Kyle's Church Blog

The following is an adaption of my sermon preached on October 13, 2013.   The live version had pictures of fish and videos of squirrels, so forgive me if this feels bland.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Luke 17:11-19

Now on his way to Jerusalem, Jesus traveled along the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he was going into a village, ten men who had leprosy met him. They stood at a distance and called out in a loud voice, “Jesus, Master, have pity on us!”

When he saw them, he said, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were cleansed.

One of them, when he saw he was healed, came back, praising God in a loud voice. He threw himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him—and he was a Samaritan.

Jesus asked, “Were not all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?  Has no one returned to give praise to God except this foreigner?”  Then he said to him, “Rise and go; your faith has made you well.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

There is an app out there called Instagram.  Basically, it’s like Facebook, but just for pictures and short videos.  You take a picture, put a fun filter on it, and share it with your followers.

By following someone on Intsagram, you can usually get a good picture of what’s going on in their lives.  And since most of us have cameras in our pockets, we are able to document much of our lives. simply take a picture of whatever’s in front of us at the moment.   There are highs, there are lows, life hums along normally.

But there are moments in our lives where something deeper is going on.  Where whatever is in front is more than just what’s in front of us.  Moments that are screaming out at us to pay attention.  Like, really pay attention.

In my world right now, it’s my kids.  But it isn’t always.

Sometimes it’s nature.   Sometimes it’s silence.  Sometimes it’s weddings.  Sometimes it’s conversations.  Sometimes it’s singing.  Sometimes it’s art.  Sometimes it’s a garden.   Sometimes it’s a book.  Sometimes it’s bonfires.  Sometimes it’s sports.  Sometimes it’s a canoe ride.

Rob Bell writes it as this:  Sometimes they catch you off guard;  sometimes they sneak up on you from behind;  sometimes you find yourself slowing down and becoming gripped with a certain stillness, like your heart is slamming on the brakes while it whispers in your ear:  This matters.  This is significant.  Slow down.  Pay attention.

These moments point past themselves to a larger reference point, to something or somewhere or sometime or someone beyond the experience itself.

These moments are almost transcendent.

And when we’re there, when we have those moments, what do we do?  Well, we take out our iPhones and take a picture of it and tag all our friends.

Okay, besides that.

Where do these places lead us?

I hope that these moments that transcend reality lead us to a place of wonder.  A place of awe.  And a place of thankfulness.

The lepers in today’s story.  10 of them called out to Jesus, and they went to the priest and were healed.  That was kind of a moment, wasn’t it?  That was probably worth a photo on Instagram.

And then we read that 9 of them were unappreciative jerks, and only one went to the source of his new reality with the words:  Thank you.

After he says thank you, Jesus words are quite phenomenal .

“Rise and go;  Your faith has made you whole.”

Some translations say well.  Others say whole.

Regardless, the man received his first blessing.  The healing.  The moment.  The photo on Instrgram.

But he also received a second blessing.  Him saying thank you leads to wholeness.

These transcendent moments we experience are phenomenal.  And when we are able to say thank you, that too, is phenomenal.

Gratitude draws us out of ourselves into something bigger and grander that we could imagine.  It pulls us out of our selfish world into a place where we want to create more of these moments and share them with the world.  It’s not only about us or our families or the people who see our pictures.  It’s about God’s world and out place in it.

For example.

In my house, we have two little children.  Zach is 7 months,  and Arianna is almost 3.  I’ll be lying to say if you that raising them is easy.  Zach is a cute kid who wake up at night a lot.  We’re tired. He was up at 5:15 this morning, ready to go.  For Arianna, well, she’s great when we come to church, but for us, watch out.  Terrible twos.  Nnnoooo! Sometimes, trying to get her to do anything is impossible.  Supper time!  No.  I’m not hungry!  And then she does flips on the couch.  It’s time to go to church.  I want my green flip flops!  You don’t own green flip flops.  Yes I do!  Okay.  We’re late.  Let’s go.  Get in your carseat.  No.  I want to do it.  And then she climbs in, gets all dirty from the side of the car, and then insists on buckling herself up to.  Normal 2 year old stuff, right?  I hope… Plus all of this with no sleep.  How some of you had 4 or 5 or 7 kids is beyond me.

I’d be lying to you if I said that it’s not exhausting.  Many of us have been here before.  I call it survival mode.  Phil Campbell-Enns calls it  “the Fog”.  It’s hard.

But then… There are moments like these.

I took this picture of the kids in June.

Thank you.

The moment is great.  But the gratitude points us beyond the dirty diapers and sleepless nights.  It’s points us to wonder and awe and wholeness.

Thank you.

Take a moment, and try to think of a transcendent moment in your life.  Where time stopped. Where your soul was saying:  Pay attention.  Remember this.   I’ll give you some time.

Do you have that moment?  Take a moment and say thanks.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

But, I think the story of Jesus healing 10 men with leprosy has more to it than saying thanks for blessings.

So, as you may or may not know, I turned 30 a couple of weeks ago.

I knew this milestone has been coming for a while.   But not just by looking in a calendar.  Or a mirror.

I am now probably the second slowest players on my ultimate Frisbee team.  Maybe this is because I don’t exercise as much as I used to, or maybe it’s because we always recruit 19 year olds to be our new players, but either way, I am slower.  Not to mention how sore I am the next day when I lay-out for discs, which also isn’t as often as it used to be.

I also know that I am no longer in my early twenties because at youth retreats, I need to pace myself.  I used to be able to keep up with those teenagers.  My very first youth retreat as a pastor, I went to bed at 5 in the morning with the kids.  Now, I need to take a nap so I can make it to 11.

But maybe one of the biggest signs of me being 30 is that all of a sudden I have become remarkably more reflective of my life.   I am remarkably more self-aware than I was even 5 years ago.   I’m not quite sure why.  Some of it could be because the latest brain science shows that our brains stop developing around age 25, so I’ve had a good 5 years where my brain isn’t changing all the time.  Some of it could be because I’ve been working with Mel for 3 years, and that guy is fairly reflective and thoughtful and maybe he’s just rubbing off on me.

But either way, turning 30 has brought on some fascinating thought processes.

And one of them is regret.

Regret is more or less a new feeling for me.  I know that sounds funny, and it’s not as if I didn’t apologize for any mistakes I made before I was 30.  But I have now lived long enough to have made some decisions that I regret.

Many of my regrets are about hurting people.  That have hurt myself. That have left relationships more damaged than they were before.

They could be regrets for saying something stupid.  That’s a lot of what my regrets are.  Several years ago, my Aunt, my Grandpa’s sister, whom some of you may know, was in the hospital.  I went to visit her one day, and she said one thing that stuck out to me.  She said:  “Kyle, when you and I get to heaven, we’re going to have to answer for a lot of the stupid things that we said while here on Earth.  You’re Grandpa?  Not so much.  He’ll just get a free pass.”   We have this wonderful ability to say hurtful things, and it’s often to the people whom we love the most.

Some of our regrets could be quite practical.  We may regret the decisions we made about our jobs.  Our marriages.  Our kids.  Our finances.  Our spirituality.  Our emotions.  Or whether or not we should have clicked send on that email.

We’ve all made decisions or done things that we regret.

I often wonder about the 9 lepers who didn’t go back to Jesus to say Thanks.  Now technically, they didn’t do anything wrong.  Jesus didn’t tell them to come back and say thanks.

We don’t have to send thank you cards out after weddings.  It’s the polite thing to do, but it’s not a law.   The gifts were given as a gift, free of strings.  We expect them, but the love we have for the couple shouldn’t be dependent on thank you cards.

But I wonder… did the 9 come to a realization later on in life that they missed out.  That they should have gone to thank Jesus.  Maybe it was when they got home and their partners asked, Did you thank Jesus for healing?.   Oops.

Maybe it was years later, when people were starting to understand that Jesus was God’s son, and this new movement of Jesus followers was starting.  Yeah… I love this Jesus guy.  He healed me!  I called out to him before he even rose from the dead! Did you thank him?  Ummm… No.

Did they regret not returning to Jesus in gratitude?

A couple of years ago, my friend Aaron Epp decided that he was going to pray 5 times a day.   He tells the following story, full of regret.  But that regret leads him somewhere beautiful.

I’m kneeling in my living room with my head bowed and touching the ground, tears streaming down my face, telling God that I’m sorry. It’s the first day—and first prayer—of my month-long prayer experiment, and so far, things aren’t going so well.

I’m 28 years old and I grew up in the Mennonite church. I attended Sunday school and youth group, and I was baptized in Grade 12. During my first and second years of university, where I took English literature as well as biblical and theological studies, I preached the occasional sermon at my church.

But the best word to describe my faith life over the past four years is stagnant. My church attendance has been sporadic, and I haven’t regularly practised any spiritual disciplines. I’ve always considered myself to be a Christian, and I’ve always tried to be a good person, but I have not been growing very much in my faith.

Last year, the word “integrity” haunted me. If I say I’m a Christian and yet I’m not working on my relationship with Jesus Christ, am I living with integrity? In an effort to grow in my faith, and inspired by the Muslim faith tradition, I decided I would dedicate myself to praying five times a day throughout all of January.

I cried during that first prayer on that first day because I felt ashamed of myself. I repeated “I’m sorry” over and over. For some reason, I thought that God was upset with me, like he might be asking, “Why haven’t you spent more time with me over the last few years?” If you asked me to picture him at that moment, I’d describe a man standing over me with his arms crossed, a disapproving look on his face.

The lead pastor at the church I attend put me at ease a few days into my experiment when I met with him to discuss some things. I told him about the experiment, and he said, “God is always thrilled when we want to spend more time with him. It brings joy to God’s heart.”

Suddenly, the image of God that I had from that first prayer changed, and I was reminded of the parable of the Prodigal Son. I pictured God with his arms outstretched, wanting to embrace me, happy to have me back.

Did you see it?  The movement from regret to gratitude?

The prodigal son is full of regret.

The son said to his father, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.  I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”

The father’s response?

“My son who was dead is alive again.   He was lost and now is found.”  So they began to celebrate.”

If those 9 lepers felt regret about not thanking Jesus and went and found him saying:  “Sorry Man.  You healed us.  We were jerks.  Forgive us.”  I’m sure that Jesus would give them a hug and say:  Rise and Go.  Your faith has made you whole.

Take a moment, and try to think of a moment in your life that you regret.  I’ll give you some time.

Do you have that moment?  If you’re like me, there’s probably lots of them.  Take a moment and share your feelings with God.

And when you’re done, imagine getting a hug.  Rise and go:  Your faith has made you whole.

The following was part of my sermon preached last Sunday.  The theme was “Our roles in the workplace as Jesus followers.”

________________________________________________________________

The protestant church in Canada is in numerical decline.  This is not a secret.  Similar numbers have been said about Mennonite Church Canada.  We are getting older, having less kids, and people are walking through church doors less and less.

James Penner from the Evangelical Fellowship of Canada wrote a report on young adults and how they are staying away from the church like it’s a disease. They are staying away because they see the church as judgmental, hypocritical, exclusive, and unable to admit failure.  He told a bunch of us younger pastors:  If it’s a linear line, the protestant church in Canada will cease to exist in your lifetime.  Your buildings will be empty.  But good thing it’s not linear.  But there will be a time in your life where the majority of people in Canada will be able to put themselves into one of two categories:  they will either identify themselves as atheists, or as mystics.

Mel (the other pastor at Grace) and I were talking this week, about how those of us who identify ourselves as Christians interact in the world.  Do we shout really loud?  Do we have public prayer meetings?  Do wear Jesus t-shirts?  Do we put Bible verses on neon signs?  Do we wear crosses?  Will we be allowed to wear crosses?  It’s all changing, really, really fast.

But the one thing that Mel said that stuck out to me was:  Eventually, when almost nobody claims to be a follower of Jesus, those of us who still do will have to act in a way where people say: “There’s something different about that person.  Something unique.  Something peculiar.” 

_______________________________________________________________________________

From the book: Small Things With Great Love by Margo Starbuck

Biggest loser wins. That’s the whole premise of the popular weight-loss reality show featuring women and men who are hundreds of pounds over-weight. Whoever loses the most, wins. Every week, as someone is voted off of the weight-loss ranch, a compassionate host must confirm, “You are not the biggest loser ” Dejected, the not-loser packs up his or her belongings and heads home.

If the scene feels weirdly familiar, it’s because it’s a story that’s been told before. In Matthew 25, Jesus describes a divine host who gathers all the contestants and divides them up into two teams. Up until then, they’d all been living and dining and working out together in one big group. The host forms a red team on his right and a blue team on his left. And although the show’s producer knows how the cut was made, the participants aren’t yet privy to the behind-the-scenes priorities.

Then the host turns to the red team and says, “You win! You’re the biggest losers! You lost your life, for me. You saw me hungry and shared your healthy snacks. When I was thirsty, you offered me your water bottle. When I was brand-new here, you welcomed me. When the airline lost my luggage, you shared your clothes. When I was sick, stuck in my room, you visited me. Even when I landed in jail, you visited.”

The red team then looks at the host, feeling confused “Um, did all that stuff even happen? We don’t really know you that well—probably because you’re the celebrity and we’re just regular people dressed in red T-shirts. We actually don’t remember doing any of that stuff.”

“What you didn’t realize,” the host explains patiently, “is that my kid brother, Marquez, who suffered a brain injury when we were kids, is on the food service crew. So whatever you did for those guys, you did for me.”

Slowly, the red team catches on. Thinking back, they recognize that they sort of had done all that the host had mentioned. That very morning, in fact, when local cops had mistakenly picked up his brother, they’d gone to bail him out at the police station.

Then, the host turns to the blue team. “You’re finished, gang I was famished while you feasted. I was thirsty while you drank your pricey flavored vitamin waters. I was in need and you ignored me.”

Because a lot of the folks wearing blue had been sucking up to the show’s host all along, they were particularly confused.

“Um,” they asked, “when did we see you have any of those needs and not help you?”

The host explained, “Whatever you didn’t do for the folks who cleaned the rooms where you’ve been sleeping, the ones washing your dishes, the ones working in wardrobe—not to mention the undocumented ones living in trailers along the route where you jog who’d love to have any of those jobs—you didn’t do for me. I’m sorry to tell you, blue team, you are not the biggest losers.”

In the weird kingdom reversal, those who gave their lives away kept them, and those who clung to their own lives lost them. The blue team, disappointed, packed up their belongings and headed off dejectedly to eternal damnation. The red team, now sharing the stage with the gracious host, started jumping up and down, waving their new friends—the camera operators and paper pushers and the wait staff and the cleaning crew—onto the stage to share in the shower of confetti.

Once you’ve grieved the disappointing ending for the blue team, you’re left with the gospel-driven men and women on the red team who are daily choosing to lose their own lives for the sake of the ones Jesus loves.

 In this kingdom reversal, whether a relationship elevates one’s own status or meets one’s own needs becomes less important than the ways it confirms the inherent worth of another and satisfies his or her needs (bold mine). Giving one’s life away in relationship with those in need—according to Jesus—is the way to gain it. Whoever loses the most wins.

That said, we’re not talking about huge losses here. We’re talking about grabbing two sub sandwiches from the grocery store and sharing one with someone you just met who is really hungry. It might be offering some cold lemonade to the recent immigrant who’s been mowing your lawn all morning. Inviting a stranger in might be as manageable as opening your dinner table once a quarter to foreign students attending a local university. Clothing the naked might just mean you quietly slip the athletic director at your kids’ school—or your school!—some extra cash for the players who can’t afford to pay for pricey uniforms. Visiting those in need could mean that you have coffee at the nursing home with an elderly woman from your church and then give her a ride to visit her son, who is doing time in prison for white-collar crime.

The following is a sermon preached on July 21, 2013 based on Luke 10:38-42.  I haven’t spent much energy editing it from my original manuscript, so please forgive any typos.

__________________________________

So, Ash and I have two kids.  Arianna is turning 3 in November, and Zach is almost 5 months.  As you may know, life with little kids at home can be a bit chaotic, at times. 

On Wednesday, Arianna was picking her nose at the dinner table, and after repeatedly telling her to stop, I pulled her hand away.  Her reaction was to pull her arm back to her nose at a very high speed, and in the process knocked over her chocolate milk, spilling it everywhere.

“Oh man, my chocolate milk!”  she exclaimed, fighting back tears.  And then she looked at me and said, “Daddy, clean it up.”

This was all happening while Ash was changing Zach’s diaper, who apparently has a rash because a certain parent didn’t dry him well enough after a bath or two.  I mean, who knew you had to pull apart all those baby fat creases and dry in there?

So needless to say, our house is usually a healthy dose of complete chaos.  There are usually toys and spit rags everywhere, Arianna likes to use the broom on the windows, Sophie the giraffe is constantly missing, and that’s not to mention the times Arianna feels the need to assert her independence by going to the bathroom all by herself.

So, one day, I was alone with the kids, doing my awesome daddy thing.  Ash came home to the usual amount of chaos caused by the kids, but in addition, there may or may not have been a kitchen full of dirty dishes, a dishwasher full of clean dishes (that could have been put away hours ago), garbage cans filled with diapers that may have needed taken out, the daily newspaper strewn over the table that could have been put into the recycling, and a bunch of clothes in a pile in our room that probably been put into the laundry. 

Ash came home, saw the complete chaos, and started cleaning up.  I was really videos with the kids, having a good time, laughing it up, and after a while Ash exclaimed:  “Don’t you care that I have to clean this all up myself!  Help me!”

To which I replied, “Ashley, Ashley.  You are worried about many things, but few things are needed – or indeed, only one.  I’ve chosen what’s better, and don’t take this away from me.”

And then I spent the rest of the week sleeping on the couch.

At first reading, this story of Martha and Mary is ridiculous.  Like, really, anybody who has lived with roommates knows that the crux of the relationships depends entirely upon washing the dishes.  You just have to pull your weight.  One time, my brother was living in a townhouse with some other guys while they were studying, and one guy didn’t do the dishes.  So the other 3 got so upset, that they put all the dirty pots in his bed.  The roommates response to this not so passive aggressive move was to simply put the dirty pots back on the counter, unwashed.  Needless to say, that didn’t go over so well.

So what’s with Jesus here, taking the side of the lazy roommate? 

The key word here is “distracted.”  The Greek word, if you care, is periespato, which has the connotation of being pulled or dragged in different directions.

I think, that while we all understand how important doing the dishes is, we also understand what it feels like to be pulled in too many directions. 

Or, to quote Bilbo Baggins from Lord of the Rings, as he was telling Gandalf how he was feeling… “I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”

 Part of it is that our jobs demand so much of us.  Part of it is these silly smart phones we have that mean we’re always connected to someone, somewhere.  Part of it is keeping up with Jones’.  Part of it is that we don’t want to be missing out on anything.  Part of it is that we don’t want to deprive our kids of anything or any experience, so we enlist them in as many sports and music lessons and camps as we can.  Part of it is that we are richer than we have ever been in history, and that extra money means more toys and bigger homes and more cars and more vacation options.  Part of it is that we rarely take time to stop and rest.  Even I mow my lawn on Sundays…

Regardless of why, I think Jesus telling Martha that she is like butter scraped over too much bread resonates with most of us. 

So… what do we do?

Jesus doesn’t actually say.  He says that a few things are needed, or indeed only one, and that Mary has chosen it, but what these things are, or thing is, is left up to the reader.

Well, I’m going to suggest one thing, which may not be that far off…

I think Jesus is telling Martha to be present in the moment. That her eyes be open to God in all things.  That she be attentive to the Spirit.  That she be aware.  

I think that’s what Mary was doing here.  She was present in the moment, giving her guest her full attention. 

Being present in the moment.  Being aware of all things.  We’re not very good at that.  I’m terrible at it.  But we all know people who make us feel like we’re the most important person in the world.  When we are with them, we are WITH them, and we know we have their full attention. 

Being truly present to each other is one of the best gifts that we can give each other. 

In my own experience, I have found 3 things to be quite useful in my attempt to be present in the moment.

The first is having a two year old child.  That’ll make you present.  During my one week of parental leave, we were camping at Clear Lake, and I took out my phone to check the Bomber score. 

“Daddy! Put your phone away!”  she screamed.  Okay.  I have even heard of one teenager, while on vacation with their family, throwing their mom’s smart phone in the lake.

But, if you don’t have children to scream at you or to throw your iPhone into the lake, there are other options.

Find a time to pray.  It sounds generic and so preachy, doesn’t it.  But I am convinced that something beautiful happens when we do.  When we start to pay attention to what’s going on inside of us, we start to change the world.  Because how we live on the outside is simply a symptom for how we are on the inside.  There are many ways to pray, and there really isn’t one right way.  But I know that when I do make an effort to pray, then beautiful things happen.

For Lent this year, I tried every morning to wake up early and pray.  It was tough, as I hate mornings, and I was often interrupted by kids, but I did it.  And I kept a little journal of it, which you can read on my blog.

On day 24, I wrote this:

Day 24 –  Centering prayer got interrupted by Arianna making space for me in bed for a family “bed in”. What’s the point in centering prayer increasing my awareness if I miss out the beautiful things around me?  So I stopped praying and jumped into bed with my family.

I am finding that during my Common Prayer “pray for others“, my list is getting longer and longer. There is a lot of brokenness in this world. I’ve also told a lot more people this lent that I am praying for them.  I love praying. It centers me, saves me, and makes me more loving. I love praying. I could not have said this 24 days ago.

I officiated at a funeral today. I am aware of the gift he was.  I am more aware of a lot things. The world is on fire… I must walk humbly and be aware of God around me.

I’m not going to pretend that I’m good at praying.  I am way too wired and high strung for it to come easy, and often sitting and praying are the last thing I want to do.  And sometimes it is the last thing I do.  I know that right now I can’t say that I am centered and more aware.  But I know what it was like when I am present in the moment because of prayer.  And it’s beautiful.

And finally, and here’s an easy one… You can join slow club.

Mark Yaconelli is one of my favourite authors, and he tells the story about his 2 kids, age 6 and 4.  It was his responsibility to get his kids out the door every morning to school on time, and, like most parents, there was always the:  Let’s go!  Put on your shoes!  Where’s your backpack?!  You have to go pee?!? Argh.

And then, when they’d get out the door, his 4 year old would walk like this… <slow>  Mmmm… Look at that crack in the sidewalk.  Come on! Come on!  We gotta go!  We’re going to be late!  Oh… look at the bug. 

One day, at the dinner table, he looked at this Dad and said:  Daddy, I started a club at school today.

“Oh really?  What kind of club”

“It’s called Slow Club.  I’m the president.”

“Slow club?  How do you join?”

“You have to follow two rules.  Number one:  You can’t run.  Number two:  You can’t hurry.”

“And has anybody joined your club?”

“No.”

And so, every time anybody came over for dinner, they were asked if they wanted to join slow club.  And nobody did.

So one dad, this kid asked his Dad:  Do you want a one day pass to join the slow club? 

He himmed and he hawed.  Sure.

And that day, they saw jack rabbits.  They saw the clouds.  They saw the flowers.  They saw the sun set.  And it was beautiful.

Life wasn’t hectic.  They didn’t feel like butter spread over too much bread.  Sure they didn’t get much done, but it didn’t matter, because they were fully present, in the moment. 

They were present to each other.  They were aware of everything going on around them.  They were present to God. 

And so, you’re homework this week, is to find a way to be present in the moment.

Turn off your phones.  Find time to pray.  Slow down. 

And if you need help doing this, as most of us do, a first great step is to take your bulletin and carve out 15-30 minutes of one day this week and go for a Sabbath walk.  I got it from a book (Sabbath:  Find Rest, Renewal and Delight in our Busy Lives) written by a guy (Wayne Muller) who runs a retreat centre for burned out pastors.  Apparently there’s lots of us out there.  And he writes that the Sabbath Walk is one the favourite disciplines of burned out pastors.

The Sabbath Walk is a walk without any purpose, no need for insight or revelation.  Simply let your soul catch up with you.

For thirty minutes walk slowly and silently – preferably outside in nature, but it can also be done indoors – without trying to get anywhere.  It is more of an amble, a stroll.  Let your senses guide your walk.  If you are drawn to a leaf, a stone, a colour, a chink in the concrete, a shape in the floor, the fragrance of the grass, simply stop, and linger, and allow the moment to be, to smell or touch or thoroughly observe whatever is available for you, to hear what it says, to see what it looks like, to feel what it has to say or teach.  Do not hurry.  There is no place to go.  Take all the time you need to hear its secrets.  Then when it is time, when the rhythm of being there gives way to the rhythm of moving along, when it is time to be again, simply move on.  Follow your own timing and curiosity.  When you are called to stop, stop and investigate.  When you are called to begin again, move on. 

That is all.  

The Good Samaritan is probably one of the best known parables of Jesus.

Here are some stories that, I hope, add to the question of how we show mercy to our neighbours.

________________________________________________________________________

The parable of the Good Samaritan involves asking hard questions.

—–

There was once a village along a river.  The people there were good and kind, and life was good. 

One day, a villager noticed someone floating down the river.  He quickly dove into the river, swimming out to rescue the person from drowning.  He dragged the person onto the bank, saving a life.

The next day, the same villager noticed two people floating down the river.  He called for help.  Another villager came running.  Together, they saved both people from the river.  The next there, there were four people caught in the river, and the next day, eight!

The good and kind villagers organized themselves to save as many of the people as possible.  They built a watch tower, to better see people rushing by in the river.  They trained their strongest villagers to swim through the swift waters.  Soon, they had watchers and rescue teams all day and night.  And yet, each day more and more people came down the river.

The good and kind villagers rescued many people, but there were just too many coming down the river.  Not every person was saved, though the villagers felt they were doing good work to save as many as they could each day.  For many weeks, life continued this way. 

Until, finally, one villager asked the question:  Where are these people coming from anyway? Who’s chucking them into the river?

(Note – I did not create the above story, but can’t find an original author).

—–

I was at an ecumenical gathering of Christians recently, and an offering was taken up for the local food bank, soup kitchen and homeless shelter.  Which is a good thing.  Someone got up to say a prayer for the donation.  In it, we thanked God for belonging to a generous community, and we asked God to bless the work of these organizations, and we prayed that their work would prosper.

After the prayer, me, the cynical pastor, leaned over to my neighbour, and said:  None of these organizations want to prosper.  They all wish they didn’t exist.  Our prayer should be that God would close their doors because nobody needed them.