The Empire Within

This is the sermon I gave on June 30, 2013, on Luke's story of the demon named Legion and Jesus' approach to dealing with the issue of empire.

The Empire Within

Rev. Tom Sorenson, Co-Pastor

June 30, 2013

Scripture:  Luke8:26-33

Let us pray:  May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

The people who lived in what we call Israel in the first century CE, during the time that Jesus lived there, had a lot of problems, poverty being one of the dominant ones.  They had, however, one major problem that dwarfed all the others.  They lived under foreign military occupation.  Several decades before Jesus was born Rome occupied Israel.  Rome was at that time the greatest empire with the most powerful military establishment that the world had ever seen.  Like all empires ruling foreign lands Rome ruled for the benefit of Rome, not for the benefit of the people of the occupied land.  Israel got some benefits from Roman occupation I suppose.  The first century CE was a time of relative peace and of economic prosperity for the wealthy, albeit hardly for most of the people.  Yet the Jewish people, or at least most of them, hated Rome.  Rome exploited the land and the people economically, imposing harsh taxes that drove most of the people deeper into poverty.  Worst of all, the Romans were Gentiles.  They worshipped false gods.  They even worshipped their emperor, a mere human being.  For the Jews of the time it was an abomination for the followers of the one true God to be ruled and oppressed by infidels.  The Jews hated the Romans.  They wanted the Romans gone.  They rebelled violently against Rome several times, always with dire consequences when the Romans crushed the rebellion.  Liberation from Roman occupation was the great dream and hope of nearly all of the Jewish people.

Many of those Jewish people expressed that dream and that hope by talking about someone called the Messiah.  The Messiah was one who was to come and deliver Israel.  There were different understandings of the Messiah in circulation in Jesus’ time, but one of the major ones saw the Messiah as a new King David.  In this understanding he would raise an army and drive the Romans into the sea.  He would then reestablish the Davidic Kingdom, a long lost kingdom that the Jews had come to see as a golden age from the past and a model for liberation in the future.

Now, the Christian tradition has called Jesus the Messiah—or the Christ, the two words mean the same thing—from the very beginning.  That claim was a really hard sell to first century Jews.  It was a really hard sell because Jesus didn’t look, act, or talk anything like the Messiah so many of them were hoping for.  They wanted a Messiah who would make war on Rome and drive the Romans into the sea.  Jesus, of course, didn’t do that.  He didn’t try to do it.  He had no intention of ever doing it.  He just wasn’t that kind of Messiah. 

He wasn’t that kind of Messiah; but however one approached it Rome was Israel’s biggest problem, and any Messiah of whatever type had to deal with Rome and the Roman oppression of the Jewish people.  Any Messiah of whatever type had to give the people a way of dealing with Rome and the problems it created for them.  That, I believe, is what our story of Jesus and the exorcism of the demon named Legion is all about.  In that story we see how Jesus understood the problem of Rome and how to deal with it.

In that story a man is powerfully possessed by a demon.  The demon renders the man what we would call mentally ill.  The man couldn’t control himself.  Other people couldn’t control him either.  So Jesus comes along and exorcizes the demon out of the man.  Jesus asks the demon its name.  The demon says “Legion,” and Luke tells us that the demon’s name was Legion because many demons had entered the possessed man.  The demons get Jesus’ permission to enter a nearby herd of swine, who immediately rush into the Sea of Galilee and drown, taking the demons with them.

And you may be asking:  What does that story have to do with Rome?  The answer to that very legitimate question lies in the name of the demon, in “Legion.”  What does Legion mean?  That word has entered our language as a common word that means “a great many.”  Luke suggests that meaning of the word when he says that the demon’s name is Legion because many demons had entered the possessed man.  OK.  That explanation of the name Legion is fine as far as it goes.  The problem is that it doesn’t go far enough.  In the first century CE the word legion didn’t just mean many.  It had a related but quite specific other meaning.  Back then everyone who heard the story Luke tells would have known that a legion was a unit of the Roman army.  It was a major unit of the army, sort of like our army division, although not quite as big.  A legion consisted of three to six thousand infantry troops and one to two hundred cavalry troops.  To Jesus and his audience a legion represented the military might of the foreign power that occupied their land and oppressed them and their people.  Legion meant Roman power and Rome’s military occupation and tyrannical rule.

So in our story the name Legion represents the Roman empire.  It represents the ways of empire.  More broadly it represents the ways of the world.  Legion stands for the world’s dominant power, and it therefore stands for the world’s ways of violence and oppression.  It stands for all of the ways of the world.  It represents considering worldly power and success to be the highest values.  It represents seeing other people as objects rather than persons, objects for us to use, exploit, and abuse as we will to achieve our own selfish purposes.  It represents all of the ways in which the world stands for values contrary to the will of God.

In our story Legion isn’t literally a division of Roman soldiers.  It isn’t an external image at all.  It is an internal one.  In the story Legion isn’t the Roman military encampment outside the city, it is Rome internalized.  In this story demonic possession by Legion represents all of the things that Legion stands for taken inside and made part of a man’s life.  In this story the worldly values that Rome represents control the man who has taken them in.  He doesn’t control them, they control him.  The possessed man’s problem isn’t so much that the Roman Empire occupies his home country as it is that the Roman Empire occupies his soul.  His problem isn’t that Rome is out there.  His problem is that Rome is in here, within himself, controlling him not from the outside but from the inside.

In this story Jesus launches not a military assault on an external Rome but a spiritual assault on an internal one.  He doesn’t drive the external Roman army into the sea.  Metaphorically speaking, he drives the internal Roman army into the sea.  He doesn’t physically attack Rome’s soldiers.  Rather, he exorcizes the Roman legion that the possessed man has internalized.  He drives that Legion into the sea.  Jesus frees the man not from external occupation by Rome but from internal possession by Rome.  Jesus deals here not with imperial possession from outside but with imperial possession from inside.

In this story Jesus shows us where our adversary really lives.  Empire, and more generally the ways and values of the world, are a problem for us not because they exist outside of us.  They are a problem for us because they exist inside us.  They are a problem because we internalize them.  Our problem isn’t that the world’s ways are what they are.  Our problem is that we take the ways of the world into our hearts.  Our problem isn’t the ways of the world per se.  It is the way we have internalized the values and methods of the world and made them our own.  This story says that the world wins not so much through brute military power as it does by capturing our minds, hearts, and souls and by bending us until the world’s ways become our ways.

The story of Jesus’ exorcism of the demon named Legion calls us to look first of all not outward into the world to find evil.  It calls us to look inward, into ourselves, into our minds and our hearts.  Have the ways of the world that contradict and deny God’s ways taken possession of us the way Legion took possession of the man in our story?  Do we support the world’s ways of violence when we think we benefit from them?  Do we dehumanize any of God’s people, seeing them as objects rather than as beloved children of God?  Do we strive for worldly success measured in money and power rather than for the wisdom and peace that come from pursuing the life of the spirit? 

Let’s be honest.  We’ve all internalized at least some of the ways of the world.  It really isn’t possible to grow up in the world and not internalize an awful lot of it.  The world of Rome possessed the man in our story.  The world today possesses us.  Jesus exorcized Rome and its world from the man in the story.  We don’t have Jesus physically present with us to exorcize our world from us.  So this story calls us to do the work of exorcism ourselves.  Jesus calls us to look deep into ourselves.  What do we see there?  The ways of the world or the ways of God?  Jesus calls us to the immensely difficult work of replacing the world in our souls with God in our souls.  For Jesus, for God, we don’t transform the world through force and violence.  We transform the world by starting with ourselves.  When we transform our hearts, when we exorcize the world’s violent and unjust ways from our souls, we transform the world.  When enough people have, with the help of God, transformed themselves, the world will be transformed.  That’s why Jesus exorcized an internalized demon named Legion and didn’t raise an army to attack Rome.  He calls us to do the same.  Amen.

Together In the Spirit

This is the sermon I gave at my wife/co-pastor's installation service on June 22, 2013.

Together in the Spirit

Rev. Tom Sorenson, Co-Pastor

June 22, 2013

Scripture:  Romans 12:1-13; 1 Corinthians 12:1, 4-11

Let us pray:  May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

So here I am preaching at the installation service for my co-pastor Jane.  It’s weird enough preaching at the installation of your co-pastor.  I suspect it is more common in these cases, or maybe I’d just be more comfortable, to have someone else preach a word to both of the new co-pastors. Yes, preaching at the installation of your co-pastor is a bit weird, but when that co-pastor is also your wife it gets really bizarre.  I am indeed Jane’s co-pastor here in Monroe, but much more importantly she’s my wife; and preaching specifically to your wife is just wrong, maybe especially when she’s a preacher too.  It got even worse the other day, however.  Jane suggested that I preach on 1 Corinthians 7:16a.  That half verse reads “Wife, for all you know, you might save your husband.”  Let’s just say I wasn’t much taken with that suggestion.  I suggested in response that I preach on the non-Pauline insertion into that same letter at 1 Corinthians 14:33b-34a:  “As in all the churches of the saints, women should be silent in the churches.”  Needless to say Jane didn’t like that suggestion any more than I liked hers.  Probably less.  It’s her installation, so I really had no choice.  I’m not preaching on that verse.  But then neither am I preaching on hers.

So what can I do here this afternoon?  I don’t feel right preaching specifically to my wife, even if she is my co-pastor.  Rev. Steve Hanning, my former pastor and recently the interim pastor at our church in Everett, told me once that he has known four clergy couples who did co-ministry together.  In two of those cases it worked really well.  In the other two—the couple got divorced.  I don’t want to say anything here that might increase the chances of Jane and me ending up in that latter category of divorced former co-pastors, so I won’t presume to preach specifically to Jane.  Instead I want to say a word to our people here in the Monroe church.  The rest of you, our honored guests here this afternoon, are of course welcome to listen too.

Today we formalize and celebrate your decision to call Jane as co-pastor, together with me, of your church.  Last August we changed our pastoral staffing by adding Jane as co-pastor, but back then adding Jane was only an experiment.  We all wanted to see how having Jane as co-pastor with me would work.  We needed to see, among other things, if you were able and willing to pay the added expense of adding another pastor to the staff, even at a very modest compensation level.  That experiment was set to end at the end of May, but on Pentecost you voted to make the co-pastor arrangement with Jane and me permanent—as permanent, that is, as a church’s pastoral arrangements ever are. 

I’ve got to be frank with you.  That decision, as much as I appreciate it—and I really do—makes absolutely no sense.  That’s what the so-called experts would say.  They’d say we’re not really big enough for even one full time pastor.  We’re nowhere near big enough for a staff of more than one full time pastor.  Any consultant we might have hired to evaluate the co-pastor proposal for us would have said you’re nuts to do it—in much more professional language of course.  We wouldn’t be very happy paying for just “you’re nuts.”  Yet somehow, by the grace of God and your good will, we’ve had a full-time pastor since 2003; and since last August we’ve had more than that.  You have supported the new pastoral arrangement with your prayers, your work, and your money; and Jane and I thank you for that support with all our hearts.  You have shown what a small church that once was stagnant if not quite near closing can do with the dedication, hard work, and contributions of committed members.

And now we come to a celebration of a new phase in our life together.  You have called Jane to join me as pastor because you know her, you love her, you see her manifold gifts for ministry.  You see what she can bring to our church, and that is a very good thing.  Today we get to celebrate your decision, and we also need to recognize what that decision means for the future of our church.  The new co-pastor arrangement that you have created presents us with both great opportunities and great challenges.  With Jane as co-pastor we have the opportunity to expand the ministry of our church beyond what I have been able to do as sole pastor.  We have pastoral support for parts of the church’s ministry that, frankly, I didn’t spend as much time on before as I might have—outreach and Christian education of children and young people being good examples.  We have an expanded availability of pastoral care.  Some of you relate to Jane better than you do to me.  Others of you relate better to me than you do to Jane.  That is natural and expected, and now you all have a better chance of having a pastor you are comfortable talking to.  Jane brings new ideas to the church.  She brings new energy.  Her pastoral experience is very different from mine; so she sees things differently than I do, and her insights have been and will be of great value to us.  Jane’s presence with us opens great new opportunities before us.

It also, however, presents us with challenges.  Jane and I are still working out just how we share the pastoral responsibilities around here, and how we do that will continue to evolve in the times ahead of us.  So far our being co-pastors has in no way threatened our marriage, and Jane and I will make sure that it never does.  One of your challenges is to understand that for Jane and me our marriage comes first.  If our pastoring together ever even remotely threatens our marriage, we’ll choose our marriage over co-pastoring.  Some of the time Jane and I have together sounds a lot like a pastoral staff meeting.  So far that’s OK.  We will make sure that it continues to be OK.

Yet the greater challenge that we face is understanding just where this church is heading.  Where is the Holy Spirit calling us?  We believe that the Holy Spirit has called Jane to ordained pastoral ministry here at Monroe Congregational UCC at this time.  We must presume that the Spirit has some purpose in calling Jane as one of your pastors today.  What is that purpose?  Is it to work Jane into the life of this congregation as essentially my successor as your pastor?  Perhaps.  She is thirteen years younger than I am, and I have been your pastor for over eleven years.  I’m 66 years old, and I won’t keep working forever.  Jane as my successor isn’t set in stone, but it’s something to keep in mind.  Is it because Jane will have new ideas for new types of ministry we can do in this community?  Perhaps.  I hope so.  We’ve come a long way in the last eleven years.  Is the Spirit calling Jane to lead us in building on the work we’ve done together in that time, to take us to new places reaching new people?  Perhaps.  I hope so. 

Discerning the Holy Spirit’s purpose in calling Jane as your co-pastor is an important challenge, but in our Scripture readings this afternoon St. Paul reminds us of another important truth about our church.  In both of those passages Paul speaks of how Christians have many gifts, all given by the one Spirit.  He doesn’t talk much there about the gifts of a community’s leaders.  He talks about the gifts of the people.  It is the gifts of the people, not just the gifts of the leaders, that make a church a faithful community of Christ’s disciples.  We don’t all have the same gifts, he says.  Just as a body needs different appendages and organs to function as a body, so a church needs the many different gifts to function well as a church.  You have two pastors.  That’s an extra pastor for a church this size.  One of your most important challenges is to remember that having an extra pastor doesn’t free you from the call to bring your gifts to the life of the church.  You don’t get to sit back and say Tom and Jane can do it.  We can’t.  We can help, and we will; but we can’t do much of anything without you.  You are the church.  Jane and I are part of the church too, but only a part of it.  Jane has many gifts for ministry.  I like to think that I have some too, but you are the church.  Your gifts are the ones that matter most.  Together we can do many good things.  Alone Jane and I can really do nothing.

So today, as we celebrate the installation of Jane as co-pastor, I ask you to consider not what Jane and I can do for you but what you can do for yourselves and each other as this little church of Jesus Christ.  Do you love children?  Volunteer in the nursery or the Sunday school rooms.  Do you care about the poor and the homeless?  Volunteer with Brown Bag Brigade, or Take the Next Step, or the food banks in Monroe and Sultan.  Can you sing, or do you like to sing but aren’t sure how good you are at it?  Come to choir practice on Wednesdays at 6:30.  Do you have a strong speaking voice?  Volunteer to serve as lay leader for our Sunday worship.  Are you a teacher?  Offer a class at church on something you have a passion for, either for children, or for adults, or for both.  Are there things you’d like to see us doing?  Do you have a vision for what our church could be but you don’t know how to make it happen?  Share your ideas and your vision.  Share them with Jane, with me, and with all the people of the church.  Maybe together we can make them real. 

The examples of gifts and how to use them could go on and on.  The Spirit has indeed given us many gifts.  Today we celebrate Jane, and it is right and good that we do.  We face many challenges together, not the least of them financial.  But we have overcome harder challenges in the past.  Those challenges became opportunities for faithful ministry.  The challenges we face today can be opportunities too.  If together we pray hard and rely on God’s grace, we can do great things.  With Jane’s new leadership, and with my old leadership, let’s get on with it.  Amen.

The Kingdom of God Is Among Us

The Kingdom of God Is Among Us

Jesus said that the Kingdom of God is among us.  Luke 17:20  Or perhaps he said that it is within us.  Either way, it doesn’t matter.  Either way he said the Kingdom of God “is.”  Not that it will be.  That it is.  And either way in locating the Kingdom of God Jesus pointed to us.  He didn’t point to God.  He didn’t point to heaven.  He didn’t even point to himself, although his signs or miracles clearly point to an in-breaking of the Kingdom into the world.  He pointed to us.  Jesus said the Kingdom of God is not will be, and he said that it is among or within us, and Christianity has gotten Jesus’ message about the Kingdom of God almost completely wrong almost from the beginning.  Christianity has gotten Jesus’ message about the Kingdom of God wrong at least since Christianity became Christendom, at least, that is, since it became the established faith of empire in the fourth century CE.  We’ve been told the Kingdom of God is really the Kingdom of Heaven (Thank you Matthew!) and the Kingdom of Heaven really means Kingdom in Heaven.  Or we’ve been told that the Kingdom of God may come to be on earth some day, but that day won’t happen until the Parousia, until the Second Coming of Jesus, that hoary Christian belief that denies the significance and the validity of Jesus’ first coming.  Yet Jesus said that the Kingdom of God is among us.  Is, not will be.  Us, not heaven.

In his essay “The Mystery of the Gospel,” which is Chapter 1 of his book Waiting for Gospel, the Canadian theologian Douglas John Hall says that gospel isn’t something that we are to construct, it is something that has already happened.  It is something that God has already done.  Gospel, Hall says, is.  Not that it will be.  It is.  Now.  Already.  We just don’t know it.  Hall’s words reminded me of Jesus’ words from Luke and got me thinking again about a thought I’ve had many times before.  It’s a thought about how we are to understand the Kingdom of God and the Good News, the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  That thought goes like this.

The Kingdom of God  already exists.  It is already the ultimate reality of the world.  We humans of course create our own reality.  What we take to be reality is entirely of our own making.  Trees aren’t green.  They reflect certain wave lengths of light that our brains make green.  Green isn’t an objective reality, it is something our minds create.  A glorious mountain vista isn’t beautiful.  It just is what it is.  Our brains react to it with a sense that makes us appreciate the vista and call it beautiful.  Beauty isn’t an objective reality, it is something our minds create.  I don’t know the objective reality of the people in my life or in the world.  I don’t know the objective reality of what I read and hear about world history and world events.  I know only that I perceive them, and I make my perception of them my reality.  Does my perception that I call reality correspond in any meaningful way to some objective reality outside myself?  I don’t know.  I can’t know.  I have no way of knowing because my perception, which is entirely internal and subjective, is all I have.

The Kingdom of God is already real, but we humans constantly create a reality that is radically and tragically different from the Kingdom of God.  We take what we experience as the injustice, violence, environmental destruction, oppression, and exploitation of which we hear so much as reality; and we make it our reality.  We say those things are what is real.  O yes, we also say that love, care, compassion, justice, and forgiveness are real to some extent, but they aren’t enough for us to overcome our created reality of violence and oppression and to live in the Kingdom of God.  The Kingdom of God is already here.  It is already real, and we live as though it weren’t.

God calls us to live in the reality of the Kingdom of God not in the alternative reality that we call the world.  God calls us to live as though the values of the Kingdom of God were already the universal values of the world for, really, they already are.  Is there injustice in the world?  No matter.  Live lives of justice.  Justice is part of ultimate reality.  Is there violence in the world?  No matter.  Live lives of nonviolence.  Nonviolence is part of ultimate reality.  Is there judgment, condemnation, and punishment in the world?  No matter.  Live lives of acceptance and grace.  Acceptance and grace are part of ultimate reality.  God says:  I showed you what my Kingdom is when I sent you my Son.  He told you.  He showed you.  He told that that my Kingdom is already your reality, that it already is among and within you.  So listen to him as I told you to do at the Transfiguration and live in my reality.  Make the Kingdom of God your reality.  We must stop waiting for God to do it, for God has already done it.  We can’t wait for others to do it, for it is up to us to live it.  How do we make the Kingdom of God our reality?  We just do it.  We decide to do it.  We choose to do it.  We stop living by the worldly reality that we convince ourselves is real and starting living by the ultimate reality of the Kingdom of God.

The world will think we’re nuts of course.  They’ll say you’re not being realistic, not realizing that we are living the ultimate reality and therefore are being the most realistic people of all.  They’ll say nonviolence doesn’t work.  No matter.  In the world’s terms it often doesn’t, not that violence does.  In the Kingdom of God nonviolence works, and more importantly in the Kingdom of God nonviolence is just what’s right.  So that’s how we live.  They’ll say oppression and injustice are unavoidable in human society.  No matter.  In the world’s terms they may be unavoidable, but they don’t even exist in the Kingdom of God.  They’ll say we can’t afford to save the environment.  No matter.  In the Kingdom of God we know that we are stewards not dominators of a world that belongs to God not to us, so we save the environment.

How do we make the Kingdom of God a reality on earth?  By realizing that it already is.  By realizing that we all create our own reality.  By simply deciding to live the Kingdom life rather than the worldly life.  There’s no need to wait.  There’s no use in waiting.  Jesus said the Kingdom of God is among and within you.  It’s already here.  So let’s live it.  Now not later.  It’s the only way to make it real.

© Thomas C. Sorenson, 2013  All rights reserved.

Love Your Enemies

This is the sermon that I gave on Sunday, May 12, which was Mothers' Day in the US.

Love Your Enemies.  Really?

Rev. Tom Sorenson, Pastor

May 12, 2013

Scripture:  Matthew 5:43-48

Let us pray:  May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

I was going to start this sermon by saying that no one ever said that being a Christian was easy, but as soon as I thought that I realized that I couldn’t say it.  It’s not true.  A great many people think that being a Christian is very easy.  A great many pastors and preachers present Christianity as being very easy.  They say:  Realize you’re a sinner.  Repent.  Accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior.  Done.  Problem solved.  You’re saved, and now you can relax.  Easy.  So I can’t start this sermon by saying that no one ever said being a Christian was easy.  People make being a Christian—of sorts at least—easy all the time.

Which absolutely does not change the fact that being a Christian, a real Christian, a truly faithful Christian, isn’t easy.  It just isn’t.  It isn’t because being a Christian means more than anything else following Jesus.  Not believing the right things about him, but following him.  Believing in Jesus is easy.  Listening to him and living the way he taught and showed us is hard.  It’s really hard.  It’s really hard because the life that he taught us and showed us turns everything we understand about the world on its head.  Do you know what a revolutionary is?  A revolutionary is someone who wants the world to revolve, to turn.  To turn upside down.  Jesus was a revolutionary.  That kind of revolutionary.  His teaching turns the world upside down.  He wants us to turn our world upside down, and that’s not easy.  It’s really, really hard.

Many of the things Jesus tells us to do are hard, but today I want to talk to you about what may be hardest of Jesus’ teachings of all.  We just heard it.  “Love your enemies.”  I don’t know what your reaction to that teaching is, but mine is:  Really?  You’re telling me to love my enemies?  Really?  You’re telling me to love people who hate me?  Really?  You’re telling me to love people who want to kill me?  Really?  I don’t want it to be true.  I don’t want Jesus to have said it.  It makes no sense.  I don’t love people who hate me.  Almost no one loves people who hate them.  We hate those people.  That’s the only sensible thing for us to do, to return hatred for hatred, isn’t it?  People have always done it.  We can’t not do it.  Really?  You want me to love my enemies?  Really?

“Really?” has pretty much been the reaction of virtually all of Christendom since very early in the history of our faith.  At least since Christianity became the established religion of the Roman Empire in the fourth century CE Christians have asked Really? about Jesus’ commandment to love our enemies.  For the most part Christians have answered their Really? with a no, not really.  Jesus’ love your enemies commandment is one of his most widely ignored and disregarded sayings.  Christians on the whole have not loved their enemies any more than any other people have.  O yes, sometimes we convinced that we were loving our enemies even as we have tortured and killed them.  We did it because we love them, we’ve said.  We did it for their own good, we’ve said.  We did it to save their souls, we’ve said.  Or we say we love the sinner and hate the sin as we have condemned and excluded people different from us.  Mostly, however, we don’t even bother with such pretenses.  We just hate our enemies as much as anyone else does.  We certainly don’t love them.  We ask Jesus Really?  We’ve got to love our enemies?  We answer for him no, not Really. 

Yet there his commandment of love is.  Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you he says.  We don’t like it.  We ignore it.  But today I ask:  What if we were to stop ignoring Jesus’ command to love our enemies and lived into that command instead?  What would that look like?  What would we have to do?  How could we start?  In one short sermon I can’t do more than suggest a starting place, and here I think is a good one.  The Church of the Brethren, one of the historic peace churches that has not turned its back on Jesus’ teaching of nonviolence the way most of Christianity has, puts out a bumper sticker that reads:  “When Jesus said ‘Love your enemies,’ I think he probably meant don’t kill them.”  Yeah, probably.  Don’t you think?  Don’t you think that love means at least don’t kill? 

There is no doubt that Jesus preached and lived radical nonviolence.  His directive to us to love our enemies is part of that teaching.  Christianity has mostly forgotten that teaching.  At least since establishment in the Roman Empire of the fourth century CE Christians have been at least as violent as any other people.  In our country today most of the gun nuts who run the NRA probably think of themselves as Christians and see no disparity between their dystopian world in which everyone carries an assault weapon and Jesus’ vision of the Kingdom of God, so thoroughly has Christianity turned its back on Jesus’ teaching of nonviolence.  Yet surely love your enemies means at least don’t inflict violence upon them. 

Today is Mother’s Day, and many of you may be unaware that the roots of Mother’s Day in this country lie in the anti-war movement.  In 1870 Julia Ward Howe, one of great witnesses for peace and for justice in our country’s history, wrote and issued her Mother’s Day Proclamation.  Hallmark would not have approved.  It isn’t sweet.  It isn’t sentimental.  It isn’t about giving cards and flowers and chocolates and going out to dinner, as nice and as appropriate as those things may be.  It is about peace.  In that Declaration Howe said:

Arise, then, women of this day! Arise, all women who have hearts, whether your baptism be that of water or tears!

Say firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies. Our husbands shall not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause. Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn all that we have taught them of charity, mercy and patience. We women of one country will be too tender of those of another to allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."

From the bosom of the devastated earth, a voice goes up with our own. It says, ‘Disarm, Disarm!’

Howe went on to  call for an international women’s congress to be held to “to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace.”  Mother’s Day wasn’t officially established in this country until 1914, ironically (and tragically) the year World War I began in Europe, and it had by then already lost its connection to the peace movement.  But that’s where its roots lie.  It’s about time we rediscovered them.

Today we honor the love and care that, we pray, all mothers will have for their children.  We know that not all do, and we stand with the victims of abuse and neglect in the cause of justice.  We pray for them healing and wholeness of life.  But all people have mothers.  Our enemies have mothers.  We’ve all see the heartrending pictures of mothers in inconsolable grief over the deaths of their fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons killed by acts of violence, killed most of all in war.  Perhaps if war is ever to cease in this world it will be the mothers who stop it.  Mothers who know that no cause is worth the death of a beloved son or daughter.  Mothers who know that violence never brings peace.  Violence never brings justice.  Violence brings death and dismemberment and pain and emotional suffering and grief.  Perhaps it’s the mothers who know that most of all.  Maybe they will lead the way to a recovery of Jesus’ difficult commandment:  Love your enemies.  Today we can say:  Love your enemies, for they too have mothers. 

Of course it’s not easy.  No one ever said loving your enemies was easy.  No one who knew anything about it ever said that nonviolence was easy or safe.  The world teaches us to hate our enemies.  It teaches us to kill as many of them as we can.  Jesus teaches us the opposite of that worldly wisdom.  He teaches us the wisdom of our nonviolent God.  He said to those he knew in life and he says to us now:  Love your enemies.  He didn’t say it was easy.  He just said do it.  Will we?  Amen.

Called to Transformation

This is the sermon I gave on May 5, 2013, to which some have responded favorably.

Called to Transformation

Rev. Tom Sorenson, Pastor

May 5, 2013

Scripture:  Acts 16:9-15;  Revelation 21:10, 22-26, 22:1-5

Let us pray:  May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O God, our strength and our redeemer.   Amen.

Some of you already know this from Facebook, but last Sunday after we got back from Wenatchee, Jane and I got a dog.  He’s a new dog to us although he’s almost eight years old.  He lived right around the corner from the church, and he needed a new home.  He wasn’t being abused or neglected by the woman who owned him, who was also his breeder; but she couldn’t keep him and needed to find a good place for him.  I got to talking to her a couple of weeks ago as I was walking up to 7-11 to get something to drink, and Jane and I ended up adopting the dog.  Some of you have seen his picture on Facebook.  He’s a Pembroke Welsh Corgi—that’s the kind without a tail.  His name is Ringo, because he has a ring of white fur around his neck.  He’s a sweetheart, and we’re delighted to have him.  Especially Jane, who’s the world’s biggest dog sap—but that’s a story for another day.

Ringo probably doesn’t know it yet, but he just landed in a bed of roses.  I don’t like to brag, but Jane and I are really good dog owners.  We love dogs.  We know what they need, and we make sure our dog has it.  We walk our dog at least twice a day.  We make sure his diet is healthy.  We take him to the vet regularly for checkups and vaccinations and whenever something might be wrong.  We pet him and play with him a lot.  We’re even having our little back yard fenced so Ringo can go outside by himself when he wants.  Mostly, we love our dog.  Ringo probably doesn’t know it yet, but his world just got pretty much completely transformed for the better. 

Ringo is experiencing transformation into a world that will be really good for him, yet of course he’s still a bit stressed by it all.  He knows he’s in a new place with new people, but he doesn’t know why.  He’s a dog, and you can’t really explain those things to a dog.  So he’s still a bit nervous, a bit edgy.  He hasn’t really settled into his new environment yet.  He doesn’t yet fully know our routines and patterns, and that makes him a bit uneasy.  The transformation that he’s experiencing will be really good for him, but he’s resisting it a bit.  Just a bit, not a lot; but he’s still resisting it a little, and he’s still a little uncomfortable with it.  That’s to be expected, and it will pass; but for now Ringo is finding transformation a bit difficult.

Ringo’s a dog, but he’s not the only creature who finds transformation difficult.  We humans find transformation difficult too.  We resist change.  We resist renewal.  In my line of work we call the phrase “We’ve never done it that way before” the seven last words of a dying church, but people in churches say it all the time because they don’t like change.  Institutions like churches, and governments, and just about every other kind of human institution, resist change, but so do we individually.  Psychologists tells us that things like changes in primary relationships, changes of employment, moving from one home to another or from one town to another, are among that most stressful events in a human life.  They’re stressful because we don’t like change.  We like things to stay the way they are.  Of course, not all change is beneficial, but we pretty much resist all change, even change that is beneficial.  In other words, we resist transformation.  We find change and even true transformation frightening.  They make us nervous.  They make us tense.  So we resist them.  Staying where we are is almost always more comfortable for us than is any kind of change, any kind of transformation.

We resist transformation, and that’s unfortunate.  It’s unfortunate especially for us Christians because the Gospel of Jesus Christ is nothing if not a call to radical transformation.  In our Gospels Jesus more than anything else calls us to transformation.  He calls us to transform our hearts and minds.  He calls us to transform our lives.  Then he calls us to transform our world.  Jesus calls us to build the Kingdom of God.  He calls us to build it from the inside out, starting with a transformation of our hearts and ending with the Kingdom of God fully realized on earth.  That is transformation writ large, and Jesus calls us to do it.

In our two scripture readings this morning we have images of transformation.  In our story from Acts Lydia is transformed.  Her transformation is symbolized by her baptism, which comes after she accepts Paul’s teaching about Jesus Christ.  She brings the Apostle and his teaching into her home and into her life.  She is transformed.  Our reading from Revelation is an even clearer picture of transformation.  It is a vision of a world living in immediate, direct relationship with God and Jesus Christ.  In what Revelation calls the new Jerusalem there is no need, metaphorically speaking of course, of sun, moon, or lamp because everyone lives in the light of God, so close is God to all the people and all the nations.  Revelation gives us a vision of a world transformed from living apart from God to a world living intimately with God.  If that transformation were ever really to happen, the world would be a very different, a radically transformed, place indeed.

Jesus Christ calls us to transformation.  He calls us to live the life of the Kingdom of God even now when that Kingdom is so incompletely realized here on earth.  He calls us to live lives that reject violence, lift up the lowly, include the excluded, and live in tight communion with God.  He calls us to live the life of the Kingdom of God as if God’s Kingdom were already fully a reality among us.  He says the Kingdom is among us, and he calls to live the way of the Kingdom rather than the ways of the world.  In Christ we are in the world, but we are called to be of the Kingdom.  We are called to a new way of being that turns the world’s ways of being completely on their heads.  We are, in other words, called to radical transformation. 

We are called to radical transformation, and most of the time we say no.  Most of the time the thought of changing nearly everything about the way we live is too uncomfortable.  It is too scary.  We think we’d lose too much.  Most of us here are pretty satisfied with our lives the way they are.  We’ve accepted the way the world is.  We support candidates who take our country to war and spend nearly as much on the military as the rest of the world put together.  We don’t want to pay taxes for social programs that benefit people we don’t know.  We consume at a higher level than any other people in the world, eating up much more than our fair share of the world’s resources.  We like all of those things.  We don’t want to change them.  We so don’t want to change them that we mostly don’t even hear Jesus’ call to us to change them.  We think he’s talking about how we get to heaven, not about how God wants us to live on earth.  He isn’t, or at least he isn’t primarily.  The Kingdom of God that he proclaimed is not an earthly kingdom, but it is on the earth not in heaven; and God calls us to the transformation that is necessary to make it an earthly reality.

Ringo will get used to his new home.  I think he will be very happy in his new home.  It’ll take some time, but he’ll get there.  Will we ever get used to the new home to which God calls us?  Will we ever truly become Kingdom people in the midst of the world?  I’m afraid that’s a lot less likely than Ringo coming to like living with Jane and me.  We humans are a lot more resistant to transformation than dogs are.  We’re so good at thinking up all the reasons why we can’t and don’t have to follow God’s call.  What we think are reasons are however really only excuses, and God’s call is still there.  It still pains God that we respond to it so weakly.  We are called to transformation.  Do we hear?  Will we follow?  Amen.

On Violence and Human Weakness

This is the text of a sermon I gave on April 21, 2013, prompted by the Boston Marathon bombing of the previous Monday.

On Violence and Human Weakness

Rev. Tom Sorenson, Pastor

April 21, 2013

Scripture:  Revelation 7:9-17; 1 Corinthians 1:18-25

Let us pray:  May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

Well, it’s happened again.  Of course, it happens all the time in this country.  As of a few days ago more than 3,300 people had been killed by guns in the United States since the school shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, last December; but we’re real good at ignoring that violence.  It’s hidden.  It’s private.  We don’t notice it.  90% of the American people support background checks for gun purchases and the Senate won’t even pass that innocuous and helpful if hardly decisive measure.  We notice things like the Boston Marathon bombing, and we should.  I suppose we knew something like that would happen again.  We didn’t know where, or when, or how, but we knew it would happen.  Once again human beings have inflicted death, dismemberment, and pain on other randomly targeted human beings.  The toll:  four dead (five if you count one of the perpetrators, as I think we must) and over one hundred seventy wounded, many of them severely.  It’s happened again, and it won’t be the last time.

When these things like the Boston Marathon bombing happen we wonder why someone would do such a horrific thing, and we look for some statement by the perpetrators about why they did it.  That’s why we’re so glad one of them was taken in alive.  Maybe he’ll talk (although there is some doubt that he’ll ever be able to).  When we ask why something like this happened we want to know the thinking of those who did it.  What was their motive?  What compelled them to do it?  What statement were they trying to make?  What were they trying to accomplish?  What were they trying to prove?  Those are all interesting and important questions of course, but here’s the thing.  Those are interesting and important questions, but they are also superficial questions.  The answers to those questions are interesting and important answers, but they are superficial answers.  The real question we need to ask probes much deeper.  The real answers we need go much deeper.  Of course we ask questions and seek answers about specific acts of human violence, but the deeper question that we need to ask but rarely do is why we humans resort to violence at all.  Is there a root cause, a fundamental explanation, of human violence?  Is there something about the human existential condition that prompts us to violence?  It sure seems that there must be, given how ubiquitous human violence against other humans is.  I’m not looking here for an justification.  There is no justification.  I’m looking for an explanation, which isn’t the same thing.

So this morning I ask:  Why?  At the most fundamental level, why?  Why do we humans so often, so universally, resort to violence against our fellow humans?  Why do we so rely on violence?  Why do we think that violence will solve our problems when violence itself is our most fundamental problem, when we now have instruments of violence that will one day destroy us all if we can’t find a way to stop being violent?  Minds far greater than mine have grappled with that question for ages, but this morning I will be brave enough, or foolish enough—it’s often a fine line between the two—to suggest an answer.  I am convinced that human violence, all human violence, is an expression of human weakness.  Not human strength, human weakness.  We so see the use of force and violence as an expression of strength.  It isn’t.  It is grounded in human weakness and is always an expression of human weakness.  And yes, I know.  That statement needs a lot of explanation, so here goes.

We begin with looking at the foundational characteristics of what it is to be human.  We humans are odd creatures, unique as far as we know among all animal species.  We are acutely aware of our own existence, and we know that we live suspended between a bunch of polar opposites, opposite forces in our existence that pull us in opposite directions.  Here are some of them:  We are physical, and we are spiritual.  We must survive as creatures, and we strive to be gods.  We are grounded in the earth, and we grasp for that which is far beyond us.  We know we are finite, and we long for the infinite.  We know we are mortal, and we yearn for immortality.  We know we are weak, and we ache for omnipotence.  We are strange creatures indeed, living always in tension, a tension most of us don’t think about consciously but that subconsciously we all know is real, we all know we can’t escape.

Human violence arises out of the existential tension in which all humans live.  Again, that’s not a justification of violence, only a part of the explanation of it.  Specifically human violence arises out of our inability to gain that which we know we lack.  We long for transcendent, spiritual values—peace, dignity, freedom, safety, respect.  We long for these things, and we know we don’t have them.  Yes, some of us have more of them than others, but none of us has them in their fullness.  We long for them.  We strive for them.  We hurt because we don’t fully have them.  We don’t fully have them because we are creatures not gods, and we handle our creaturely status very badly.  We don’t fully have the things for which we long because we are finite not infinite.  We don’t have them because we are weak not omnipotent.  Having the things for which we long in their fullness simply is not given to us as created beings.

So often we misunderstand why we don’t fully have the things for which we long.  We don’t attribute our lack to our existential condition.  We think we don’t have the things for which we long in their fullness because others have taken them from us.  Or at least we think that others threaten to take them from us, which has much the same effect.  We feel our lack powerfully, and time after time we conclude that we must resort to violence against those we think have taken things from us, or threaten to, to get what we want and don’t have or to preserve our tenuous hold on the little bit of those things that we do have.  So often to us humans it looks like violence can get us what we long for and don’t have. 

I could use just about any instance of human violence as an example; but I have only a short time here, and this sermon is already long, so I’ll give just one example that makes the point. I’ll use the example of extremist Islamist terrorism.  Islamist, not Islamic.  They aren’t the same thing.  I don’t use this example because I think the Tsarnaev brothers were Islamist terrorists.  We don’t know enough yet to say.  I don’t use this example because I think that such terrorism is true to Islam.  It isn’t.  It definitely, assuredly, undoubtedly isn’t, but it is something very much on our minds these past eleven plus years.  We all know what it is.  Just think of 9/11 if you need a reminder.  What lies behind Islamist terrorism?  Not Islam.  That much is plainly true.  What lies behind Islamist terrorism, and indeed behind all terrorism, is human weakness.  Islamic nations are dominated today by the world’s dominant powers, and they have been for a long time.  Islamic people, especially Arabs perhaps but others too, feel disrespected by the western nations that are the world’s dominant powers, the United States most of all.  They see wealth they do not have.  They see prestige, influence, and power they had many centuries ago but do not have today.  They see instruments of American military power used against their people and installed on what to them is sacred ground.  It was, you know, the installation of an American air base in Saudi Arabia that set off Osama bin Laden.  They see all these things and many other degrading and disempowering things besides, and they know that they are impotent to do anything about them.  They feel overmatched.  Indeed, they are overmatched in terms of military, economic, and political power.  They know that they are weak, and in their weakness they resort to violence, to terrorism, to killing and maiming innocent people against whom they have no personal complaint.  Their ability to inflict violence on others makes them look strong.  I suppose it makes them feel strong, but their violence is grounded not in strength but in weakness.  They resort to violence because they are too weak to do anything else. 

In the case of Islamist terrorists it is quite clear that their violence arises from and is an expression of their fundamental weakness.  In other instances of violence, like the liberal use of military violence around the world by the United States, the analysis of the causes of the violence will be different and perhaps more complex; but I am convinced that all human violence is grounded in and is an expression of underlying human weakness.  In our weakness we lash out with violence, either individually or as a nation; and we delude ourselves that we are not weak but strong.

Our faith tradition, Christianity, with its knowledge of the teachings of Jesus Christ, gives us a different vision.  When we lash out in violence we are never true to our God.  We are then never true to Jesus Christ.  The God we know in Jesus Christ is radically nonviolent.  Violence sometimes passes as the wisdom of the world, as when we say we must go to war in order to be safe.  Yet our faith tells us that God’s wisdom is not the wisdom of the world.  We heard it this morning in our reading from 1 Corinthians.  There Paul says “For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.”  We could say God’s weakness is stronger than human violence.  God calls us to nonviolence.  God calls us to what to the world looks like weakness.  It isn’t.  It is the strength of God.  Nonviolence is the strength of God and the wisdom of God.  It is the wisdom and the strength to which God calls us, foolish as it seems to the world.  Our passage from Revelation is also true when it says that God will wipe away the tears of those who have been through the great ordeal.  God will wipe away our tears when we have been through the ordeal of violence, both in this world and in the next.  Yet our call is to make it unnecessary for God to wipe away those tears caused by violence because there is no more human violence. 

I know.  It sounds impossible, but whether or not it is possible isn’t our concern.  Our concern is that it is what God calls us to.  There will be more violence.  It seems there will always be more violence.  Until we see that violence is an expression of weakness not of strength there will always be more violence.  Our call is to live in God’s nonviolent strength not in violent human weakness.  May God help us live into that call.  Amen.

Tearing the Curtain

This is the sermon I gave at our Good Friday service on March 29, 2013.  It was well received, and I quite like it.  It expresses well what Jesus' death means to me.

Tearing the Curtain

A Good Friday Meditation

Rev. Tom Sorenson, Pastor

March 29, 2013

Scripture:  Mark 15:25-39

Let us pray:  May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable in your sight O God, our strength and our redeemer.  Amen.

The Romans killed Jesus.  About that there is no doubt.  Not the Jews, the Romans.  They saw Jesus as a threat.  People called him the king of the Jews, but the Romans knew who the real king of the Jews was.  It was the Emperor in Rome, not some rube from the hinterlands who was getting people all worked up.  He was preaching something he called the kingdom of God, but Romans knew what the real kingdom was.  It was their empire, not some imaginary kingdom ruled by God.  The Romans didn’t like it when someone got people all excited about something other than Rome.  The Romans didn’t like it when someone told people that God was their king, not Caesar, like this coarse fellow from Galilee was doing; and they knew how to deal with troublemakers like him.  Nail them up.  Make them suffer.  Make them die.  Make sure everyone could see them suffer and die.  They’d done it many times before.  They’d do it many times again.  They had no qualms about doing it to Jesus.  Nail him up.  Make him suffer.  Make him die.  End of problem.  The Romans executed the one we call Lord and Savior as a threat to public order and to Roman power.  About that there is no doubt. 

The Romans killed Jesus, and Jesus’ followers have been trying to make sense out of his early, unnatural, brutal, unjust death ever since.  They have tried to find meaning in his death ever since.  It has to have meaning after all.  If it doesn’t have meaning then we’re wrong about him.  If his death doesn’t have great meaning he was nothing but a fool and a failure.  God’s Messiah wasn’t supposed to be executed as a political criminal.  If anything, people, thought, he should have executed Pilate, not the other way around.  Jesus’ death has to have meaning for him to have meaning, and we Christians have found many different meanings in Jesus’ death.  Theologians give those different meanings fancy names.  Ransom theory.  Classical atonement theory.  Theology of the cross.  We’ve got lots of fancy names for different ways we have understood the meaning of Jesus’ death.

We’ve got lots of fancy names for different theories, but the Evangelist we call Mark expresses the meaning of Jesus’ death more powerfully, more evocatively, more beautifully than any theologian ever has or ever will.  He gives us the meaning of Jesus’ death in two sentences that paint a simple image. Mark writes:  “Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.”  The curtain of the temple was torn in two.  That image said everything there is to say about Jesus’ death to Mark’s audience.  It probably doesn’t say it to us, but it can.  It doesn’t say it to us because we aren’t first century Jews who knew the temple in Jerusalem and all of its symbols.  The temple means nothing to us.  We don’t know its symbols.  Specifically, we don’t know about its curtain, the one that was torn in two the moment Jesus died.  So we miss Mark’s meaning.  Tonight I want to help us recover it.

There was indeed a curtain in the temple.  In the very heart of the temple there was the most sacred place in all of Judaism.  It was an area called the Holy of Holies.  In that space sat a box called the Ark of the Covenant.  Originally the Ark supposedly held the tablets Moses received from God on Mt. Sinai with the Ten Commandments chiseled into them, but over time Judaism came to see that Ark of the Covenant as the very dwelling place of God.  In their scripture the Hebrews called the temple the house of the Lord, and they meant that quite literally.  God lived in the temple, they believed, in the Holy of Holies, in the Ark of the Covenant.

The Holy of Holies was so sacred that almost no one could enter it.  Only the high priest could go in, and he did it only once a year.  No one else could even look at the Ark of the Covenant, so holy was it as the home of God.  There’s even a story in 1 Kings about a man being struck dead for having touched the Ark.  So the Ark was veiled from everyone’s sight by a curtain.  The curtain kept everyone except the high priest separate from the Ark of the Covenant, from the dwelling place of God.  The curtain kept nearly everyone separate from God.  People couldn’t get too close to God.  They couldn’t be in the immediate presence of God, and the curtain of the temple maintained the separation of the people from God.

And Mark says that at the very moment of Jesus’ death the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.  The curtain that separated the people from God was torn in two.  The thing that separated the people from God was destroyed the moment Jesus died.  That, my friends, is the meaning of Jesus’ death.  Jesus’ death destroys that which separates us from God.  Jesus’ death destroyed the curtain in the temple, and Jesus’ death destroys everything that separates us from God.  Jesus’ death destroys sin.  Jesus death destroys alienation.  Jesus’ death destroys death.  After Jesus’ death nothing separates us, nothing can separate us, from God.  Whatever you think separates you from God is torn in two from top to bottom by the death of Jesus Christ our Lord.

It makes no sense of course.  How can the brutal, unjust death of an innocent man destroy everything that separates us from God?  Well, if Jesus’ death were only the brutal, unjust death of an innocent man it wouldn’t.  Innocent men and women die brutal, unjust deaths all the time in this world.  But you see, Jesus’ death is different from those deaths.  Jesus’ death is different because Jesus is different.  Jesus’ death wasn’t just the brutal, unjust death of an innocent man.  Jesus’ death was nothing less than the brutal, unjust death of God.  Jesus was fully human of course; but he is Emmanuel, God With Us.  He is the Word of God become flesh.  He was truly human, but he is also true God from true God.  In him God enters fully into human life.  In him God lives a human life, and in him God dies a human death.  In him God enters fully and completely into human life and into human death.  In him God shows us that human life is not separate from God.  In him God shows us that nothing in human life, not joy, not sorrow, not righteousness, not sin, is separate from God.  In Jesus God shows us that human death is not separate from God.  God doesn’t flee, God doesn’t reject the worst we humans can do.  In Jesus God enters into the worst we humans can do and shows us that not even the worst that we humans can do separates us from God.

In the death of Jesus the curtain of the temple is torn in two from top to bottom.  In Jesus’ death we see, in Jesus’ death we know that truly nothing in all creation can or does separate us from the love of God.  Nothing separates us.  We don’t need a high priest to go behind the curtain.  There is no curtain.  It’s gone.  God destroyed it in Jesus Christ.

Do you feel alienated from God?  Does God feel absent from your life?  We all feel that way at times.  I knew I feel that way at times.  So let me suggest something:  The next time you feel alone, the next time you feel isolated, the next time you feel alienated from God, the next time you feel unworthy of God’s love, remember Mark’s great image.  “Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.  And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.”  Our sense of living separate from God is of our own making, and it is false.  The curtain is torn in two.  It is torn in two by a horrible fact, the brutal execution of God Incarnate.  It is torn in two by a horrible fact, but it is torn in two.  Really.  Truly.  Eternally.  The curtain is gone.  Thanks be to God.  Amen.