Kenosis--preached 9/25/2011

Philippians 2: 1 – 13

            The apostle Paul wrote a third of the books in our New Testament.  Most of those are letters to churches he founded during his missionary journeys to Turkey and Greece.  Our text today comes from one of his letters, one written to the Christian community in Philippi, a city in Greece. This congregation had supported him both in Philippi and on his missions elsewhere. They had held fast to Paul’s teachings, submitting to his leadership—even when later Christian missionaries came along modifying the gospel he had preached.  For these reasons Paul shared a particularly close relationship with the Philippian congregation.  In his letter, we hear tenderness towards them.  We also hear joy.  Paul’s letter is joyful even though he writes it under house arrest.

            Perhaps that joy bubbles up from the basic assertion of our faith:  God is with us and for us.  Tuesday night, the lectionary study group noted that in several of our translations, verses 6 – 11 are indented, set apart from the other print, formatted like poetry.  That’s because these verses are from a confession—sung during 1^st century church worship.  Verses 6 – 11 are often called “The Christ Hymn.”  Citing this ancient confession, singing this hymn, Paul reminds the Philippians what they believe and what they are to proclaim about Jesus Christ.  Through Christ, God is with us and for us.  But this confession proclaims God’s presence differently from how we have noted it over the last 3 Sundays.  In the exodus story, God is with and for the Israelites in majesty and power.  Parting the Red Sea, raining manna from heaven, and as we heard in our call to worship—providing water from desert rocks, God is with and for the Israelites through miraculous intervention.  Paul’s confession offers a contrast of God’s presence through power.  Paul’s confession proclaims God is with and for us in weakness—in the suffering servant—in Jesus the Christ. 

            Paul writes, Christ Jesus, “who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard

equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, . . .  he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross.”

            Christ, who was and is fully divine could have come to humanity as the head of a household, as a patriarch, as an emperor, as Caesar; but that isn’t God’s way. Instead, Christ who was and is fully divine came to humanity as one who washed his disciples’ feet.  Lowering himself, bending his knee to them, getting his clothes dirty and wet, he bathed his disciples’ feet.  Christ came as a servant leader. Christ, who was and is fully divine could have summoned angels to protect him from even “dashing his foot against a stone.”  Instead, he allowed himself to be betrayed and arrested and executed.  Christ came as an obedient servant, obedient to God, obedient even into death, obedient even into death on the cross. In ancient Rome, crucifixion was reserved for the lowest of the low in a society rooted in hierarchy.  Only slaves and traitors were crucified. Christ, the one who was and is fully divine, became the most humiliated.  In Paul’s confession, God is with us and for us in our humiliation.  God is with us and for us in our suffering.

            Paul’s letter is joyful, even though he writes it under house arrest.  Perhaps his joy bubbles up from Christ’s exaltation. Christ emptied himself for humanity.  He poured out himself for the people he ministered to in 1^st century Palestine.  Christ poured out himself for the 1^st century Philippians.  Christ poured out himself for us in the 21^st century.  Christ emptied himself, and God has exalted him—raising him from the dead.  God has exalted him—calling forth all creation—earth, sea, and sky, plants, animals and humans—to worship Christ, to proclaim Jesus Christ is Lord.

            Perhaps Paul’s joy bubbles up from the assertion that it is Jesus Christ who is Lord—It is not the head of a household, It is not a patriarch, It is not an emperor.  It is not Caesar—It is Jesus Christ who is Lord!  Paul’s letter is joyful even though he writes it under house arrest.  Perhaps his joy bubbles up from the knowledge that God is with him and for him in his suffering.

            “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,” Paul says to the Philippians and to us,  Emulate Christ.  Pour yourself out.  Empty yourself.  But what does that mean?  What does that look like? 

            Roy Mack Bible was born in a covered wagon on the banks of the Pedernales River on April 6, 1902.  The youngest child in a dirt poor, transient family, he was motherless by age 2.  When he was 8, he joined up with cowboys riding cattle to market—helping the cook on the trail.  At 16, he was cowboying—ranching and rodeoing and sending most of his money home to help his dad and his siblings and their families. 

            In his twenties, he left his job as ranch foreman, married and bought a house in town.  He and his wife, Mae, invited the previous homeowners, an elderly couple, to stay in the house and live with them.  These “old people” had no one else to care for them.  Roy and Mae’s children grew up with a succession of “old people” living in their home—adopted grandparents.  After the 1932 hurricane blew off the 2^nd story of his house, Roy built a “storm house” out of old railroad ties, a bunker for his family for the next hurricane.  But when a lonely old man wandered into town one day, Roy invited him to live there.

            During the Great Depression, Roy and Mae stuffed their nieces’ and nephews’ Christmas stockings with fruit and nuts and a toy.  50 years later, these nieces and nephews  would reminisce how “Uncle Roy and Aunt Mae always made sure we had Christmas.”  Trucking watermelons, chopping firewood, hauling dirt, collecting scrap metal and rubber, Roy provided for his family and for the old people who lived with them and for the teenager with no parents he had hired on.  A big, strong man, it was Roy the sheriff came to when he had to stop bar fights that got out of hand.  Always a prankster, Roy played jokes on friends, acquaintances and strangers. 

            Throughout his long and joyful life, Roy gave—food, money, shelter, advice, friendship, belly laughs.  Roy gave from his limited resources.  He poured himself out—creating space for people to live, creating space for people to laugh, creating space for long-lasting relationships.  Roy emptied himself and created space in his home, his heart and in his life for others.  Maybe that’s what emulating Christ looks like.

            In this letter, after singing the confessional hymn, Paul tells the Philippians—“work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure.”

            The Greek words for you and your here are plural.  This salvation that Paul talks about here is not individual destiny.  It is the quality of our corporate life, the quality of our relationships with each other.  The Greek word translated as work also means energy.  According to Paul, God is energizing us, to pour ourselves out, so that our community of faith enjoys the quality of fellowship God wants for us.  

            What might that look like?  Could it be actively listening to others as they share their fears and sorrows?  Could it be actively listening to others as they share their hopes and dreams?  Could it be emptying ourselves of our own needs for a short time, so that we can be fully present with someone else?

            God is energizing us to pour ourselves out.  What might that look like here, in this congregation?  Could it be recognizing when someone is passionate about a particular aspect of our church life—about worship or study, about fellowship, about mission or evangelism.  Could it be recognizing when someone has a gift or a skill that would enhance our church life or our mission?  Could it be that pouring ourselves out means inviting each other to share our passions?  Could it be that pouring ourselves out means empowering each other to use our gifts? Could it be that emptying ourselves means creating space for others to lead—creating space for others to serve? 

            Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.  Emulate Christ. Paul’s words call us to servant leadership—not to a hierarchical, privileged position of power but to work, using the energy God gives us, to serve one another and to serve with one another.  We who can claim God is with us and for us because it is the core of our faith are filled with God’s love.  We are filled with Christ’s grace.  And we are called to pour ourselves out—to empty ourselves for others.  The good news, friends, is that the love of God is super-abundant and the grace of Christ is bottomless.  Whenever we pour ourselves out, we are re-filled; we are renewed.  It’s a paradox, I know.  It doesn’t make sense.  But God’s ways often don’t make sense.  After all, Christ, the one who was and is fully divine chose to be fully human, not as a powerful Caesar, but as a servant leader.

            God is with us and for us.  This is the claim we Christians make.  We may not have experienced God’s presence through miraculous interventions—manna raining from heaven or seas parting before us.  But perhaps we have experienced God’s powerful and protecting presence in healing, in safe travel, in reconciled relationships. God is with us and for us.  This is the claim we Christians make. We—the privileged, the healthy, the well-to-do by global standards—we may not know humiliation, we may not know oppression, we may not know what being the lowest of the low is like, but perhaps we have experienced God’s presence—in our suffering—God’s peace when death claimed a loved one, God’s comfort when health failed. 

            God is with us and for us—because we are justified by Christ in his incarnation, his death, and his resurrection.  God is with us and for us—because we are claimed by God in the waters of our baptism.  God is with us and for us—because we are and empowered and renewed by the Holy Spirit. God is with us and for us.  So with confidence, let us pour ourselves out for others—creating space for growth, creating space for relationship, creating space for service—creating space for our continued journey together.

The Journey, Part 3: God's Provision

Exodus 16:  2 – 31; 35  (preached 9/18/2011)

            Kevin and I honeymooned in the mountains of Riudosa, NM in his Mamaw and Granddad’s cabin—where Kevin had vacationed each summer growing up. He shared years of memories and stories about being there with his grandparents, parents and his many cousins. We honeymooned there because it was free; because it was tradition—all of Mamaw and Granddad’s grandchildren had honeymooned there; and because it was cool in the summer.  On our first full day there, Kevin suggests we take a walk from the cabin down into town.  a short walk, he says.  I think—short walk—10 minutes?  So we set out late in the morning.  30 minutes later we arrive on the outskirts of town.  I am  hot and tired and hungry.  But we didn’t bring food or water or money, so there is no relief.  After a short rest, we head back—uphill this time—traveling more slowly.  Halfway Kevin offers to go get the car while I wait here beside the river.  It won’t take him long.  I can sit and rest here while he gets the car.  He wants me to stay here, alone?  He wants me to stay here—on the road, the scene of most of the bear-sighting stories I have heard.  I say to myself, What was I thinking when I married this guy?  Have I made a mistake?

            Have we made a mistake?  This is the question on the lips of the Israelites today. In “Egypt . . .  we sat around pots of meat and ate all the food we wanted, but, Moses, you have brought us out into this desert to starve to death." Why did we leave the life we knew? A life of slavery sounds better than the unknowns on this journey.  Have we made a mistake?  Actually, the Israelites aren’t just questioning—they’re complaining.  They are grumbling against Moses, against his leadership, perhaps against God.

            “Grumbling.” That was the word used by several people in our lectionary Bible study Tuesday night as a keyword for this scripture. Why did we leave the life we knew? Hungry, they remember in Egypt, they did have food to eat. Have we made a mistake? It is as if—symbolically—they are turning back toward Egypt—facing the life they knew—a life of slavery, a life of fear,  . . .   a life with which they had learned to cope.  But God doesn’t want them to cope—God wants them to live!  God doesn’t want them to be enslaved but to be free.  God doesn’t want them to be full of fear, but to be full of hope.  God doesn’t want them to drown in work—working day after day—but to enjoy rest.

God hears the people’s grumbling and responds.  "I am going to rain bread from heaven for you, and each day you shall go out and gather enough for that day.”  God hears and responds.

            God responds with food.  It is not what they expected—quail instead of beef; flaky, dewy, frosty stuff—manna instead of leavened bread.  It’s not what they expected, but it is what they need. It is God’s gift to them—this bread from heaven.  They do not have to work for it. They cannot earn it.  It is God’s gift to them.  This bread of trust and obedience is different from the Egyptian bread of affliction and coercion.  It is not what they expected.  But it is what they needed.

            God hears their grumbling and responds.  God responds—right there in the wilderness.  They are far from Egypt, on the other side of the Red Sea, not in a land with fertile fields skirting a large, life-giving river.  Instead they are in a barren land—a land—bereft of beauty and of life—or is it? As they let go of the past, as they turn their eyes, their faces, their bodies away from Egypt, away from the known—As they turn to the unknown, they see the glory of God.  God’s presence fills the wilderness, and this wilderness is no longer devoid of beauty or life.  It is a place of hope.  In this wilderness, they will be surrounded by God’s presence; they will be the nurtured by God’s provision. In this wilderness, they will be defined by God’s covenant; they will be formed by God’s love.  In this wilderness, they will grow.  

            Like the Israelites, we cry out in desperation; we grumble when life seems barren; we complain when we are dissatisfied. As God responded to the Israelites, so God responds to us.  God hears our cries, our grumbling, our complaints.  And God responds.  God responds with manna—giving us what we need—not we want, not what we expect, but what we need. 

            Ava has entered a wilderness time.  Two months ago this 20-something seminary student noticed a problem with her body.  Between the end of her pastoral internship

and the beginning of her senior seminary year, she scheduled surgery, and waited for the results.  Recently she wrote, “Is it strange or does it make perfect sense that during the hardest times in life it is most easy to find things for which to be grateful?”

Gratitude in the midst of desperation.  Ava faces the wilderness, and she sees God’s glory.  For God is giving her what she needs—faith that God is with her, assurance that God will not abandon her.

            What about us?  Traveling together on this new journey.  Like the Israelites we will experience obvious miracles.  And we will celebrate passing through our own parted Red Seas.  But we will also encounter wilderness on this journey.  We will encounter the unknown—where unexpected and hidden miracles await.

            As God responded to the Israelites, so God will respond to us.  God will give us manna—not what we want, not what we expect, but what we need.  God will provide for us.  It may not be what we want—growth reflected in numbers of people and numbers of dollars.  It may not be what we want, but it will be what we need—growth—reflected by a hunger for the Word of God, a hunger for Biblical and theological questioning and seeking together. It may not be what we want, but it will be what we need—growth—reflected by a hunger for God’s righteousness—that people who are hungry be fed, that people who are sick be tended, that people who are lonely be visited.  It may not be what we want, but it will be what we need—growth—reflected by a hunger to participate spiritually, physically, and financially in mission.  It may not be what we want—but it will be what we need—growth reflected in how we live our lives.

            The wilderness—a place of the unknown—a place of discomfort.  The wilderness—a place to grow in faith—trusting the God whose presence lights up the darkness, trusting the God whose provision feeds our souls. 

            Back in Ruidosa I thought Kevin wants me to stay here and get eaten by a bear?  What was I thinking when I married him?  Have I made a mistake?  No, over the long haul, I recognize my relationship with Kevin as manna provided by God.

            God was in it for the long haul with the Israelites.  For 40 years—for as long as they were in the wilderness, he provided them with manna.  God is in it for the long haul with us.  On our journey when we begin to grumble—and we will grumble—because we’re human, when we long for the familiar, when we begin to turn back towards our Egypt, God—who knows what we need—may guide us into the wilderness—leading us into the promising opportunities of the unknown.  In that wilderness, God will provide.  God will gift us with manna—the bread from heaven; manna—the bread that doesn’t look like bread, that doesn’t taste like bread; manna—the bread of trust, the bread of freedom; manna—the bread that satisfies.  On our journey, will we accept God’s manna letting it nourish us?  Will we accept God’s manna allowing it to empower us?

The Journey: Deliverance—What Part Will You Play?

 

Exodus 14: 5-6a; 9 – 13a; 19 – 31a          

            This part of the exodus story was one of my favorite Bible stories as a child.  The good Hebrew slaves escaping from their evil Egyptian masters.  Moses leading them out of Egypt, guided by God as the pillar of fire by night and the cloud by day.  The Hebrews coming upon the Red Sea.  Oh, no they can’t go forward.  They turn around and see the Egyptians hot on their heels.  Oh, no they can’t go back!  Moses raising his staff and the Red Sea parting—clearing a dry path for the Hebrews to cross on. 

             It was a favorite story when I taught Sunday School and Vacation Bible School.  The children enjoyed acting it out—getting to run away from the pursuing Egyptians.  In VBS we leaders rippled blue material on either side of the children as they, too, walked through the parted waters of the Red Sea.  My middle schoolers, loved to sing (and move to) “Pharaoh, Pharaoh”.

            As an adult this was a favorite story because I understood how it shaped the identity of the Jewish people.  From a people held in slavery—a people without hope—to a people formed through God’s dramatic, miraculous intervention!  A people called to remember, to celebrate ritually, and to teach their children how God delivered them into the promised land. A people called to worship the great I Am.  This very event is God’s introduction to the 10 commandments.  “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me.”  (Ex. 20: 2)

            As a seminarian, it was a favorite story because I realized it is seminal for Christians as well.  Through Christ’s death and resurrection, God has delivered us from slavery to sin and death.  God has delivered us into the promised abundant and eternal life with God.  And this is how I have most closely connected with this story. Through Christ’s grace, God has liberated us.  Out of gratitude to this freely given gift, we choose to serve God.            

            Yes, this text has been a favorite of mine over the years.  But when I read it in preparation for today’s sermon, I did not feel comfort as with an old friend.  Instead I felt dis-comfort, dis-ease.  Why? I was focusing on the words about the Egyptians—how God threw them into a panic and clogged their chariot wheels so that they were stuck when the walls of water came crashing down on them.  And I kept hearing the last verse of  “Pharaoh, Pharaoh”—a verse I did not sing earlier.

            Moses says,  <sing>

            Pharaoh’s army was a comin’ too.

            So what do you think that I did do?

            Well, I raised my rod and I cleared my throat.

            And all of Pharaoh’s army did the dead man’s float.

Why the dis-comfort and the dis-ease?   If I place myself in this text, I might be one of the Egyptians—doin’ the dead man’s float.

            If I place myself in the text <pause>  The cast of this story are God, the Hebrews and the Egyptians.  God, is the great I Am whose sovereignty and power fill the story in the miraculous parting of the Red Sea.  God is the great I Am who responds to the Hebrews’ cries, not because as his chosen ones, they can appropriate him to fight their battles for them.  God responds to the Hebrews’ cries because God opposes injustice.  God is the great I Am who responds to the Hebrews’ cries because God opposes those who choose to denigrate the image of God in found in each and every person.  God is the great I Am who responds to the Hebrews’ cries because Pharaoh was the epitome of oppression and had set himself up as a god. If I place myself in this text, I won’t be taking the part of God.

            I am not a fleeing Hebrew slave either. For I am an Anglo woman, living in a predominantly Anglo-culture, well-educated—even if I do use the word “y’all.”  At no time in my life have I wanted for food, clothing, shelter, or medical care. I have enjoyed not only the necessities, but also many of the luxuries of life.  In other words, I am not now nor have I ever been oppressed. I suspect that most of you have never been oppressed either. If I place myself in this text, I won’t be taking the part of the fleeing Hebrew slaves. 

            So what part does that leave for me in this story?  the Egyptians. I don’t want to end up under 10 tons of water.  So I sat with the text—I read and prayed; I discussed and reflected.  And I wondered—am I an Egyptian?  The Egyptians in this text enslave the Hebrews—dominating them by fear, withholding nourishment, forcing them to long hours of hard labor.  The Egyptians in this text don’t look at a Hebrew and see a person—they look at a Hebrew and see a commodity—placed before them solely to satisfy their needs, their wants, and their desires.

  Is this me?  Do I see “the other”—the one who is different from me, the one who has less than I have—as someone less than God’s beloved child? As a commodity?  No, this is not me.

            If I am not God, not Hebrew slave, not Egyptian, where do I fit in this text?  Is there a message for me here?  Is there good news for us in this story?  Good news beyond the connection with Christ’s death and resurrection?

            Where can I fit in this story?  While I am not oppressed, I can be one who helps those who are—those who are oppressed by life’s circumstances, oppressed by systems, oppressed by other people.  I can be one who opposes injustice.  I can be one who accompanies the fleeing Hebrew slave.

            Where can I fit in this story? Perhaps I can walk beside one who is oppressed by life’s worries.  I can listen to her concerns; I can reflect the feelings she expresses; I can share my time, my ear, my shoulder, my heart.

            Where can I fit in this story?  Perhaps I can donate the clothes I no longer need and some of my time to The Thrift Shop. 

I can sort on Tuesdays or Thursdays I can sell on Saturdays.  I can assist clients who need free clothes on weekdays.

            Where can I fit in this story?  Perhaps I can mentor children—reading to them and sharing my own joy of learning. 

            Where can I fit in this story?  Perhaps I can pray—lifting up those in need all over the world, naming the ones I know.

            Where can I fit in this story? Perhaps I can organize relief packages for those whose homes and lives are devastated by tornado, flood, hurricane, fire. 

            Where can I fit in this story?  Perhaps I can look the person who serves my meal in the eye, relating as one human to another,

treating him as the beloved child of God he is and not as a commodity—placed before me solely to satisfy my wants, my needs, my desires.

            Where can I fit in this story?  Perhaps I can offer hospitality—seeking out the stranger, the one who feels she does not belong.  I can welcome her.

            Where can I fit in this story?  Perhaps I can feed those who are hungry—bringing rice, dry beans, peanut butter, and canned fruit as part of my offering to God.  Once a month—Wednesday or Friday afternoons—I can offer my time to PACA food bank.  I can pack bags of groceries.  I can greet families when they arrive for their food.  I can offer my warm conversation as we carry groceries to their car.

            Where can I fit in this story? Perhaps I can advocate—deciding it is unconscionable for anyone to go hungry.  I can work to end hunger in Paola, in Miami County, in Kansas, in the United States, in the worId. 

            Where can I fit in this story?  I can respond lovingly to others just as God has responded to me.  Not just because I don’t want to do the dead man’s float.  But because I have experienced God’s overflowing love, because I have walked through showers of grace. 

            Who do I want to be in this continuing story, the journey God calls us on?  I want to be one who works with and for the great I Am who created all that there is and called it good. I want to be one who works with and for the Great I Am who, through Christ, delivered me from sin and permanent separation from him.  I want to be one who works with and for the Great I Am who makes me, who makes you, who makes us all a new creation in Christ.

            Where can you fit in this story?  Who do you want to be on our continuing journey?

preached 9/11/2011

First Sermon--2011-09-04

Sermon:  The Journey—Remembrance

Exodus 12: 1 – 14

             How many of you have a birthday?  Come on, you should all raise your hands.  For each of us there is a day on which our lungs drew their first full breath of air!  And most of us count our time from that day—saying things like, “We moved to Paola when I was 5;” or “I joined the Navy when I was 16;” or “We married when I was 23.”  All of us mark time in relation to the significant events in our lives.

            And we celebrate the anniversaries of these significant events—our births, the births of our children, our wedding anniversaries.  When I celebrated my birthday, my dad and mom would recount the events surrounding my birth—my Daddy promising my mother that this baby would be a girl, the C-section delivery—planned on my maternal grandmother’s birthday, my Papa seeing me for the first time and exclaiming, “Dorisy, I thought Mae and me broke the mold after you were born, but she is just like you.”  Recalling these memories informed who I am—an eagerly anticipated daughter, sharing a birthday with a beloved deceased grandmother, similar to my mother in many respects. 

            Our text today sets up a significant and formative event in the collective life of the Hebrew people. 

            So significant is this event that their calendar will start with it.   1 The Lord said to Moses . . . 2 This month shall . . .  be the first month of the year for you. . .

            So significant is this event that they will remember it, celebrating it for all time to come. 14 This day shall be a day of remembrance for you. You shall celebrate it . . . as a perpetual ordinance. 

            What is this significant event?  What is it that is about to happen?  It is the exodus, the great going out that is chronicled in this, the 2^nd book of our Christian Bible, the 2^nd book of the Jewish Torah. It is the exodus—the great going forth—that birthed this people’s religious identity.  This exodus provides the theological underpinnings of the Jewish faith on which our Christian faith is founded.  Liberation, formation, redemption. 

            Liberation: The Hebrew slaves’ freedom from bondage to the Egyptian Pharaoh.

            Formation:  The change from being a family clan—descendents of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—to becoming God’s treasured people—set apart to be a blessing to all peoples of the earth. 

            Redemption:  During their wilderness sojourn—chronicled later in this book—God offers a new covenant to the Hebrew people, a covenant sealed with the 10 commandments.  But, they break covenant with God before Moses even returns to them with this sacred law.  For, in Moses’ absence, they worship a golden calf instead of the great I am who has led them out of Egypt.  Redemption:  God restores the people to God even in the aftermath of their apostasy.

           The events in the book of Exodus are framed by the lens of God’s almighty, all-powerful, all-knowing presence. The physical liberation, the religious formation, and the spiritual redemption of the Hebrew peoples are due to God’s power, God’s design, and God’s deeply abiding love. 

            It is here—in this passage Richard just read —that the exodus, the great going forth is foreshadowed. Today’s text calls for remembrance and sets up the ritual through which the people will remember God’s presence on their journey. 

            The people are told to prepare a ceremonial meal.  Sacrificing an unblemished lamb, the Hebrew slaves are passed over by the angel of death.  They eat the lamb roasted—and I picture it on a spit, cooking over a campfire.  Campfire—camping—trekking—journey.  For me, the image of the lamb roasting on a spit over a campfire foreshadows a journey to come.  They eat bitter herbs to remind them of the hardship of slavery. They eat together—as a family or group of families—because it is the entire group of Hebrew slaves whom God is calling out of Egypt.  They eat dressed for travel—belt buckled, feet shod, staff in hand, standing up—ready to leave at a moment’s notice.  And this meal will be celebrated from this time forward.  It is a foreshadowing of all that will come to pass, it will be a re-enactment of what has happened . . . a remembrance celebration.

            From Old Testament times, the Jewish people have celebrated Passover. Christ was celebrating this very Passover when, supping with his disciples on the night of his betrayal, he took bread, blessed it, broke it, gave it to each of them saying “Take, eat, every time you do this, remember me.”

            As we eat the bread and drink from the cup, we remember Jesus, who New Testament writers called the paschal lamb, the sacrificed one whose blood protects us—not from an angel of death—but from the specter of permanent separation from God. 

            As we eat the bread and drink from the cup, the Holy Spirit moves in and among us—not just reminding us who Jesus is and what he has done for us, but in some mysterious way, transporting us spiritually to the throne of grace where we encounter the living Christ.

            We come to the table, sometimes confounded by the mystery that is this Holy Communion, and we find ourselves transformed—belt buckled, feet shod, staff in hand—prepared by the Holy Spirit to go forth.

            Like the Passover, our Lord’s Supper is a meal of remembering—remembering as in recalling events and persons and re-membering as in bringing us—members of Christ’s body—back together—re-membering as in restoring us with Christ and with one another.  It is a meal in which we are nourished for the journey to come—

the going out from our worship into the world where we live our lives—where we work & play, where we squabble & make up, where we serve ourselves & tend to the needs of others.  It is a meal in which we are nourished for discipleship.

            We, the congregation of 1^st Presbyterian Church, Paola, KS, are being called on an exodus.  We are called to go forth from this time and place.  Like the Hebrew slaves in our text today, we do not know exactly what awaits us.  But we do know this:  We, too, will experience liberation, formation, and redemption. 

            God is ready to liberate us—to liberate us from bitterness towards those who sought to tear this church apart. God is ready to liberate us—to liberate us from anxiety about the future of our church.  God is ready to liberate us—to liberate us from fear of failure—failure to respond to opportunities of service— God is ready to liberate us—to liberate us from all that binds us!  Are you ready to be liberated?  I am!   

            Just as he formed the mass of Hebrew slaves into a cohesive, faithful people, God will form us—form us for faithful discipleship, form us for closer relationships—with God and with each other, form us to be a blessing to our community.  Are you ready to be formed?  I am!

            Because we are human, we will make mistakes in this journey.  We will fail to do something God calls us to do or we will do something God does not want us to do. Intentionally or unintentionally, we will make mistakes along the way.  Thankfully, God has already redeemed us—through the grace of his son, Jesus the Christ.  Because God has already forgiven us, let us set out on this journey willing to forgive each other and willing to forgive ourselves when we mess up.  For God will restore us when we fail.  God will lift us up when we fall.  God will extend a steady hand when we stumble.  We will encounter redemption in our exodus.  Are you ready to be redeemed?  I am!

            God will lead us; God will provide for us.  So, let us mark time from this day—remembering back how God has used this church over the last 144 years to be a blessing to the community that has become Paola, KS.  Let us also remember forward—forward to the journey God now calls us on.  Nourished by Word and Sacrament, accompanying each other with energy and joy—belt buckled, feet shod, staff in hand—let us step out together—together in faith, with hope, and in love.   Amen.