Salty

Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
©Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton
Sunday, January 27, 2019

Scripture: Matthew 5:1-20

Salt – for as far as the eye can see.  11,000 square kilometers (or 6,800 square miles), to be precise.  The photo on this morning’s bulletin was taken on the Uyuni Salt Flats in southwest Bolivia – a vast expanse of salt left behind by a prehistoric lake that went dry. The landscape is otherworldly – something like a sweeping snow field that turns into a nearly flawless mirror after a rain.

If the photos on Flickr are any indication, the salt flats provoke all kinds of creative whimsy among those who visit. Because there are so few visual cues, the flats encourage photographers to play with perspectives: subjects in the background are artificially dwarfed by those in the foreground – so family members appear to be held in the palm of someone’s hand; vacationers run in apparent terror from a toy dinosaur; or a woman leans against a water bottle twice her size…

When the surface turns glassy with rain water, clouds appear to float just below the surface; a young woman dances; a man practices yoga and their images are reflected upside down in the salty surface.

Go home and google “images of the Bolivian Salt Flats” to see what I mean. See if the photos don’t make you smile. (in fact, if you have your phone, you’re welcome to look it up right now…). What is it about that landscape, that provokes so much playfulness?  Maybe it is the feeling of occupying a blank canvas; or of standing in the middle of an extraordinary natural wonder; maybe it’s being inspired by the breathtaking vision of a sky that merges with the land. During the rainy season, the flats are described as “the place where Heaven meets Earth”… (and here I need to give credit to Marcia Harrington, our office manager, for introducing me to these stunning images).

Bolivia’s salt flats, Salar de Uyani, is a playscape made of salt. And visions of that salty expanse played around the edges of my imagination, this week, as I read the gospel passage that has come to be known as the Sermon on the Mount.

As the scene opens, Jesus climbs up and takes a seat on a hillside surrounded by his newly inducted disciples and an ever expanding crowd of followers. A good deal has happened since chapter 4, when Jesus waded into the River Jordan to be baptized by John, then spent 40 days in the wilderness sparring with the Tempter.

Let me catch you up:  After he emerged from that wilderness, Jesus headed down to the Sea of Galilee, where he found the fishermen Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John. “Leave your nets,” Jesus said to them, “And I will teach you how to fish for people.” Remarkably, they did.  With his first students in tow, “Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in synagogues, proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease.” (4:23) Word of his wonders spread like warm butter on hot toast – all throughout the regions of Galilee and Syria – and the people came in droves – from north and south, east and west.

That’s where we pick up the story. “When Jesus saw the crowds,” he headed up the hill – not to escape, but to teach. I can imagine a hush falling over the throng as he began to speak: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, and those who mourn. Blessed are the meek and you who hunger for righteousness.  Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the persecuted…”

And then… “You are the salt of the earth.”

The image is a surprising one, isn’t it?  I wonder whether Jesus was being just a little playful here, a little provocative… Comparing the people to a condiment.

Wednesday during Bible Study, we made a list of all the things with which we associate salt: Salt can be used to melt ice and (oddly) to make ice cream, to kill bacteria or clean glassware or preserve meat. Perhaps most notably, it is used to flavor food …In The Message, a contemporary paraphrase of the Bible, author Eugene Peterson renders Jesus’ words this way:  “You are here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth.”

And then, “Here’s another way to put it: You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world.”

God-flavors. God-colors. I love that. But still: how does it work?  At first read, it’s easy to assume that “let your light shine” means to show up, to be your whole self, to share your God-given gifts and not hold back. Yes. Do that! But paired with that other symbol, salt, a slightly different invitation begins to emerge, an invitation focused not on how we express ourselves, but rather on how we highlight the God-Spirit in others and in the world around us.

See:  Salt is precious, not for what it is, but for what it does, for the way it brings out those other flavors in a meal lovingly prepared. So, too, the light on a lampstand serves to illuminate our surroundings. “Who’s there? How are they doing?  What do they need? What do they have to offer? Let’s shed a little light on the situation, shall we?”

So here’s Jesus, implying that we ought to be like that, like salt and light, drawing out the God-seasoning, revealing the God-colors, then savoring what others have to offer, what the Holy One is up to.

Friday night, I attended a Moth Mainstage at the Westport Country Playhouse. The Moth is a non-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling. (We are drawn to stories like a moth to flame.) In a wide range of settings – from pubs to public schools to high security prisons – The Moth creates opportunities for people to tell their personal stories – in front of an audience, without notes. On Friday night, we heard stories from Westport’s own Jane Green (the widely acclaimed novelist) and Dan Woog (local 06880 blogger and Staples soccer coach). We also heard from Lithuanian holocaust survivor Henia Lewin, citizen of the Shawnee nation Alistair Bane and film-maker Trina Michelle Robinson.

It was a remarkable evening, every story rich and vivid. Trina Robinson told a story about discovering that some of her ancestors had been enslaved on a homestead in Kentucky. She decided to travel to the town in question, where a local tour guide showed her the property, the spot where the main house used to stand, and the family cemetery. Tall blocks of elegant marble marked the resting place of each family member. Nearby, a pile of field stones nearly buried in the tall grass, marked the graves of enslaved laborers who had perished on the estate.

One by one, Trina named those whom she had learned were buried there. Eventually, she paired up with a local historian to identify all those buried beneath the fieldstones, to inscribe their names on a bronze plaque, and so somehow to restore their humanity, to declare, “You are remembered.”

There it is:  one way to bring out the God-flavors, to be like salt. To seek out and honor the God-created humanity of those who have been driven into dark corners. To say, in effect:  “Look! Here is another expression of God’s creative Spirit! In that life; in that struggle; in that human heart!”

To be salt may also mean giving the stage over to those who have a story to tell, names to speak, grief to unpack, persecution to expose, love and joy and wonder to express.  Blessed are those who grieve…Blessed are the meek… Blessed are the peacemakers and those who hunger for righteousness…Blessed are you… Tell us your story.

Sitting on the hillside that afternoon, calling out those who are blessed, inviting his listeners to be salt and light, Jesus was telling his own story – setting the scene for God’s next big move, picking up on the message he’d begun to proclaim, right after emerging from the wilderness: ‘Repent, fo the kingdom of heaven has come near.’

The kingdom of Heaven, also called the kingdom of God,doesn’t so much refer to the afterlife – heaven, the way we think of it.  On the contrary, Jesus is talking about a transformed world, God’s kingdom, which will replace the kingdoms that now dominate – oppressive hierarchies like the Roman Empire.

In contrast to the coercive power wielded by the Romans, Jesus casts a vision of God’s holy realm, a different kind of kingdom marked by mercy and grace, full of light and flavor.  And though there may be a tendency to imagine Jesus sitting solemn and erect as he taught, I can’t help but picture a more animated Jesus, leaning forward, his eyes bright and his voice buoyant, as he sets the stage:  “Rejoice and be glad!” he says. “Give glory!” he says. “I am not here to abolish but to fulfill the law, the Torah, God’s desire for all God’s people. That’s what this is all about!”

Later, in Matthew chapter 8 (8:10-11), after Jesus has somewhat unexpectedly healed the daughter of a Roman soldier, a centurion, Jesus says, “ I tell you, many will come from east and west and will eat with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob in the kingdom of heaven…”  In other words, there’s going to be a feast in God’s kingdom – a holy banquet – and everyone is invited. Everyone. The ones you thought were forgotten – the ostracized and the broken-hearted; the meek and the merciful – Everything is about to change and you are invited.

And that brings us back to the salt.  Because in the ancient near east, salt wasn’t just a seasoning. It was also a symbol. In nomadic culture, to share a meal was to forge a bond. At table, enemies became friends. “There is salt between us,” they might say, or “He has eaten of my salt.” To extend and receive hospitality was to cement a friendship.  And so the most enduring covenants, including the covenants between God and God’s people, were referred to as salt covenants.

“You are the salt of the earth,” said Jesus. “You are the stuff of which holy covenants are made, the seasoning that brings out the taste of God’s love and grace. You are salt… And we are preparing a feast!”

This is the best kind of news. The kind that ought to send his listeners leaping across the landscape. The kind that ought to provoke all their creative whimsy – and ours:  God’s Kingdom of Heaven is drawing near – and we can help to usher it in. Look: Here is a table set for a party. Here is a wide open terrain, just right for dancing. Here is a holy expanse ready to be filled with God’s love and justice!

So what will you do? Whom will you invite? What stories will you bring to the party? What beauty? What righteous acts of justice? What humor? What joy?

Together with God’s Holy Spirit, we might just usher in a new world, heaven on earth, where every person is remembered, every child adored, every stomach filled, every family united, every story honored…a world marked by holy love… for as far as the eye can see.

May it be so. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Wait….

Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
©Rev. Kent Siladi, Conference Minister, CT Connference of the UCC
Sunday, December 2, 2018

Called to Lead


Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
©Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton
Sunday, November 11, 2018

Scripture: Micah 5:2-5a and Micah 6:6-8

The country was in disarray: leaders succumbed to corruption; judges unjustly condemned the poor; refugees poured into the city of Jerusalem from the north – fleeing Assyrian invaders who had already destroyed the Northern Kingdom of Israel. The southern kingdom of Judah had escaped similar destruction, but Judah’s citizens lived under the thumb of the empire. While the wealthy greased the palms of rulers to protect themselves, the economically poor were forced to pay more than their fair share in tributes to Assyria.

King David had been dead for almost three centuries – long enough for the people to have forgotten his faults and idealized his reign. “Remember when there was peace in the land? When the people were unified? Remember when we were safe and well fed…?”

Onto that scene stepped the prophet Micah, to do what every prophet did: remind the people that they had failed to remain faithful to the God of Abraham and Sarah, the God who had forged a covenant with their ancestors and promised to remain with them always. With the characteristic directness of the ancient prophets, Micah offered up a scathing indictment, reprimanding the Israelites for abandoning God, worshipping idols and acting unjustly.

“Look around,” he said (back in chapter 3). “You detest justice and make crooked all that is straight,” (Micah 3:9b).

But then, as the prophets so often did, Micah shifted gears and offered up a word of hope. God would send another leader, to liberate them from their enemies and restore their fortunes. What kind of leader? A shepherd: tough and tender. A blue collar laborer from the backwater borough of Bethlehem, a village insignificant in all ways but this: King David had been born there.

Yes, Micah said, “We are in labor now. Yes, it is painful. But after labor comes delivery. And God will deliver you, O Israel. And then you shall live secure, for [this leader] shall be great to the ends of the earth; and he shall be the one of peace – shalom.

What did the Israelites picture, when they heard Micah’s promise? What kind of leader did they conjure up in their mind’s eye? A war hero, a powerful general…Superman?

It’s tempting, isn’t it, to look for a leader who will smite our enemies and guarantee our safety, when we are feeling vulnerable. To look for God to do the same. There are plenty of psalms that ask God to trample adversaries, to wipe them from the face of the earth. It can feel like justice to demand the demise of those at whose hands we have suffered.

But when I think about the leaders I most admire, I realize that they are often people who resist our most destructive calls, upend our expectations. Instead, they push us into unfamiliar territory, urging us to rise above our baser instincts, to consider a different way of living, even when that makes us a little uncomfortable. Or a lot.

In the memorable words of the prophet Micah, they have learned how “to seek justice, love kindness and walk humbly…”

Have you seen the film Invictus? It tells the story of Nelson Mandela’s first term as president of post-Apartheid South Africa, and his move to unify black and white South Africa by building support for the national rugby team – the Springboks (historically supported by Afrikaners but not by Black South Africans). There is a moment in the film, when President Mandela addresses a room full of Black South African officials who have just voted to eliminate the Springboks. President Mandela acknowledges that they have just taken a unanimous vote. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he appeals to them to reconsider. (Imagine these words spoken by the incomparable Morgan Freeman…):

“I believe you have made a decision with insufficient information and foresight. … I believe we should restore the Springboks. Restore their name, their emblem and their colors immediately. Let me tell you why…. Our enemy is no longer the Afrikaner. They are our fellow South Africans, our partners in democracy and they treasure Springbok rugby. If we take that away, we lose them. We prove that we are what they feared we would be. We have to be better than that. We have to surprise them with compassion, with restraint, and generosity. I know. All the things they denied us. But this is no time to celebrate petty revenge. This is the time to build our nation using every single brick available to us, even if that brick comes wrapped in green and gold.”

“…We have to surprise them with compassion…”

It takes incredible courage to show kindness toward one’s adversary… courage, which begins with the willingness to recognize the humanity in others, even in those who have done us wrong. I know: that is so much easier to say, than it is to do. There’s a book I’ve had on my shelf for years – one of those books that sticks with you long after you’ve read it – called War is the Force that Gives us Meaning. In it, former International war correspondent Chris Hedges writes that the first thing we do in war is to dehumanize our enemies – precisely so we can justify our acts of violence against them.

We talked about this in Theology on Tap last Wednesday, how anyone can say, “I will love my neighbor.” The question becomes (in the words of that lawyer who addressed Jesus), “Who IS my neighbor?” Where do I draw the line? Throughout human history, people have drawn circles that leave out whole categories of people, in order to justify treating them as less than human: These people are Not in our circle; Not citizens; not white; not Christian; not blue or not red; not from around here…

In that scene in Invictus, and in the real events that inspired the film, President Mandela called South Africans to redraw those lines, to rewrite that script: “The Afrikaners are no longer our enemies…”

I’ve been thinking about that moment, and moments like it, on this 100th anniversary of the Armistice that ended World War I. What must it have been like to flip that switch at 11 am on November 11, 1918? To go from enemies to not-enemies? To lay down weapons and walk away from the fight – for the Allied forces? For the Germans?

The word “Armistice” comes from the Latin arma (“arms”) and sistere (“to stand still”). Imagine the stillness, the quiet that came from laying down weapons on both sides, after years of trench warfare. According to one history of WWI, “in general, reactions were muted. A British corporal reported: ‘…the Germans came from their trenches, bowed to us and then went away. That was it. …’ On the Allied side…There was some cheering and applause, but the dominant feeling was silence and emptiness after 52 exhausting months of war.”

We hoped it would be the war to end all wars. But the peace about which the prophet Micah spoke would remain elusive. … I am no WWI historian, so I don’t know what efforts were made to shift the narrative that day, to intentionally redraw the lines in the wake of that devastating conflict. I do know that the terms of the Treaty of Versailles held Germany liable for the cost of massive material damages and arguably inserted a wedge between them and Allied nations. And that the relationship between Germany and Allied countries remained fraught in the years leading up to WWII. Fascism might well have taken hold in Germany no matter what, but when I read the prophet Micah in light of the Armistice, on this Veterans Day, it pushes me to reflect deeply on what it means to exercise justice and mercy; kindness and humility. How do we summon the courage to look our adversaries in the eye, and say, “Today we begin to write a new story. Let’s imagine a different future, together.”

If you think that sounds Pollyanna, if you are squirming in your seat at the idea of putting trust in people or communities that have not earned it… I get it. It feels profoundly risky, uncomfortable, maybe even irrational. But in the words of social scientist and leadership expert Brene Brown, “there is not relationship without uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure.” To connect with each other, we have to remove our armor. That’s why it takes courage.

And it’s why we need leaders brave enough to answer Micah’s call, to seek justice, love kindness and walk humbly with God. Brave enough to urge us all to do the same.

Hundreds of years after Micah’s death, three scholars embarked on a journey to find the birthplace of a leader whose coming they had seen foretold in the stars. When they arrived in Jerusalem, they went straight to King Herod, to ask if he had heard any news. The king consulted with this priests, and they consulted the ancient texts. Here is what they read:

“And you Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah, for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.”

Eventually, they found and paid homage to a child named Jesus. In time, that child would become a powerful voice for justice: offering his own scathing indictment of rulers who succumb to corruption and judges who cheat the poor. He welcomed refugees and dined with outcasts. And they called him the Prince of Peace – not because he promised to smite our enemies. On the contrary: he pushed us to redraw the lines – over and over; urged us to consider a new way of living, to walk right into an uncomfortable future by practicing justice AND kindness AND a humble walk with God.

Beloved in Christ: I believe this is what it means to be the Church, to be the Body of Christ: to learn to lead like that. I do not claim it is easy. Actually, I think it’s the hardest work we’ll ever do. On this day, as we pause to remember those who have died still longing for peace, let us contemplate the silence that comes after our arms are laid down, the silence that lingers after we remove our armor. Let us invite the Spirit of Christ into that silence, and pray with all our hearts for the courage we need.

I have no doubt that the one who promised to walk with our ancestors, will remain with us every step of the way.

Amen.

On Earth as in Heaven

Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
©Rev. Alison J. Buttrick Patton
Sunday, November 4, 2018

Scriptures: 1 Kings 3:5-13 and Matthew 6:9-10

You could call this sermon, “Part II.”  Last week, we read these same verses in the book of 1 Kings, about a dream encounter between the young King Solomon and God. (You can check out last week’s sermon video on our website…)   In this scene, God promises Solomon a wise and understanding mind (or a wise and discerning heart – the Hebrew can be translated either way). So last Sunday, I offered some tools for discernment, and shared this definition of wisdom, in the words of the Rev.  John Edgerton – Old South Church Boston. “Wisdom is the capacity to re-order both self and world to more closely resemble God’s hope.”

“…the capacity to re-order both self and world to more closely resemble God’s hope…”  In other words: To make earth more like heaven…

I feel like I barely scratched the surface last week, so today I want to continue where I left off, with this idea of using “God’s hope” as a barometer in our decision-making.  In particular, I want to share with you some of what I’ve been thinking about how discerning God’s hope can inform our choices in the public square. In other words, how does our faith impact our politics?

Election Day is Tuesday (maybe you’ve noticed the deluge of candidate campaign fliers in your mailbox).  So this seems a good time to ask, “What does heaven on earth look like, practically speaking? What IS God’s will, God’s hope for us? And how does it relate to the choices we make as engaged citizens of this town, this country, this world?”

I know that invoking the word ‘politics’ in this space may raise the specter of partisan conflict. Some of you have told me that you come to worship to escape the divisiveness that currently mars so many of our interactions and so much of our public discourse. Constant controversy has a way of sapping our strength and deflating our spirits.  So we gather in this sanctuary to be restored, to find a bit of the peace that too often eludes us in our day-to-day lives. We all need that. I know I do.

But we also come to worship to listen for a word from God, to seek wisdom and insight for those same everyday lives. We come before the Holy One and ask, “What shall I do when I leave this place?  About that argument with my in-laws, or the employee I’m supposed to lay off, or the debt I’m facing, or a difficult neighbor, or that candidate I’ve been asked to support? Tell me, God: This week, how can I be more wise, more patient or courageous, honest or gracious, or faithful?”

In short, we come to church with stuff on our minds and hearts – problems to be solved; worries that weigh us down; decisions we need to make – and what do we do?  We pray the the Lord’s Prayer – every Sunday, including these words: “Your will be done, on earth as in heaven.”

Those are the words that Jesus taught us to pray, the ones he introduced during his famous Sermon on the Mount, according to the Gospel of Matthew.  “Pray in this way,” Jesus said.  In that same sermon, Jesus offered tips for managing anger, loving enemies, keeping promises and donating our money.  In other words: he talked about the kinds of practical issues that we face every day.

That’s what interests me, what I want to explore with you: How faith might influence the ways we actually live our lives: How we spend our money, pass our time, vote, work, and interact with each other…  I do not presume that there’s a single way to be a Christian, a single right answer to all our Big Questions. (if there was, there would be no need for discernment, would there?)

If you picked up the New York Times on Friday, you may have noticed a cover article featuring half a dozen evangelical Christians reflecting on the relationship between their faith and their politics (this, after I’d already starting working on this sermon).  The young people interviewed included women and men of various racial-ethnic backgrounds, based in different parts of the country, who variously self-identified as Democrats, Republicans or Independents.  All of them are taking positions informed by their Christian faith. So clearly, drawing on Christian teachings does not guarantee that we will all agree. I don’t expect that. Not when it comes to all of Christendom, and not when it comes to you and me, right here at Saugatuck Church. And that’s ok.

I DO believe that some policies and practices get us a little closer to an earth that looks like heaven, while others make heaven more distant.  I believe God wants us to do the work of discerning which is which, to actively live into that prayer, “your will be done on earth as in heaven,” to proactively ask ourselves and each other, “How do our practices – how we structure our budgets, or treat our neighbors, or define our public priorities – align with God’s hope for the world?”

I believe that conversation belongs squarely within the church. That asking what policies and practices get us closer to God’s hope is exactly what we should be discussing in Christian community. Indeed, I can think of no better, no richer, no more faithful conversation for us to have.  It’s right there in the Lord’s Prayer.

As Michael Hendricks has pointed out (Michael, a Saugatuck member who preached a few weeks back), that prayer begins with the words, “Our Father, in heaven” – “Our,” not “My…” It was always intended to be a communal prayer, concerned not just with my personal needs and wants, but with the well-being of all God’s people.

It’s also right there in the  word ‘politics,’ which comes from the root polis, or city.  To be ‘political’ means to seek the good of the city, the good of our whole community.  And that’s our Christian call.

This is not always easy conversation, precisely because we are making claims – not only about what matters to us, but about what matters to God – and that’s always risky business.  Such reflection demands respect, a great deal of tenderness, care-filled listening and an ample dose of humility. We are all feeling our way forward.  But in the words of one member this week, “If a church group can’t do it, then who can?”

I also believe it’s my task, as your pastor, to take my best shot at naming how I think God is calling us to make earth more like heaven, based on my reading of the Gospels and the movement of God’s Spirit among us. If I’m not doing that, if I’m not trying, every week, to make the connections between these ancient texts and our contemporary reality, if I’m not urging all of us to do the same, then I’m not doing my job.

Because really:  What’s the point of the gospel, if we’re not trying to live it?

When I preach about welcoming refugees, or dismantling racism, or caring for the earth or pursuing economic justice, I do so because I believe the gospel calls us to address these matters.  Because Jesus said, “I have come to preach good news to the poor and to set the captives free.” Because he warned us not to fall victim to greed, and instructed us to love our neighbors and welcome the stranger.  Because he hung out with women and lepers and other outcasts. Because God created everything, all this wild diversity and declared it all good.

That’s what guides my discerning, on my best days: the conviction that God longs for a world in which all creation can flourish, where the most vulnerable are lifted up, all people are treated with dignity and (in the words of our communion prayer)  sharing by all will mean scarcity for none. When I vote, I ask, “How does this candidate or policy contribute to that vision of human thriving? Who benefits? Who suffers, by the choices I make?”

I am a work in progress; most days I fail to live up to that vision of earth-more-like-heaven; too often, I end up making choices driven by convenience, self-interest, impatience, or fear… That’s why there’s grace.

And I keep trying:  to imagine God’s heaven on earth, and then to pursue it. I am grateful for partners in this holy work. – For all of you.  May God guide our faithful discerning AND our faith-filled actions; may God lend us wisdom, this day and every day.

Amen.

Your Gifts Multiplied

Saugatuck Congregational Church, UCC
©Art Schoeller
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Keynote for our 2019 Stewardship Campaign