Shelter from the Storm
February 14, 2010 (Snow continues to play havoc with worship in the metro area, and we missed last Sunday.)
PSALM 148; MATTHEW 5:43-47; LUKE 12:54-56
OK. Let’s see now. Voodoo caused the Haiti earthquake. Gays caused Katrina. So who caused the great snowpocalypse?
Whenever the occasionally whiny children in our house ask me, “why is it still snowing?” I always respond, “science.”
Some folks blame the outcast, marginalized “other” for the trials and tribulations that have no readily apparent causality – at least no moral causality; I just blame science. And, since I am not a scientist I am off the hook for further explanation.
But I am a theologian and pastor, so I do feel some small obligation to respond when the question is posed looking for meaning rather than cause, and I feel like I am in fine company when I can simply quote Jesus and say, “the snow falls on the just and the unjust, the rich and the poor, the men and the women, the gay and the straight, Saints fans and Colts fans, the black and the white, the Americans and the Talibanis.”
Really, the storms have no meaning. In and of themselves, the storms, the earthquakes, the floods, the fires have no meaning. They are neither blessing nor curse, promise nor punishment. They simply are a part of life; one among many contingencies of the lives we have been thrust into. And they are inevitable.
The question, then, is not what meaning do the storms brings to our lives, but rather what meaning do our lives bring to the storms.
What does a storm occasion in your life?
Is it a time for fear?
It certainly can be. I recall my mom huddling with my brothers and sister during a particularly nasty thunderstorm when we were kids. Mom was reassuring us that we were perfectly safe and that storms were exciting and fun. And immediately lighting struck a tree in our front yard and brought the top half of it tumbling down into our driveway. So the meaning of the storm for me was, “well, mom’s not always right!”
Now I sometimes lie awake during storms fearful that one of our trees will come crashing through the roof and hurt my children. And when that fear subsides, I begin to dread the possibility of a flooded basement that will mean a whole lot of work; just as the past week’s storms have meant a whole lot of work for anyone who had to move the snow.
Of course, that same snow or flood can be an occasion for compassion. Our basement flooded a couple of years ago and Hans came over with his shop vac and helped me get rid of the water and carry out a lot of nasty wet junk. Lots of folks this week have pitched in to help clean neighbor’s walks or driveways, and Dar, Don, Cheryl and Martin helped keep the church as accessible as it has been.
Surely the outpouring of financial support for Haiti demonstrates that the storms of life can be occasions of incredible generosity, compassion and human connection.
As the church, we are the body of Christ in the world. Ours are the hands of Christ to offer healing in this world, to dig out after the storm, to repair and rebuild. Christ’s is the spirit that empowers us when the wind seems too strong, or the snow piles too deep.
Like most folks in the region, I’ve had some time – shut in this week – to ponder the snow. Watching it pile up, I recalled that Jesus often used the world all around him as a teaching tool. Mustard seeds. Fishing metaphors. Signs of storms. The dust of the road. All of these were objects that he employed to teach his followers about the way of life he called them to.
The mustard seed was like the kingdom of God. Fishing was an opportunity for authentic evangelism. Interpreting the signs of the times was like forecasting the weather. Dust was like opposition to be shaken off as one moved further down the road toward the kingdom of God.
It doesn’t snow a lot in Jerusalem, so Jesus didn’t use snow in his teaching.
One wonders what that might have looked like. Surely there could be lessons about nonviolence to be taught at the scene of a snowball fight. Perhaps the kingdom of God is like a snow flake … no, I really have no idea what that might mean.
I do know, however, that underneath that 25 inches of snow in our front yard last week there are dozens of bulbs resting quietly in the earth. We planted them in the rich soil last fall. In the fullness of time they will begin to shoot forth and blossom into the riot of colors that will transform the monochrome moonscape that we’ve been living in.
From a handful of tiny bulbs … from the smallest seed … something beautiful and wonderful will spring forth.
That is the way of faith. Remarkably enough, the storm that has caused such widespread inconvenience – and worse – has provided shelter for these tiny seeds, and nourishment. That, too, is the way of faith.
Faith does not promise the end of storms, but it does promise this:
• We are not alone in the storm, and
• Out of the storm comes the promise of new life.
Consider the words of the 23rd Psalm: though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … in the presence of my enemies.
Faith does not guarantee that there will be no valley, that there will be no opposition, that there will be no death. Nevertheless, God promises to be present through the valley, to provide sustenance in the face of draining opposition, to bring forth new life in the face of death.
The one who calms the storm is the one who offers shelter in its midst.
Likewise, the one who loves those we call enemies, is also the one who provides a table at which we gather in the hope and the trust that at table the barriers might fall and enemies be transformed to companions on the way.
Whatever the nature of storm winds blowing in your own life right now, take this moment. Settle into its quiet. Breathe in the peace of Christ. Experience this time and place of sanctuary, of shelter from the storm. Gather at the table of our Lord. Know the peace that passes our understanding. Amen.
PSALM 148; MATTHEW 5:43-47; LUKE 12:54-56
OK. Let’s see now. Voodoo caused the Haiti earthquake. Gays caused Katrina. So who caused the great snowpocalypse?
Whenever the occasionally whiny children in our house ask me, “why is it still snowing?” I always respond, “science.”
Some folks blame the outcast, marginalized “other” for the trials and tribulations that have no readily apparent causality – at least no moral causality; I just blame science. And, since I am not a scientist I am off the hook for further explanation.
But I am a theologian and pastor, so I do feel some small obligation to respond when the question is posed looking for meaning rather than cause, and I feel like I am in fine company when I can simply quote Jesus and say, “the snow falls on the just and the unjust, the rich and the poor, the men and the women, the gay and the straight, Saints fans and Colts fans, the black and the white, the Americans and the Talibanis.”
Really, the storms have no meaning. In and of themselves, the storms, the earthquakes, the floods, the fires have no meaning. They are neither blessing nor curse, promise nor punishment. They simply are a part of life; one among many contingencies of the lives we have been thrust into. And they are inevitable.
The question, then, is not what meaning do the storms brings to our lives, but rather what meaning do our lives bring to the storms.
What does a storm occasion in your life?
Is it a time for fear?
It certainly can be. I recall my mom huddling with my brothers and sister during a particularly nasty thunderstorm when we were kids. Mom was reassuring us that we were perfectly safe and that storms were exciting and fun. And immediately lighting struck a tree in our front yard and brought the top half of it tumbling down into our driveway. So the meaning of the storm for me was, “well, mom’s not always right!”
Now I sometimes lie awake during storms fearful that one of our trees will come crashing through the roof and hurt my children. And when that fear subsides, I begin to dread the possibility of a flooded basement that will mean a whole lot of work; just as the past week’s storms have meant a whole lot of work for anyone who had to move the snow.
Of course, that same snow or flood can be an occasion for compassion. Our basement flooded a couple of years ago and Hans came over with his shop vac and helped me get rid of the water and carry out a lot of nasty wet junk. Lots of folks this week have pitched in to help clean neighbor’s walks or driveways, and Dar, Don, Cheryl and Martin helped keep the church as accessible as it has been.
Surely the outpouring of financial support for Haiti demonstrates that the storms of life can be occasions of incredible generosity, compassion and human connection.
As the church, we are the body of Christ in the world. Ours are the hands of Christ to offer healing in this world, to dig out after the storm, to repair and rebuild. Christ’s is the spirit that empowers us when the wind seems too strong, or the snow piles too deep.
Like most folks in the region, I’ve had some time – shut in this week – to ponder the snow. Watching it pile up, I recalled that Jesus often used the world all around him as a teaching tool. Mustard seeds. Fishing metaphors. Signs of storms. The dust of the road. All of these were objects that he employed to teach his followers about the way of life he called them to.
The mustard seed was like the kingdom of God. Fishing was an opportunity for authentic evangelism. Interpreting the signs of the times was like forecasting the weather. Dust was like opposition to be shaken off as one moved further down the road toward the kingdom of God.
It doesn’t snow a lot in Jerusalem, so Jesus didn’t use snow in his teaching.
One wonders what that might have looked like. Surely there could be lessons about nonviolence to be taught at the scene of a snowball fight. Perhaps the kingdom of God is like a snow flake … no, I really have no idea what that might mean.
I do know, however, that underneath that 25 inches of snow in our front yard last week there are dozens of bulbs resting quietly in the earth. We planted them in the rich soil last fall. In the fullness of time they will begin to shoot forth and blossom into the riot of colors that will transform the monochrome moonscape that we’ve been living in.
From a handful of tiny bulbs … from the smallest seed … something beautiful and wonderful will spring forth.
That is the way of faith. Remarkably enough, the storm that has caused such widespread inconvenience – and worse – has provided shelter for these tiny seeds, and nourishment. That, too, is the way of faith.
Faith does not promise the end of storms, but it does promise this:
• We are not alone in the storm, and
• Out of the storm comes the promise of new life.
Consider the words of the 23rd Psalm: though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death … in the presence of my enemies.
Faith does not guarantee that there will be no valley, that there will be no opposition, that there will be no death. Nevertheless, God promises to be present through the valley, to provide sustenance in the face of draining opposition, to bring forth new life in the face of death.
The one who calms the storm is the one who offers shelter in its midst.
Likewise, the one who loves those we call enemies, is also the one who provides a table at which we gather in the hope and the trust that at table the barriers might fall and enemies be transformed to companions on the way.
Whatever the nature of storm winds blowing in your own life right now, take this moment. Settle into its quiet. Breathe in the peace of Christ. Experience this time and place of sanctuary, of shelter from the storm. Gather at the table of our Lord. Know the peace that passes our understanding. Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
2:57 PM
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