This is the fast my soul requires, and it is, but I don't want to over-spiritualize this. 500-600 trucks per day are needed, but less than 400 per week are entering. The aid distribution is tightly controlled, leading to violence. One in five people face starvation, all while Israel uses weapons sold to them by the US to continue to bombard the strip.

Now, I’m not saying that Isaiah gets it right here. I’m not saying that we need to speed along some future potential destruction. I’m not saying that we need to go out to the street corners holding signs that tell the world, “The end is nigh.”

I am saying that when someone is trying to tell the world that it’s going to hell in a handbasket because it’s not taking care of the poor and vulnerable, God and a whole host of angels are up there in the cheap seats shouting, “Yeah, you tell ‘em!” And when that prophet gets discouraged and says, “Who am I to do this? I’m just as bad as everyone else,” God gives them a kick in the pants and says, “Get back out there. Someone’s got to say this.”  

This passage comes in a section of Mark I like to call, “Exasperated Jesus.” Seriously. First the disciples are arguing about who’s the greatest, then a rich man chases him around asking him what he has to do, then James and John want to “sit beside Jesus in glory,” and the whole while, Jesus cannot believe the stuff he’s dealing with. Jesus spends like three chapters walking around Judea, bouncing between Jerusalem and Jericho, like a mother with three kids under five. One says he’s hungry even though he’s got a snack catcher of Cheerios IN HIS HAND, another has just fallen and is wailing over the lightest of skinned knees, the other one has somehow inserted most of a toy car in their left nostril, and here’s Jesus, raising his eyes to the heavens, asking what could possibly happen next.

When we follow the path of this building up to the ceiling of the nave, up to this boat we’re all in together, we must deal with the knowledge that we are not alone. God is not away up there. God has declared that God is with us, each and every time we gather together here. God has declared that a church may meet here in this place, and in this place, no one stands alone.

Because while sacred means set apart, holy shares an origin with the word “whole.”

My keyring holds the weight of the places I’ve loved. It hangs, awkwardly, from the lock of a new and temporary home, swaying slightly with remembered motion, and as it swings, I see flashes of who I used to be.

If you look in the bulletin, you’ll see that our sermon this week is titled, “Abide.” This is one of those moments that happens to preachers sometimes, where the idea they had for the sermon on Tuesday when the bulletin was due doesn’t exactly line up with where the sermon wanted to go on Wednesday... or Thursday... or Friday... or 11:30 at night on Saturday. Sometimes sermons have a mind of their own. So I promise that we will talk about abiding during this sermon, but I don’t think I want to start there. What’s been on my heart this week is change. Change and volcanoes. 

Let me explain. 

Thankfulness has been a challenge for me all of my life. It may not surprise you to hear that I was a serious little kid, one of the old souls you sometimes find amongst children. I was thoughtful and responsible to a fault. So when I was given a small plastic coin as a child at a Thanksgiving service, with a smiley face and the words, “Rejoice always! Again, I say rejoice!” printed on it, I took it and put it in my pocket, and began a lifelong journey of trying to figure out how to follow this new rule I had learned.

One of my basic theological beliefs is that there is an undying love at the center of the universe. When you strip away everything else, all our rituals and practice, all our questions and doubts, our understanding of good and bad and what to do with that information, when nothing else is left, there will still be an unending, undying love that will not let you go.

My senior year of high school, circa 2007, I remember receiving a gift made of olive wood from the holy land. I remember turning it over, feeling the stirrings of longing, or loneliness, maybe, that feeling of wanting to go home to a place you’ve never been. But this was real. This wood was from a real place, a place I could maybe go one day. This was the place in the Bible, the place that all those little towns of Bethlehem in the US were named after. Israel. 

A woman and her beloved child are sent out into the desert with nothing but some bread and a skin of water, which means they were sent out into the wilderness to die. Even if we weren’t caught up in the extraordinary story of Sarah and Abraham, this is anything but an ordinary bible story. It’s not every day that we see paragons of our faith like this patriarch and matriarch choose to be so cruel. 

Living Resistance did a gospel work on my soul: it called me into a better way of being, where the yoke is easy and the burden is light, while, at the same time, renewing my commitment to justice. As a United Methodist, I have committed myself to resisting evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves, but it took reading this book for me to understand that resistance must be life-giving.