who were outcasts and ignored, those who had little status or clout.  Jesus ate dinner with sinners, thieves and prostitutes and slimy tax guys.  He wasn’t scared of what others thought about him.  He cared more about people and about their knowing a living and gracious God than he did about being respectable.  He dared to touch the unclean of his society: the lepers, the lame, the poor and the blind.  He bent and at times broke the religious rules in order to show that people were more important than any human traditions. He refused to keep women in their place by engaging them in conversation, honoring their intellect, and allowing them to be included in his ministry.  Jesus was constantly breaking down walls of division and opening the circle of God’s love a little bit wider.  He was aflame with the compassion and love of God and because of that he suffered.  

The facts are fairly conclusive.  If you strive for justice and peace among all people, and respect the dignity of every human being?  As our baptismal covenant proclaims, things will not always be easy for you.  The world will not like you, but God will love you.  To be sure you may suffer some pain or loss or rejection at the hands of those who wish that things could stay just the same, because they profit from them that way.  But you will find that you are joyful in heart because you have thrown in your lot with Christ.  You have joined him on his path, even if you know like Jesus knew that the way leads to the cross despite the hosannas along the way. We are all pilgrims in this place. The 60 or so pilgrims from St. Michael’s that will walk the healing way toward Chimayo this Good Friday represent all of us in our journey toward the Cross, the fertile and stretching destination that calls us to live like Jesus lived, no matter what the cost. The place where God’s grace and our desires can be transformed into loving service.  

So let us take to heart the advice of Andrew of Crete from long ago who said: 

It is ourselves that we must spread under Christ’s feet, not coats or lifeless branches or shoots of trees, matter which wastes away and delights the eye only for a few brief hours.  But we have clothed ourselves  with Christ’s grace, with the whole Christ “ "for as many has have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ" “ so let us spread ourselves like coats under his feet.” 
Andrew of Crete, 8th Cent. 

It is you that Christ wants this day not your clothing.  It is yourself that you can spread on the avenues and pathways of this world to help them become ways to God.  It is Christ’s grace working in your that you can spread in this world.  And don’t spread it thin, spread God’s love in thick and fertile ways along the roadways of humanity.  It is our lives in Christ that are to be strewn like splendid palm branches in this world that they might become the Lord’s path; a pathway of hope and healing, a pathway of ever-widening and demanding love.  It is a pathway that leads to the cross and beyond, for we know that the cross is not the end of the story, but the sight of God’s surprising triumph. 

March 21, 2010 5 Lent
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor
John 12:1-8

Years ago in San Francisco, I remember a controversy over the building of the new Roman Catholic cathedral of St. Mary of the Assumption. It was controversial for two reasons: first, because it was, in the heyday of Vatican II, quite modern. It was filled with bold new art, including a huge abstract crystal crucifix over the altar. The roof consisted of sweeping shapes of white concrete arching upwards, giving it the distinct appearance of a gigantic washing machine agitator. We called it St. Mary Maytag. 

But the second reason it was controversial had to do with the time we were in, 1967, and the cost of the building. It was the Summer of Love. I was among the thousands of anti-establishment counter-culture types who swarmed the Bay Area. We couldn’t understand why the church, supposedly dedicated to the life and example of Jesus of Nazareth, would spend millions on this extravagant edifice when there were so many living in poverty, right there in the neighborhood immediately surrounding the cathedral grounds. It seemed an outrage, and there were many demonstrations. 

The response from the church was something along the lines of “You always have the poor with you, but you will not always have this opportunity to glorify God.” That didn’t sit well with many of us. 

Anyone with a social conscience who travels in Latin America is confronted with the same thing: gilded, opulent churches, built with the sweat and blood of the poor who slaved in the gold mines, who never got anything but fear-mongering from the imperious clerics living right in their midst. 

And yet. I learned, as I saw dirt-poor beggars on their knees in these churches, that they had this place of magnificent, transcendent beauty in their life. They could come anytime, stay all day if they wanted to, and feel as if they were in heaven. And I have learned to appreciate the grandeur of St. Mary Maytag. 

This is the tension in our gospel today. After all, Judas had a point, even if he was a thief and a betrayer. If Jesus really cared about the poor, why would he allow Mary to buy the most expensive perfume, and then pour it all over Jesus feet, spilling on to the floor? What a waste! Think of how much food that would have purchased at the market for those who had nothing to eat!

Jesus replied, “You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” There is a time for self-sacrifice in the service of others; and there is a time for extravagance in the service of God. Let’s look at the context of this story. 

Do you remember the other story of Mary and her sister Martha that took place in this same home in Bethany? On an earlier date, Martha had been preparing food for Jesus and his friends. But Mary, that worthless dreamer, just sat there listening to and worshiping Jesus. When Martha complained, Jesus told her that Mary had chosen the better way, the way of prayer and adoration. 

Here we are again, back in Bethany. A few days earlier, Jesus had just raised Mary and Martha’s brother Lazarus from the dead. Imagine this: Jesus had raised their brother from the dead! And here he was, in their home. Lazarus sat around, no doubt, still stunned, gazing out the window like someone, well, back from the dead. Martha did what she always did, slaving away in the kitchen.

But Mary, the woman of prayer and adoration, couldn’t help herself. She was overwhelmed with devotion for this man who had shown that he had the power of God in him, power even over death. So she brought out and unwrapped the treasured perfume that they were saving for Jesus’ burial. Kneeling down before her Lord, she massaged his feet with the precious oil, then rubbing it in with her long, dark hair. You probably could have heard a pin drop in the room. Mary’s act was an extravagant, sensual, outrageous demonstration of love for Jesus. It was an act of worship. 

There are times when a beautiful, expensive house of worship must be built, just to glorify God. 13 years ago, we could have built this building as a utilitarian space, tripling as a food pantry, education hall, and place of worship. It certainly would have been more socially-responsible, environmentally-friendly, and cost-effective. But we spent a million dollars instead on adobe, flagstone, stained glass, and a generous, high ceiling. All for God. It sits empty many hours of the week. 

I know a musician, who, like most musicians, doesn’t make much money. His one extravagance in life is every year, to buy 4 tickets to each production of the Santa Fe Opera. He takes friends or family out to a nice dinner, and they sit under the stars and hear the glorious strains of Puccini and Mozart. Why does he splurge like this when he could be saving the money or giving it to charity? Because it feeds his soul; because it feeds his friends’ and family’s souls. 

This is what Mary’s oil of anointing is about. It is what the Cathedral of St. Mary the Assumption is about: feeding the soul. And it raises the question for us – do you ever throw caution to the wind and do something outrageous for God, something that will feed your soul? What might that be? 

Perhaps a spontaneous road trip to the Grand Canyon. A tattoo that reminds you of something you never want to forget. A pledge to the church that you’re not sure you can afford. A painting that, every time you really look at it, makes you quiet, reverent, wondrous. Playing hooky from work, right when your desk is piled high with responsibility, so that you can go to a ball game and sip a beer with a friend. A $100 bill, handed to a homeless teenager at the traffic light, with a note attached that says “Call your mother.” 

Sometimes I think that we modern Americans are losing our soul. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the Latin American novelist, was asked one time what he admired about America. He thought for a long while, then said “They’re good at getting things done.” We’re efficient, effective, practical, and productive. Nose to the grindstone, multi-tasking, all business. 

And then, when we’re sick of it, we fritter away our time and money on superficial entertainment and cheap junk. The material world and all it offers is no longer something to be savored, a source of beauty that will feed our souls. It is a tawdry distraction, greedily consumed, giving us temporary relief from the treadmill of a utilitarian, soulless existence. We’re forgetting how to live graciously.

By comparison, when you go to Mexico or India, even the poor wear beautifully-colored fabric. They taste a luscious, locally-grown mango. They pause for coffee and talk to their neighbor, taking in the fresh morning air. On their way home from work, they stop into the church or the temple and offer incense to the One who fills their family with love. They feed their souls, even when they don’t have enough to feed their bellies. 

But I think that the lesson in this gospel is not just about material extravagance. It is about our spiritual life, too. We tend to be overly practical about that, too. We pray about problems we’re having, problems others are having, asking for this and for that. We forget sometimes just to leave ourselves behind and praise God, to pray the prayer of adoration, to anoint God’s feet with the precious oil of joy.

This is possible at any time, even when things are going badly – it doesn’t matter what our circumstances are. Mary knew this, for even as Jesus’ crucifixion loomed on the near horizon, even as she took out the perfume that she had purchased for his inevitable death, she worshiped him. In this dark time she boldly seized the moment and filled it with soul. 

Jesus said “I came that you might have life, and have it abundantly.” Life is always abundant. Even when it is hard, it can be full of soul. 

March 14, 2010 The 4th Sunday of Lent
The Rev. Brian C. Taylor
The Prodigal Son Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

The people expected Jesus to be a righteous man. After all, he was a rabbi, even if an unofficial one. He had a following; he preached. He was rumored to have the gift of healing. And so they presumed that he would maintain an excellent report card in the subjects of morality and religious law. They thought he would surround himself with other upright, pious men, and demand that his disciples live up to his own high standards. What a disappointment. 

Instead, Jesus attracted known sinners and lowlifes. But the worst of it is, he didn’t even scold them! He encouraged them with love and affection. This is not how it is supposed to work! 

The way it works is that good, pious people tell those who are behaving badly just how low they have sunk. They puff up their chests, look down their noses and say with contempt “I am so disappointed in you, and God is so angry with you.” The sinners feel terribly guilty, and they break down and cry. They beg for forgiveness, and ask the upright ones to help them to be better people. That’s how it is supposed to work. 

And so one day, as Jesus was surrounded with these losers and misfits, a group of Pharisees - pious, upstanding men, all of them - stood at a near distance, watched, and gossiped. You know how when we’re scornful, we avoid speaking directly to someone we don’t like, but say it loudly enough for them to overhear us? The Pharisees grumbled “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them. What kind of rabbi is he? He should be lecturing them instead. That’s how it is supposed to work.” 

Jesus heard them, and stopped what he was doing. He then told a story on them. In this story, the Pharisees were represented by the older brother. They had been good boys all their life, working like a slave for God. Jesus, the father in the story, had never rewarded them; he didn’t give out any gold stars for good behavior. 

But when the dregs of society flocked to Jesus like the prodigal son, he welcomed them joyfully, with open arms. Like the father, Jesus didn’t scold them; he didn’t require them to show a sufficient amount of sorrow and repentance, he didn’t demand that first they make a firm resolve to be a better person, and then they would merit love and forgiveness. 

Instead, he ate and drank with them. He killed the fatted calf and had a feast. For they were lost, and now they had come home. That’s all that mattered. 

What Jesus did was to completely upend a very common assumption about sin and forgiveness, repentance and grace. It is an assumption that most of us share. For we, too, think that there is a proper sequence to how we are reconciled to other people, and how we are reconciled to God. Like the Pharisees, we assume that we – or those who have sinned against us – are supposed to realize how bad we’ve been, feel an appropriate amount of guilt, express our sorrow, and then make a firm resolve to be better person. We expect this of ourselves in order to get right with God; we expect it of others in order for them to get right with us. 

In the story Jesus told, this is also the sequence that both the sons had in mind. But the father surprised them both. All he cared about was that the son had come to himself, as the story puts it, and had returned home. He came home, and that’s all that mattered. 

The Pharisees, the two sons, and we often think of sin and reconciliation as a matter of debt and repayment. This is how the system of justice works. We have done harm, or others have done harm to us. There is a debt. The score has to get evened out. It’s really a transaction, for the sinner must pay for their wrong-doing. The payment comes in the form of remorse, apologies, and resolutions. After the sinner pays up, God – or we – hand over forgiveness. The deal is wrapped up. 

This is the traditional theology of the cross and atonement, which was brought to perfection in the Middle Ages. It isn’t the only explanation of what happened on the cross, but it became the dominant one, because it fits how most people think. Human beings sinned terribly against God, racking up a debt they couldn’t possibly pay. God’s Son took on the debt, paid it with his life on the cross, and from then on, anyone who believes that all this is so is rewarded with eternal life in heaven. 

What Jesus offers to us in this radical story is a completely different model. Instead of looking at sin and reconciliation as a debt transaction, he looks at it as a matter of exile and return. According to this story, when we sin, we are not incurring debt to an angry father; we are exiled from our true selves. We have left home and are wandering in a distant country that is unnatural to us. If we stay there long enough, we will squander our natural inheritance; we will end up hungry, empty, and alone. That’s the natural consequence of spiritual exile. 

But if we come to ourselves, we can go home, where we belong. We can rediscover our natural, God-given ability to love others, to love ourselves, and to embrace the beauty of this life. We can then truly be ourselves, as we were made to be. The experience of returning to this place of original grounding is like being welcomed home with a feast set before us. 

What about others? If we drop the model of debt and repayment, how can we be reconciled to them? 

Well, instead of seeing them as needing to pay us back for the debt of harm they have done to us, perhaps we can see them with the eyes of the father in this story, with the eyes that Jesus had for the sinners that surrounded him. Perhaps we can see them with understanding, knowing that they are somehow lost, exiled from their true self. We can hope and pray – and talk with them, if that is possible – about “coming to themselves” and returning home. 

Perhaps the most extreme form of harm that I felt had ever been done to me – and at the time, this was public, so it is no secret – was some years ago, in relationship with a former bishop. I struggled with the debt and repayment model for years, wishing that he would conform to my expectation of feeling badly about himself, apologizing, and showing some sign of repayment. He owed me big time. 

But eventually I got to a point where I just realized that perhaps he was lost. Perhaps he was in exile from his true self. It dawned on me that he must have suffered greatly to have ended up like that. It must be hard to be him. At this point, I could simply pray that he come to himself, and return home, so that he wouldn’t have to live this way any longer. 

Can you think of someone whom you think owes you an apology? Can you shift from this way of thinking about debt and repayment, and instead, think of them in terms of exile and potential return? And if they were to return, would you stand there angrily, with your hands on your hips, waiting for their remorse? Or would you smile and say “Welcome home, stranger?” 

And what about you, with God? Is there some regret you carry, some resolution to be a better person that you just can’t keep? Would it be possible to realize that there is no divine ledger of debt that is being kept on you? Would it be possible to fix your eyes instead on home, your true home, where you are meant to live, where you can be most naturally yourself? 

If you can find that place, you can go there. You can just go home, where no apology is necessary. You can go home to the feast that even now awaits your return. 

Third Sunday in Lent
March 7, 2010
Isaiah 55:1-9 and Psalm 63:1-8
St. Michael and All Angels

For many years now, I have carried a water bottle with me wherever I go. The truth is I carry my water bottle because I don’t trust that I will have access to water…at least water sufficient to satisfy my thirst. Often, I find little tiny cups next to a water source, but those little cups are just a disappointment to me. I want water all the time. It seems that nothing can quench the thirst I feel. Before I leave the house at 5:30 am to walk my dog, I have downed a big glass of water. By the time I leave for work, I have had two more. It is never enough. 

I hear the Psalmist “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

It seems that I am not the only one who is thirsty. Have you noticed that everything has a cup holder now – golf carts, bicycles, strollers, backpacks, poker tables, and umbrellas to name a few.

In case we have yet to notice our thirst, there are signs in Grand Canyon National Park that say, "'Stop! Drink water. You are thirsty, whether you realize it or not.'"

Just how deep is our thirst? Does it have anything to do with vending machines everywhere? How well do the commercials know us? Billions of dollars are spent on advertisements like these:

Satisfy your hunger and thirst. Circle K has what you need
Hungry for life, thirsty for Naya
Sprite: Obey your thirst
Thirst for life? Drink Coca-Cola!
Diet Coke: You are what you drink
For All Thirsts – Pepsi

Perhaps when we reach for a cold drink, we are really searching for something more. Today we find ourselves at the midpoint in Lent, searching for something, yet not quite sure what that is. It is at this point, that Isaiah issues the invitation to us: “Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat!”

The invitation in Isaiah is extravagant - 
“Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. 
Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, 
and your labor for that which does not satisfy? 
Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. 
Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live. 
I will make with you an everlasting covenant, my steadfast, sure love for David.”

Kate Huey says, “Isaiah offers us in nine short verses what might be described as the heart of the biblical message: God loves us, no matter what, and reaches out to us even (or especially) in the worst of times, making promises that are not just pie-in-the-sky, not just theoretical. God promises the things that we most yearn for, deep down in our hearts, the very basics of life: homecoming when we're lost or far away, a rich feast when we're hungry, flowing fresh water to satisfy our thirst, and a community of hope when we long for meaning in our lives – something greater than ourselves, in which and through which we might be a blessing to the whole world. Oh, and another thing: there will be no cost affixed to this wonderful feast, no price of admission, and everyone (even people you would never expect) will be invited to the party. Underneath and through this message runs a deep and tender compassion for the human predicament, our habit of getting entangled, trapped, in ways and habits that cut us off from the source of what we need most, or worse, being taken captive against our will by forces beyond our control, like racism, sexism, and materialism, to name only a few.” (Kate Huey, http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/march-7-2010.html)

It is appealing to find our thirst quenched and our hunger sated, but are we courageous enough to go to the real source of our thirst? Isaiah’s simple words, “come to me” have a meaning that takes us into our depths where we finally sigh and say, “You, O God, are the source of all that I am”. Can we acknowledge that our hunger and thirst are about more than water bottles and fast food? 

When I was growing up, I would come home from school ravenous. I’ve never understood how math and English could burn so many calories. I would stand in front of the refrigerator wondering what could possibly satisfy my hunger.  I am not the only one to make a regular pilgrimage to the fridge.

Robert Fulghum described his late night trips to the refrigerator in his book Uh-Oh: “I don't go to the refrigerator just to eat. But to think. To sort it all out. And sometimes I think about the other people who must be at the same place in their kitchen at this very moment, doing exactly what I'm doing, hungering as I hunger, wondering as I wonder. We will never get together. There will never be an international convention of us. No kitchen is big enough. But we are bound together. We make up the secret society of the Fellowship of the Fridge. Somehow muddling through and getting by. And not really as alone as we often think we are, after all.” (Robert Fulghum, from "Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door p. 21")

How many times have we stared into the refrigerator wondering what will fill us? Humans are odd creatures in that we eat past full because being full isn’t the same as being fulfilled. We trick ourselves into believing that if we can satisfy our craving for _______ (you fill in the blank), all will be well. But only the One who issues the simple invitation, “Come to me” will finally satisfy us.

It is easy to believe that we are alone in our hunger and thirst. In this season of Lent, we are called to be deeply introspective and at the same time, highly communal – to recognize that hunger and thirst are part of the human condition. We are bound together in our vulnerability and longing.

In the same book, Robert Fulghum tells about a long flight from Melbourne to Athens where seated next to an Indian professor of hydrology, the subject of God came up. The professor said, 
"Human beings drink water from many vessels--cups, glasses, jugs, skins, their own hands, whatever. To argue about which container is proper for the water is crazy. The container doesn't change the water.
"Some like it hot, some like it cold, some like it iced, some fizzy, some with stuff mixed in with it--alcohol, coffee, whatever. No matter. It does not change the nature of the water.
"Never mind the name or the cup or the mix. These are not important.
"What we have in common is thirst. Thirst!"
"Thirst for the water of Life!"
As it is with water, so is it with God.
"I don't know much about God," said the professor of hydrology. "All I know is water. And that we are momentary waves in some great everlasting ocean, and the waves and the water are one."
He poured us each a paper cup full of water and we drank.”
(Robert Fulghum, from "Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door, p. 139")

Thirst signals the absence of something vital to our life – it is urgent, insistent, welling up from the deepest levels of our being. Thirst is not a new phenomenon. There are references to our deep longing throughout the Bible:

“As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.” Psalm 42:1-2

Jesus cried out, “let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.” John 7:37

Thirst binds us together and becomes an invitation to justice:
“If your enemies are hungry, give them bread to eat; if they are thirsty, give them water to drink.” Proverbs 25:21

“for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me” Matthew 25:35

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled.” Matthew 5:6

It is completely countercultural to admit that the unifying experience for us is our vulnerability, our longing rather than our strength. It is in this common hunger and thirst that we come to the table to receive the bread and the cup. It is here that we recognize our need for the One who satisfies us with a taste of divine mystery and the call to feed a hungry world. 

We who thirst for God have a responsibility to hold up our thirst and the quest to fill it before a world that has deluded itself into thinking it only wants a better brand of soda.

__________________________
Bibliography

Fulghum, Robert. Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door. Villard Books, 1991.

Huey, Kate. http://www.ucc.org/worship/samuel/march-7-2010.html