Christ the King, Year C                      St. Michael and All Angels Episcopal Church
Luke 23:  33-43                                   Albuquerque, New Mexico
Psalm 46                                
Nov. 24, 2013

Where is God?
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

Today as we celebrate the Feast of Christ the King our attention is drawn to a hill outside Jerusalem.  The hill known as Golgatha.  Three crosses stand on the hill.  Nailed to the crosses Jesus and two criminals.  Our memories fill in the gaps in the story.   The long walk to the Cross.  Disciples deserting.  Soldiers mocking. Jesus crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” We ask with him and those at his side, “Where is God?”

“Where is God?”  I wonder if that was the question the first criminal was asking when he said to Jesus, “Are you not the Messiah?  Save yourself and us!”(Luke 23:39)

“Where is God?”  That’s a question people often ask when they witness the insanity and injustice that sometimes seem to mark our world. 

It’s a question many of us ask in the dark times of our own lives.  In times of chaos.  In times of despair.  In times when the walls seem to be closing in on us.

Towards the end of my time at Sandia Prep, the school I worked at before leaving for seminary, a parent I knew well came up to me.  We talked about her sons; we laughed about old times; we talked about my leaving for seminary; and then she turned to me and said in the piercing direct way she had, “What I want to know, Susan, is where was God?”.... she then went through a series of events each more horrific than the one preceding it—each time asking, “Where was God?”  Hers was not an accusatory or argumentative question.  She was not debating the existence or non-existence of God.  She was a woman who had witnessed and experienced a great deal of pain both in her life and in the lives of others.  She was a woman with a keen sense of justice, a woman of deep empathy.  Hers was a genuine, plaintive question springing from the depth of human pain.

The writer and holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel tells of  another such question being asked.  The way Wiesel tells it, three concentration camp inmates had been caught trying to escape.  The SS rounded up all the people in the camp and brought them to the courtyard to watch the three—two older men and a young boy—hang to death.  The two older men died quickly.  The boy twisted in agony.  In the crowd a shout rang out, “Where is God?”

As the boy writhes in tortured pain, Elie Wiesel tells us the shout rings out again, “Where is God?”  Then Wiesel goes on to say, “And I heard a voice in myself answer:  ‘Where is God?  God is here.  God is hanging there on the gallows.’”[i]

Isn’t that the truth the second criminal knew? Sputtering for air, he chokes out through his pain:  “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  That fellow on the cross knew the answer to the question “Where is God?”

God is here hanging from a cross, hands and feet nailed to the wood, gasping for air.

“Where is God?”  Walking the road to Golgotha, stumbling under the weight of his own cross.
Treated with contempt, mocked, scorned, shamed and degraded.

“Where is God?”  Where we would least expect God to be.
Here promising, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

TODAY.  What a bold promise.  There on the gallows, on the cross, Jesus promises the fellow hanging next to him that on that day they will be together in paradise. 

“Where is God?”  “God is here....”

So often folks think that pain and suffering is indicative of the absence of God.  Like my student’s parent, folks ask, “Where was God?”

And yet scripture is clear about the presence of God in the midst of human suffering.  God present with Hannah when Abraham and Sarah cast her out into the wilderness; God present with the people of Israel as they wander through the desert;  God present with Elijah coming to him in the silence;  God’s angels ministering to Jesus when he is cast out into the wilderness; and Jesus, the living God, there on the cross.

As the psalmist assures us,

            God is our refuge and strength/a very present help in trouble....
            Therefore we will not fear, though the earth be moved,
            and though the mountains be toppled into the depths of the sea;
            Though it’s waters rage and foam/ and though the mountains tremble at its tumult.
            The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our stronghold....

“Where is God?”        

Here in the midst of our suffering.  Here in the midst of our pain.  Here in the midst of injustice.

God is here—here in the chaos of our lives.
Here with kids being bullied.
Here when things don’t go as we had planned or hoped.

“Where is God?”  Here extending a hand to the addicted, an arm to the unsteady.
Here befriending a kid kicked out of the house.

God is here—with us.

Today, on this last Sunday before Advent—the day we celebrate as the Feast of Christ the King, we encounter not the triumphant king the hymns so often portray, not a king riding into Jerusalem amidst shouts of “Hosanna”, not a king clad in royal robes sitting on a throne, not a distant king moving troops from place to place, but a man stripped of all he has—clothing, friends, dignity—a man nailed to a cross, a man enduring the most painful and humiliating means of execution the Romans could come up with, a man extending a hand and a promise to a fellow sufferer.

“Where is God?”  There at the cross with the criminals.  There in the stable with Mary and Joseph and the lowly shepherds.   There with a woman being stoned for adultery.  There with children pushed aside.  There.   Reaching out to us from the Cross and coming to us in the stable.

“Where is God?”   Here with us.  Here with us in our suffering and in our suffering world.  Here with us in our longing for light in our darkness.

[i] Elie  Wiesel, Night, p. 75f.  Quoted by Choan-Seng Song in Third-Eye Theology, rev. ed.  p. 184.

We are sorry, but the full text of this sermon is not available at this time.

Gather Us In:
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

Less than thirty-six hours ago, people with whom I work—people with whom I serve—were lying face-down on the ground as bullets ricocheted through the air.  They had come to the corner of Broadway and Coal to be part of an outreach fair serving people experiencing homelessness.  An ordinary Saturday morning.  A festive day.  Kids playing, moms keeping track, old men telling stories, agency folks trying to make connections with people who live on the streets.  Then all hell broke out.  Moms threw themselves over their children; agency people up-ended their tables and hid behind them; vets heard echoes of other battles in other places at other times.  A community of need; a community of woundedness; a community of fear.

The chaos spread across this part of the city.  At 4th and Montano—not even a block from St. Michael’s—again shots were heard.  Gunshots punctuating the silence of this place. Violence encroaching on this sheltered space.  Lives disrupted; plans upended. 

In the midst of it all, the cross, the table and the pictures gracing our ofrenda. 

Today, we celebrate Dia de los Muertos.  Today we celebrate the great feast of All Saints—a day that calls us together in communion with those who as our prayer book puts it, “we love and see no longer.”   Today is a day when we come together as stranger and friend, living and dead, ordinary and heroic in one great communion of saints.  Today we come together in brokenness and hope.

Today we remember saints who have gone before us and saints who share our days and lives.  We look at their pictures and we remember the good times.  The laughter we shared, the hopes we nurtured, the memories we made together.  And yet we know that their lives, like the lives of the people lying flat on the ground on the corner of Broadway and Coal, were lives touched not only by joy but also by sadness, disappointment, failure, and grief.  

There’s something else we see in the lives of those who have gone before us and in the lives of those sitting right next to us in the pew.  We see God’s grace at work.  God’s grace at work in things little and things big.  A hand extended.  A kleenex pulled out of a purse.  A wink.  A nod.  A look of understanding.  An arm around the shoulder.  A pat on the back.  We see God’s grace at work in stories told and in lives unfolding.  Stories of courage in the face of hardship, of hope in the midst of despair, of laughter when things are falling apart.  God’s grace at work in love growing, in relationships weathering, in kids branching out in their own way. 

Before Jesus speaks to his disciples and those gathered with them, he looks out upon the crowd that has followed him.  He sees their weariness, the weight of the injustices they bear, the hollows in their cheeks; he hears their cries of pain; he knows the hunger in their bellies. 

I can imagine him taking a moment to take it all in.  I can imagine him holding the crowd in silence before God.  Then he looks again and says to his disciples and to those within earshot,

            “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.
            Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled.
            Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.
            Blessed are you....” 

We who weep, we who mourn, we who are hungry, we who are afraid, we whose lives are marked by violence say to Him,

Gather us in, the sad and the wounded,
Gather us in, the poor and the proud
Gather us in, we who are fearful
Gather us into your heart filled with love.

For here, in this place, new life is streaming
Here, in this place, all darkness is vanquished
Here, in this place we grow in your love.

Gather us in to mend and to heal
Gather us and hold us forever
Gather us in and make us your own.

Opening Portals:
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

This morning, at the end of the service at St. Martin’s—the day shelter where I lead worship on Sunday mornings, a man came up to me and asked in a rather plaintive tone of voice, “Is Jesus saying that if we just pester God enough, we’ll get what we ask for?”  Then he went on to say, “I don’t get that parable. And I don’t much like it either.” 

This is a hard parable.  I’ve wrestled with it all week long.  Finally, at long last, I’m beginning to hear echoes in it.  Echoes of my mom.  Echoes that help open up the parable for me. 

Mom spent years preparing my brother and me to live without her.  She knew just how close she had come to death and she didn’t expect to survive our childhood.  She was determined to help us through the hard times she was sure would come our way. 

Mom’s way of teaching was stories—stories of her own hard times, stories of how she got through them, stories of her praying her way through the hard times of her life.

Mom taught us how to pray—not by saying, “When you pray, pray like this” but by sharing with us the prayers she prayed.  She had two prayers.  Her “candle-in-the-dark” prayer was a simple one.  Just a verse from her favorite psalm.  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me.”  Because we knew her story, because we knew that for three years before she even turned thirty she lay in a hospital bed hovering between life and death, we knew she knew what walking through the valley of the shadow of death meant.

Mom’s second prayer was always preceded by an explanation.  I think she wanted to drive the point home.  Over and over she would tell the story of her lowest point.  She’d been in the hospital for over a year.  The sun-lamp treatments and bed rest had not helped.  The tuberculosis had spread from her lungs to her intestines.  She weighed butseventy-six pounds.  She couldn’t even get out of bed.  The way mom told her story, it was not until she prayed the words, “Thy will be done” and handed her struggle over to God, that she turned the corner to recovery. 

I think with this parable of the persistent widow Jesus is pulling what my brother and I call a “Jane.”  Already he and his disciples have encountered heavy fire.  Jesus knows what is awaiting him and them in Jerusalem.  He knows the trials ahead.  And so he tells them a story.  A story of a woman left alone without anyone to care for her, support her or advocate for her.  A story of a woman whose own friends and relatives are scheming to take from her what little she has.  It’s a story of a woman who knows she does not walk alone; a woman who knows that at the darkest moments God is with her.  How else could she make all those trips down the road to the unjust judge?

This is not a parable about pestering God.  Jesus is not saying that persistence in prayer is like the widow coming again and again before that unjust judge until he grants her request.  I don’t think that’s what Jesus is up to in this story or in his other teachings about prayer.  I think he is saying something else.  I think he’s doing something else.

I think he is trying to teach his disciples how to get through the hard times that were sure to be a part of their lives.  I think Jesus, like my mom, was trying to teach the disciples how to grow that mustard seed into a full-blown faith that would sustain them through the darkest days of their lives.  For what is prayer but an on-going conversation with God who walks at our side?

On the night before he died, Jesus led his disciples to the Mount of Olives.  He urged them to pray, and then he went off to pray by himself.  This was his prayer:  “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet not my will but yours be done.”  Luke then tells us, “Then an angel from heaven appeared to him and gave him strength.”

Pray always and do not lose heart for prayer opens portals through which God and God’s angels come to us in our hour of deepest need.  Amen.

From the Shadows into the Light:
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

I've been thinking all week long about Mary Bjorndahl, a girl in my grade school class.  A girl I never really saw.  A person I rarely noticed.  Someone I never really knew.  Mary was different from all the other kids in the class.  More than quiet.  She was timid.  Or was it a quiet strength she had that I just didn’t understand.   Who knows.

I googled her this week.  Not a lot there.  Only a picture of our 7th grade homeroom.  Turns out Mary was in my mid-school homeroom!  Then she disappears from sight.  No trace of her. Except the questions that  still linger in my mind.  

Why was she so quiet?  What was going on with her?  What kept me from asking? After all, we were in school together for nine years.  She lived next door to my good friend's grandmother and across the street from the school.  What kept me from linking my arm in hers and saying, "Let's go play"?  Then I might have found a window into her life.  A window shedding light into the world we both shared.

When I have my dark nights of the soul, my mind often returns to Mary Bjorndahl.  Sometimes I focus on the other kids in the class.  Did they know her better?  Did they, like I, look past her?  Or did they see her and get to know her?  Did they bully her?  Or disparage her?  Or ignore her?  I don’t know.  I probably never will.

On my darkest dark nights I wonder what it was like for Mary.  How did it feel to go school every day with people who didn't even see her? Did she know, deep in her heart, the grace she had?  The gentle goodness?   Was invisibility a cloak we draped over her or was it a strategy she adopted in the face of our indifference? Likely I'll never know.

It's a parable we didn’t hear this afternoon that makes me think of Mary Bjorndahl once again.  A parable known as the parable of Lazurus and Dives, the beggar and the rich man. The way Jesus tells the story, there was a rich man who lived high on the hog.  He had all he needed and more.  There was a beggar named Lazurus who lived by the gates of the rich man's house.  The beggar lived on the crumbs he scavenged at the rich man’s gate. His body was filled with sores that the dogs licked.  One day, the beggar died.  He went to heaven where he was loved and treated tenderly.  The rich man also died. He went to hell where his torment was great.  One day, he looked up to heaven, saw Lazurus there and asked Father Abraham to send Lazurus to him to relieve his suffering.  You can imagine Father Abraham's response.  "No way," said Father Abraham, going on to point out that in their lifetimes Lazurus had plenty of sorrows and the rich man had plenty of comfort.

I bet that rich man never even saw Lazurus begging at his gate.  I bet he passed by him every day never even wondering "Who is this man begging at my gate?"  "How are we connected he and I?"  Just like my classmates and I did to Mary Bjorndahl so many times over so many years.  We didn't see her, so we didn't see the things that made her happy, the things that made her sad, the things that troubled her, the things that gave her joy.  We surely didn’t ask why Mary fell outside our line of sight.  In our blindness, I think we missed a part of her and a part of us as well.  

I suspect those Saint Anthony Park Elementary School kids of so long ago are not so different from folks today—you and me, our neighbors and our friends, our fellow inhabitants of the planet Earth—for we, too, often fail to see the need and pain and wondrous possibilities before our very eyes.

And yet seeing and responding to the need and pain and strength before our eyes lie at the core of what it means to be Christian.  In a few minutes, Jagand will stand before us all for the sacrament of Holy Baptism.  He will make vows and we will together reaffirm our Baptismal vows.  We will all promise to seek and serve Christ in all people, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to strive for justice and peace among all people, and to respect the dignity of every human being.

Doing that is hard work.  It doesn’t come automatically.  It comes with God’s grace and our own sustained practice—practice scanning the horizons of our worlds and the close-at-hand as well in order to see Christ in and respond with loving kindness to people others overlook or ignore.  Practice training our eyes.  Practice training our hearts.

What would life be like for us--as individuals, as Live at Five, as St. Michael's--if we trained our minds and eyes and hearts and ears to be mindful of the people we usually overlook, pass by, ignore?  What would life be like for us and for the Mary Bjorndahls in our lives if we trained our eyes and hearts to focus on the unseen?  What if we together adopted a Mary Bjorndahl practice of going through our days--one in which we not only saw but also included the Mary Bjorndahls in our lives?  Maybe then  the invisible would show us the way to the reign of God.  Maybe then our prayer, “Thy kingdom come on earth”, would take on new gusto not only as a petition but also as a call to action.  A call to live out our baptismal vows.

Shortly before he died, my father wrote a prayer.  Please pray with me:

Our Father, we pray for the qualities which can help build thy kingdom on Earth.  We ask that we may be given the wisdom to see thy will, courage to do it, strength to resist our own desires which might cause us to put our will before thy will, humor that we may be acceptable to others and not foolishly pious, and kindness because we know that thy will must be done through love.  Amen.

Today’s readings offer so many things to talk about. Idolotry, repentance, perversion, wrath, tax collectors, sinners…were they stories from the bible or a new reality show starting up in the new fall TV lineup?

Actually in the reading from Exodus, I was a little afraid of how close God came to just getting rid of the whole bunch of them. They had completely turned their backs on God. They even created an idol, a golden calf, to worship and had even sacrificed to it. A stiff-necked people God called them. I can’t help but think that God thinks the same of many of us today, a stiff-necked people who have completely turned our backs on God. Oh maybe we haven’t created a golden calf, but there are many new idols that people are worshipping; I know people who practically worship the phone, ipad or computer…can’t live without them. Can’t go more than a few minutes without checking in. Or maybe the idol is an ideal or political view that is so far from what Jesus taught but they are blinded by hate or prejudice. I hope we all realize that golden idols don’t have to be large to be real. The little pocket sized idol can be just as dangerous to our spiritual life because we think they don’t really hurt anybody and that we can handle them. But they can grow into big idols if we don’t get rid of them now. We don’t need golden idols, we have Jesus.

As the reading continues, Moses implored the Lord and talked God out of wiping out his people. We’ve heard before that Moses was a stutterer and was afraid to speak, but if I ever needed anyone to speak for me, I would call on Moses. Anyone who could talk God out of wiping out his people after they had turned their backs on him obviously had a gift of persuasion that the best attorneys today could only dream of. And the Lord changed his mind about the disaster that he planned to bring on his people.

Then there’s today’s gospel. I would like to focus on the ninety-nine sheep. Everyone usually focuses on the one lost sheep who was lost and is found. But I think there are a few lost sheep who just hang around with the large group, pretending to be found. They act like everything is OK. I mean they come to church every week, they are in the bible study, the men’s group, the ladies’ auxiliary…but still feel lost inside. I was talking to a friend who has been a member at one of the large mega-churches in town for over ten years and he mentioned that he has never met the pastor. I think one of the things I really like about St. Michael’s is that it is not a huge mega-church where you can get lost in the crowd. People know each other and look out for each other. The pastoral staff has made new and existing members feel welcomed and a part of the flock. When someone does feel lost, there are always people around to come to their aid. We are getting a new shepherd, but our new priest doesn’t need to worry about finding lost sheep all by himself.

Another thing to remember about the ninety-nine sheep is, the angels rejoice when we repent as well. We may not be turning our lives over from a horrible life away from God like that one sheep, but when we ask God for forgiveness, angels still rejoice. I remember as a young man in the Catholic church standing in line for confession trying to figure out how many times I had lied to my parents or punched my brother and I would see the same old ladies and sometimes the nuns in line and wonder, “What could they be confessing? All I ever see them doing is praying and going to mass? Do they even sin?” Now, all I know is, we all sin, in some way, every day. And sin, hurts God and us. And we need to repent. And when we do…there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents. So we have a choice, stiff-necked people or people who bring joy to angels.           

At the Threshold:
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

There they are.  The people of the Exodus. People poised on the border of the Promised Land. People weary after forty long years in the wilderness.  People wary of what lies before them.  People standing on a threshold.  There they are listening to Moses.

There they are.  The people of the Exile.  People who fled Jerusalem.  People who left so much behind.  People struggling to find a way to live faithfully in a new land.  People wondering if and when and how they might return to the Promised Land.  There they are reading the words of the Deuteronomist.

There they are.  People standing at the threshold.  People filled with remembrance and longing.  People of fear.  People of hope.  People juggling a strange mix of anxiety and anticipation. 

They know the swirl of feelings that sweep over individuals and communities in times of uncertainty and ambiguity.  They know the rough of edges of edgy times—the unease, the little hurts, the anger, the outbursts of irritability, the bittersweet threads of sadness that wend their way through threshold times.  But they also know the hope that hovers over such times.

Are they so different from you and me?  Are they so different from us?  We, too, remember the threshold times of our own lives.  Those moments of hope and dread, of anticipation and anxiety when we weren’t sure what lay ahead.  Kids and teachers and parents too that last night before school starts again in the fall.  The jitters and thrills that often accompany the blush of new love.  The anxiety dreams that seem to go along with any big change. The tension that underlies difficult conversations that have to be had.  The stunning right-in-the-solar-plexus shock that comes with those rug-pulled-out-from-under-you moments that we all experience at one time or another in our lives—both as individuals and as communities too.

You and I, we, stand poised to enter a new era in our lives together as a congregation.  We, too, are standing at the threshold. It’s hard to peek over.  It’s hard to see what’s on the other side.  It’s hard to take that first step into the Promised Land. 

And so we stand here, you and I, on the threshold. 

God says to us as Moses said to those standing on the border of the Promised Land, “...today...I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses.  Choose life....”

“Today”.  That word appears over two thousand times in the Old Testament.  Today, this day.  Again and again.  In the book of Deuteronomy, that word, that phrase appear over a hundred times.  Often in the context of choice. 

It makes me think that this choice God offers us is not a one-time-only opportunity.  It’s not the choice of a lifetime.  It’s a choice we are offered over and over again throughout our lives and throughout our life together.  It’s a new-every-day kind of offer.  An offer that’s made anew to us even after we have chosen death.

“Choose life,” Moses says to those poised at the gates of the Promised Land. 

 “Choose life.”  A life of loving God, of walking in God’s ways, of observing God’s laws.

“Walk in God’s ways—God’s ways of justice and mercy.”

            —God’s ways of kindness and reconciliation.”

            —God’s ways of forgiveness and hope.”

“Follow God’s laws—care for the widows and orphans, feed the hungry, welcome the homeless into your homes.”

“Love God, love your neighbor, love the stranger in your midst.”

“Choose life.” 

That’s what Jesus did.  He chose a life of living according to God’s law of love.  A life of solidarity with those others oppressed.  A life of solidarity with those others pushed aside. A life that led to the Cross. 

Like our brothers and sisters of the Exodus and the Exile, we, too, are invited to choose life.  Like those disciples on the road to Jerusalem, we, too, are invited into a life lived according to God’s love—a life marked by that generous love, a life of blessing.  Like those who followed Jesus to the Cross, we, too, are invited to follow the path of solidarity with those others oppress and those others push aside.  It’s a path that leads to the Cross.  It’s a path that ends in the Kingdom of God.  It’s a path paved with stones of love and compassion.

You and I and this part of the Body of Christ we call St. Michael’s stand at the threshold of a new era in our life together.  A moment pregnant with opportunity.  A moment fraught with danger.  A moment filled with anxiety.  A moment bursting with hope.  All those things are true of this moment we find ourselves in.  And yet what God calls out of us in this moment and in every moment of our lives is that we choose life.  Life that leans into God’s love.  Life that leans into God’s kingdom.  Leaning into love.  Sometimes that means speaking out for those who have no voice.  Sometimes that means giving one another the space and time we need.  Sometimes that means hearing one another out.  Sometimes that means supporting one another.  Always, always, always that means loving one another as best we can with patience, kindness and hope.  Now.  In this moment.

Choose life.

Stepping Into the Breach:
A Sermon Preached by the Rev. Susan Allison-Hatch

To  people returning from exile in Babylon and to those who stayed behind in Jerusalem; to people still haunted by memories of blood in the streets and buildings in ruin; to people divided; to people turning on one another, pointing the finger of blame, speaking harshly, hoarding the little they have; to people serving themselves rather than God,  the prophet speaks these words:

If you remove the yoke from among you, the pointing of the finger, the speaking   of evil, if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted....The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in parched places, and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail....you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in.

Like our brothers and sisters in ancient Israel, we, too, live in the center of a breach.  We, too, live in a world with streets begging to be made safe.  Streets in Egypt and streets Syria and streets right here in Albuquerque too. 

Like those returning from exile in Babylon and those who stayed behind carving out a life for themselves in the ruins of Jerusalem, we, too, are a people divided, a people at odds with one another, a people polarized.  We are a people who listen to different radio stations; who follow different blogs; who get different news.  We, too, are a people who blame one another and who speak evil of those who oppose us.  You don’t have to go far from home to see the breach in which we live.

Like the people in Jerusalem, we, too, face a huge gap between the haves and the have-nots, between the hungry and the well-fed, between the privileged and the powerless.

Like those who heard the prophet speak,  we, too, find ourselves stumbling into and sometimes even making breaches in our lives.  Little breaches in relationships that keep us from seeing God standing right before us saying, “Here I am.” 

Like our brothers and sisters of long ago, we, too, long for the breaches in our lives—both little and big—to be repaired, for the wounds to be healed, for the streets where we live to be made safe. 

It’s tempting to wait around for someone else to come along and repair the breaches in our lives.  That’s what the people in Jerusalem were doing.  Waiting.  Waiting and kvetching.  Waiting for God to rebuild the ruins of their world, the ruins of their lives. 

When the people of Jerusalem kvetched to God, when they cried out to God to hear them, to do something, to make things right, God, speaking through the prophet turned tables on those folks in Jerusalem saying to them,

            If you stop oppressing others,

            If you stop blaming others,

            If you stop talking trash,

            If you feed the hungry,

            If you meet the needs of the neediest,

            Then I will guide you,

            Then I will satisfy your deepest needs,

            Then I will make you strong,

            Then you will be called the repairer of the breach,

            The restorer of streets to live in.

We can hear this exchange at different levels.  We can hear it as a people divided yet called by God to bridge the gaps that divide.  We can hear this as a people, as a country, of great wealth yet called by God to share our wealth with people throughout the world.  We can hear this as a congregation called to share what we have with those in need right here in Albuquerque.  We can hear these words as words spoken to a gathered community—a community called to be repairers of the breach and restorers of the streets.

We can hear this exchange at another level too. We can hear these words spoken to us as individuals—individuals called to step into the breaches of our lives—breaches we’ve made and breaches we’re just in.  That’s what gives me pause.  I hear these words from Isaiah and I wince at the breaches I have made and the breaches I have left unhealed.  It’s tempting for me to stay in the middle of the parched desert of that wince. 

But that’s not where God wants me or you or us together.  We’re not called to be residents of the breach; we’re called to be repairers of the breach.  Yet our culture appears to reward the breach makers.

This week, I’ve been keeping my eyes peeled for repairers of the breach and my ears tuned to the echoes of streets being restored.  They are everywhere.  They just don’t get much press or play or air time.  But they are there—sometimes repairing those breaches with words, sometimes with silence, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with a well-placed question or a small gesture.  God’s healing grace at work through repairers of the breaches of our lives—people standing up to bullies, people turning from blame to praise.

A caution offered, “Be kind.”  A gesture made.  A gift given.  Little things that add up over time. 

Fifty years ago this week, hundreds of thousands of people gathered on the mall in front of the Lincoln Memorial.  Marching together, young folks and old folks, black and white and brown, rich and poor, movie stars and mechanics, all marching for jobs and equality, all seeking a better world.  At the front of the march, people whose names we remember, whose history we know.  Andrew Young, Julian Bond, John Lewis, Joan Baez and at the very front, Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.   So often when we think of repairers of the breach, we think of people like King.  Extraordinary people doing extraordinary things. 

There were hundreds of thousands there that day.  Ordinary people doing an extraordinary thing.  Coming together for justice. Calling our country to righteousness.  In the moment all were repairers of the breach.  I suppose some went home and resumed their ordinary life.  Others went on to work for justice full time.  Many continued to be repairers of the breach in the little ways that change a world.  Ordinary people doing extraordinary things.  Ordinary people repairing breaches one brick at a time.  People like you and me and us together working with God restoring the streets  and repairing the breaches in our world and in our lives.  You and me and us together.  Springs whose waters never fail.

We're sorry, but the full text for this sermon is not available at this time.