Like Cool Water on a Summer’s Day
July 8, 2007
2 Kings 5:1-14; Psalm 1
You can find Paradise … in at least 25 American states. That little bit of trivia, courtesy of Google, struck me as an appropriate subject for quick research several years ago upon singing – for probably the 500th time – the chorus to this John Prine song:
“Daddy, won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County,
Down by the Green River, where paradise lay.
I’m sorry, my son, but you’re too late in asking.
Mr. Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away.”
I wondered if there was, or had been, an actual town named Paradise, in Kentucky. Turns out that there once was just such a town but it was removed, in 1967, by the TVA to make room for a coal-burning power plant along the Green River.
Some years later, driving past a sign pointing out Paradise, Pennsylvania, I wondered what it took to move settlers to name a place “Paradise.” Did people walk over a hillside or out of a forest or through a gap in the mountains and ask, like in Field of Dreams, “is this heaven?” What is it, I wonder, that we think of as “paradise”?
Let me turn that around as an open question to you this morning: what do think of as “paradise”?
“Paradise,” “heaven,” and the like, no matter how we consider them, are tied up with notions of “salvation” no matter how we consider that; and all of that is related, some how, to its flip-side notion of “hell.” One of the finest sermons I’ve ever heard was delivered by my friend and colleague, John Lentz, on the Sunday following September 11, 2001. He called it, “Living Hell,” and in it he reflected on the multiple hells we create here on earth.
In the same way, there exists the possibility of living into something of paradise here and now, as well. As Paul put it, “we are working out our own salvation day by day in fear and trembling.”
And yet, we are so much better at creating our own hells. Just look at our story from 2 Kings. Salvation – healing and wholeness – is just a dip in the river away, and yet the commander of the king’s army is so tied up in his own ideas about what salvation involves that he misses what stands right in front of him.
Elisha, the prophet, says simply, “take what is as near to you and as common as water; wash in it and be made whole.” Salvation is not a million miles away; paradise is not 600 virgins in an afterlife of bliss. Wholeness, healing, communion with God is right in front of us. As to what comes after this life, I am happy to leave that to a God who is good all the time and in the time beyond time itself.
But what of this time? This time of which we have so little and yet so often treat so carelessly as to make of it a living hell?
The question that presses in upon us is not so much, what is paradise, as it is, why don’t we live into it here and now while we have the opportunity?
Jesus told his disciples that the kingdom of God was at hand, it was within them, within their reach if they would but reach.
But so much stands between us and our own reach. Like Naaman, we may imagine that true communion with God, true healing and wholeness, must be so complex as to be way beyond our limited reach. I just read a biography of Robert Oppenheimer, and I’ll readily admit that I don’t understand much at all of the science behind his thinking – and sometimes salvation, paradise, wholeness, healing, shalom – all of which I take to be intimately related – seem to me as complex as quantum physics. And I confess, there’s a part of me that loves the complexities.
At such times, like Naaman, I look for more and deeper complexities, and am frustrated at my own inability to comprehend. And yet, when I turn to scripture to deepen my understanding of the complexities of the universe I am regularly confounded – not by the complexities but rather by the simplicity of it all.
As you probably recall, I spent the early part of last week out at Meadowkirk, the Presbytery’s beautiful new camp and conference center. Bud, Martin, Hannah and I were lucky enough to be part of the very first summer camp group in Meadowkirk history. I was theologian-in-residence for the family camp session, and as I wandered parts of the more than 300 acres of woods, meadows and streams of the site it felt like God was trying to remind me of something quite simple:
“The kingdom of God is among you,” a voice whispered in the wind.
“You are not far from the kingdom of God,” came a word from the wood.
“The kingdom of God has come near,” sounded a voice like a child’s laughter.
“The kingdom of God has come to you,” said a voice in song.
Now, of course, those are all words of Jesus straight from the gospels. Jesus came preaching good news, and the good news is this: what God desires for us all is like cool water on a summer’s day, and it is no more difficult to gain than that.
For sure, there are times in each of our lives when we experience the desert; when we are parched and there seems no water to be found. When our hearts are broken and our minds numbed by the pain of grief, the struggles of disease, the ache of depression, the despair of solitude – at such times we long for shalom as the deer pants for water.
At such times, the comfort of community is so important, and it is to us, the church, to be that community.
But much of the time I find myself more like Naaman. My need is chronic more than acute. My heart is not broken by any particular grief, but is broken open by the human condition of alienation from that heart that beats for love at the center of all that is; broken open by separation from community; broken open by my own faults and failings; aching for reparation. Yes, I want salvation, but I want it on my terms.
And yet it is offered as a gift as simple to accept as wading into the water.
What keeps us from stepping into that water?
For me, I know, it is fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of losing control, fear that my agenda may not be God’s agenda, fear that if I truly give myself completely to serving the gospel call of justice, mercy, and praise that I might look foolish in the eyes of the world; fear that the simplicity of it all may not measure up to the complexities expected in the academy; fear that the material rewards will not measure up to the market’s expectations of success; fear that it entails powerlessness in a culture that worships power. And, at a more basic level, despite deep theological convictions to the contrary, a fear that I might just not be good enough.
But what is it that the Bible teaches over and over and over again: “perfect love casts out all fear.”
We are loved. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. It is as simple as that. The kingdom – paradise, shalom, beloved community, healing, wholeness, communion with God and with one another – however you wish to imagine it – it is right here in our very midst. We are invited to trust that fundamental truth; and to live every moment as if there was no other truth in the world than that.
To live as those who are loved; to love as those so living: that is paradise.
If you are thirsty, take a drink. It is like cool water on a hot summer’s day.
You need do nothing; simply drink, be satisfied, be gratified. Give thanks, and then join your voice in song: let all things now living, a song of thanksgiving, to God our creator triumphantly raise! Amen.
2 Kings 5:1-14; Psalm 1
You can find Paradise … in at least 25 American states. That little bit of trivia, courtesy of Google, struck me as an appropriate subject for quick research several years ago upon singing – for probably the 500th time – the chorus to this John Prine song:
“Daddy, won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County,
Down by the Green River, where paradise lay.
I’m sorry, my son, but you’re too late in asking.
Mr. Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away.”
I wondered if there was, or had been, an actual town named Paradise, in Kentucky. Turns out that there once was just such a town but it was removed, in 1967, by the TVA to make room for a coal-burning power plant along the Green River.
Some years later, driving past a sign pointing out Paradise, Pennsylvania, I wondered what it took to move settlers to name a place “Paradise.” Did people walk over a hillside or out of a forest or through a gap in the mountains and ask, like in Field of Dreams, “is this heaven?” What is it, I wonder, that we think of as “paradise”?
Let me turn that around as an open question to you this morning: what do think of as “paradise”?
“Paradise,” “heaven,” and the like, no matter how we consider them, are tied up with notions of “salvation” no matter how we consider that; and all of that is related, some how, to its flip-side notion of “hell.” One of the finest sermons I’ve ever heard was delivered by my friend and colleague, John Lentz, on the Sunday following September 11, 2001. He called it, “Living Hell,” and in it he reflected on the multiple hells we create here on earth.
In the same way, there exists the possibility of living into something of paradise here and now, as well. As Paul put it, “we are working out our own salvation day by day in fear and trembling.”
And yet, we are so much better at creating our own hells. Just look at our story from 2 Kings. Salvation – healing and wholeness – is just a dip in the river away, and yet the commander of the king’s army is so tied up in his own ideas about what salvation involves that he misses what stands right in front of him.
Elisha, the prophet, says simply, “take what is as near to you and as common as water; wash in it and be made whole.” Salvation is not a million miles away; paradise is not 600 virgins in an afterlife of bliss. Wholeness, healing, communion with God is right in front of us. As to what comes after this life, I am happy to leave that to a God who is good all the time and in the time beyond time itself.
But what of this time? This time of which we have so little and yet so often treat so carelessly as to make of it a living hell?
The question that presses in upon us is not so much, what is paradise, as it is, why don’t we live into it here and now while we have the opportunity?
Jesus told his disciples that the kingdom of God was at hand, it was within them, within their reach if they would but reach.
But so much stands between us and our own reach. Like Naaman, we may imagine that true communion with God, true healing and wholeness, must be so complex as to be way beyond our limited reach. I just read a biography of Robert Oppenheimer, and I’ll readily admit that I don’t understand much at all of the science behind his thinking – and sometimes salvation, paradise, wholeness, healing, shalom – all of which I take to be intimately related – seem to me as complex as quantum physics. And I confess, there’s a part of me that loves the complexities.
At such times, like Naaman, I look for more and deeper complexities, and am frustrated at my own inability to comprehend. And yet, when I turn to scripture to deepen my understanding of the complexities of the universe I am regularly confounded – not by the complexities but rather by the simplicity of it all.
As you probably recall, I spent the early part of last week out at Meadowkirk, the Presbytery’s beautiful new camp and conference center. Bud, Martin, Hannah and I were lucky enough to be part of the very first summer camp group in Meadowkirk history. I was theologian-in-residence for the family camp session, and as I wandered parts of the more than 300 acres of woods, meadows and streams of the site it felt like God was trying to remind me of something quite simple:
“The kingdom of God is among you,” a voice whispered in the wind.
“You are not far from the kingdom of God,” came a word from the wood.
“The kingdom of God has come near,” sounded a voice like a child’s laughter.
“The kingdom of God has come to you,” said a voice in song.
Now, of course, those are all words of Jesus straight from the gospels. Jesus came preaching good news, and the good news is this: what God desires for us all is like cool water on a summer’s day, and it is no more difficult to gain than that.
For sure, there are times in each of our lives when we experience the desert; when we are parched and there seems no water to be found. When our hearts are broken and our minds numbed by the pain of grief, the struggles of disease, the ache of depression, the despair of solitude – at such times we long for shalom as the deer pants for water.
At such times, the comfort of community is so important, and it is to us, the church, to be that community.
But much of the time I find myself more like Naaman. My need is chronic more than acute. My heart is not broken by any particular grief, but is broken open by the human condition of alienation from that heart that beats for love at the center of all that is; broken open by separation from community; broken open by my own faults and failings; aching for reparation. Yes, I want salvation, but I want it on my terms.
And yet it is offered as a gift as simple to accept as wading into the water.
What keeps us from stepping into that water?
For me, I know, it is fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of losing control, fear that my agenda may not be God’s agenda, fear that if I truly give myself completely to serving the gospel call of justice, mercy, and praise that I might look foolish in the eyes of the world; fear that the simplicity of it all may not measure up to the complexities expected in the academy; fear that the material rewards will not measure up to the market’s expectations of success; fear that it entails powerlessness in a culture that worships power. And, at a more basic level, despite deep theological convictions to the contrary, a fear that I might just not be good enough.
But what is it that the Bible teaches over and over and over again: “perfect love casts out all fear.”
We are loved. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. It is as simple as that. The kingdom – paradise, shalom, beloved community, healing, wholeness, communion with God and with one another – however you wish to imagine it – it is right here in our very midst. We are invited to trust that fundamental truth; and to live every moment as if there was no other truth in the world than that.
To live as those who are loved; to love as those so living: that is paradise.
If you are thirsty, take a drink. It is like cool water on a hot summer’s day.
You need do nothing; simply drink, be satisfied, be gratified. Give thanks, and then join your voice in song: let all things now living, a song of thanksgiving, to God our creator triumphantly raise! Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
9:01 AM
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