Wilderness Grace

 

March 10, 2024 @ Trinity Bixby
Rev. Lucus Levy Keppel
Psalm 107, Ephesians 2:1-10

I’ve been thinking a lot about the wilderness lately. Just this week, for instance, the child of one of my friends from Seminary has started their trek along the Appalachian trail. Morgan has been posting about the trip, about what they’re taking and what they’re shipping along the way for resupply.[1] They’ve got 2200 miles of trail to travel, and will experience so many challenges along the way. Now, Morgan isn’t alone out there – in fact, after the trail reopened in 2021, around 3000 people have hiked from Georgia to Maine within twelve months of their starting date. Still, I hope that you will join me in praying over the next several months for Morgan’s safety and endurance on their thru-hike.

Packing for such an adventure is a challenge – how do you carry all that you need, while still being light enough to hike for tens of miles, day after day? Along the trail, especially within the first 100 miles, are places where hikers leave gear, tools, and even food that they realized they didn’t need. Like our blessing box, the things are left in protected boxes for others to use. In this way, the hikers become “trail angels” for each other, offering things you may have forgotten, or find works better for you than for someone else.

This is a wilderness grace – sharing what we have for those who may need it, and taking what is shared when we need it most. In experiencing these moments of grace, we naturally begin to think of the greater grace shown by God. Psalm 107 reminds us that even those who follow God’s trail can get lost on the way:

Some of the redeemed had wandered into the desolate wilderness, and they couldn’t find their way to a city or town. They were hungry and thirsty, their lives were slipping away. So they cried out to the Lord, and God delivered them from their desperate circumstances. God led them straight to human habitation. (Psalm 107:4-7)

When we recognize that God leads us to each other – to help each other out – we can celebrate with joy. That’s what this pink Sunday, in the middle of Lent is all about –celebrating that we’re not alone on this Lenten journey! God has led us to each other, led us back from our aimless wandering, and back to the trail of love, mercy, and grace. I wonder how God is calling you, right now, to the trail made just for you?

But even if we’re back on the right trail, we may have a pack that’s too heavy. After all, there’s always a trade off, between weight (or volume) and utility. Sure, it may sound like you want to curl up with a good book at the end of a day of hiking, but carrying a library of hardbacks with you probably isn’t worth the extra weight and space. Things like that are a luxury on trail – and maybe, if you take a day to stay in a hostel or a cabin along the way, you’ll find a book to be just the pick me up you need. But it gets more complicated when you’re packing gear that’s not as obviously extraneous. What you pack in your bag reflects your needs – but also your fears. You need a shelter – but do you pack the deluxe tent, a camping hammock, or just a simple tarp? Or maybe your rain jacket could work? To lift you off the hard ground, maybe a quarter inch of foam, rolled up is enough for you. Or maybe you need an insulated, inflatable mattress. Choosing what you need is an endless series of decisions and trade-offs.

I mentioned that you might “pack your fears” – this is an expression that hikers use to mean adding extra gear, “just in case.” Sure, you have a down quilt – but what if it’s still too cold? Just in case, you better pack a camping blanket. Or, if one method of water filtration is good, then surely three is better, just in case the first two break. What if you encounter a bear? Better pack a set of bells, bear spray, and bear cannister. As you add more and more to your pack, it gets heavier and heavier, fuller and fuller, and you slow to a crawl along the trail.

In life, sometimes we metaphorically pack our fears. We might look at how we treat others. As a teenager, maybe you were afraid of not being cool enough. So, you learned to just lean on things and not say much. And it became a quirk. “Hey, it’s Jordan Catalano. I just like how he leans against stuff. He leans great.”[2] Other times, it may not have been safe to be yourself, for any number of reasons. And so, you may have learned to deflect conversation, to bottle up or pack away what you felt. As the world has changed, some of those strategies that became quirks or became habits – well, it may be time for an emotional pack review. I wonder, what do you need to keep? What might you be able to do without? How can you be more of who you are inside, who God has called you to be?

In his letter to the Ephesians, Paul talks about the aftermath of just this sort of spiritual/emotional pack review:

You used to wander around like the people of this world. You followed the rule of a destructive spiritual power… All of you used to do whatever felt good and whatever you thought you wanted, so that you were children headed for punishment just like everyone else. (Ephesians 2:2-3 selected)

Whatever vices we’ve packed, the problem comes when we don’t consider the way our actions affect each other. We are not meant to wander in the desolate wilderness, but to wander together, as part of God’s family. Loving each other means being able to be authentically ourselves with each other. Being able to call out something harmful, or to be able to say, “Hey, I see God working in this way through you!” And that’s what Paul does next, too: he writes, “God is rich in mercy. He brought us to life with Christ while we were dead as a result of those things we did wrong. He did this because of the great love that he has for us. You are saved by God’s grace!” (Eph. 2:4-5)

“You are saved by God’s grace.” Or, to put it another way, no matter how heavy, how unwieldy our backpacks become, God helps us pare it down to what we need. Everything you’re struggling with, God understands, and helps to carry the weight. That’s why, as Jesus says, “My yoke is easy, my burden is light.” We’re not called to go alone – but to know that we are yoked together, following in the footsteps of Jesus, and with our packs lifted by God’s good grace.

Sometimes, though, we can become too zealous in removing things from our packs. I recently have been experimenting with hiking in a great kilt, or feileadh mòr in Gaelic.[3] This is a wonderful multi-functional garment – it’s essentially a five-yard long wool blanket that is pleated and hung over a belt. While hiking, you can pull the ends over your shoulders for warmth, or even secure it like a hoodie for rain protection. Since it’s made of wool, it keeps 80% of its warmth even when its wet, and the natural oils in the wool act like a water-resistant coating on modern clothing.[4] All of that is wonderful – and so, I got a little full of hubris, and decided to hike with only a tarp, hammock, and my kilt for warmth for an overnight at Robbers Cave state park. I figured it’s been warm enough lately, so I don’t really need to worry about it getting too cold at night. Surely the warm wool of the great kilt would be enough?

Turns out, in my efforts to push back against “packing my fears,” I went too far the other way. Though I love hammock camping, I’d forgotten that you need to protect against heat loss in two directions – above and below. The kilt was great at keeping me warm as an overblanket, or as an underquilt – but not both at once. Compounding the problem, the temps fell to the low forties over night, when I was expecting mid-fifties at worst. Fortunately, on my way out of the house before leaving for the hike, I had remembered that I had been given a very small, very lightweight emergency mylar blanket as a gift for Christmas. I grabbed it, as a “just in case” – and it fulfilled its purpose, keeping me warm enough to not get hypothermia and actually sleep for a short while. So, thank you Faith, for your gift was the grace I needed to make it out of the wilderness.

I learned only after this misadventure that the Gaelic for the Great Kilt - feileadh mòr – derives from two or three sources. One is a Latin root – velum – meaning curtain or veil – later, a sheet, as in a sheet of paper or the sail of a ship. The other roots are Proto-Celtic, which meant generosity, modesty, and/or a festival vigil. A “modesty sheet” – a “blanket of wakefulness” – or a “celebration of generosity.” Somehow, all three roots seemed appropriate.

As we reflect on the journey of wilderness grace, we see that it encompasses our challenges and fears along the way. Like thru-hikers on the trails of life, we pack our metaphorical backpacks with both essentials and excess baggage. But the good news is that God is our ultimate trail angel.

Just as hikers leave supplies for each other along the trail, God offers us the grace we need for our journey. The psalmist reminds us that even in our wandering and desperate circumstances, God leads us to human habitation, to each other. Ephesians tells us that we are saved by God’s grace, and no matter how heavy our burdens, God helps us pare down to what we truly need. However, there’s a delicate balance in this journey. We shouldn’t become so zealous in removing things from our packs that we overlook the essentials. As I learned on a chilly night at Robbers Cave, sometimes we need unexpected gifts – like the emergency blanket – to keep us warm and safe.

So, my friends, as we celebrate our shared journey through Lent, and our shared journey through life, let us embrace the wilderness grace of sharing and receiving. Let us be grateful for the trail angels God places in our lives, those who offer the essentials we need when we least expect it. And may we, in turn, be trail angels for one another, sharing God’s grace generously. Amen.

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[1] Morgan’s story is used with their permission.

[2] Referencing ABC’s My So-Called Life.

[3] Pronounced “FAY-lee MORE.”

[4] Thanks to Tom from Fandabi Dozi for the overview of the Great Kilt’s utility.

Cross in a Circle

 

February 25, 2024 @ Trinity Bixby

Rev. Lucus Levy Keppel

Mark 8:31-38, Romans 8:5-18

Sitting in a circle like we are today, we see things a bit differently than in our comfortable rows. The change, even after a few weeks, still feels new and different – perhaps subtly wrong, even – and we find ourselves looking both at the symbols of our faith, that are sitting on the table in the middle – AND at the people sitting across from us. Our attention may wander, as we see movement in many places, hear sounds that we’re not used to – but a phrase may pull us back into connection with the worship service.

Maybe it’s something you’ve heard in church a hundred times, but it sparked your interest today. Maybe it’s a window you’ve never seen before, or really looked at deeply. Is this wrong? We’re certainly taught to pay attention to one thing at a time, especially in worship settings. If you ever lose your path, there’s a map in your hands – the bulletin. Where are we? Oh yes, in the sermon time. Good, that’s comforting.

It's normal and good for us to see things in new ways from time to time, and it’s also normal and good for us to want to return to the familiar ways we’ve known before. Sometimes, we can, and sometimes we can’t. That’s certainly a part of living life, of facing new changes and recognizing that the path we’re on leads us past them, or back through them, sometimes multiple times.

Jesus’ path led him through times of difficulty, of suffering, at many points. From ditching his folks to go to the temple at age 12, to fasting in the wilderness, to the exhaustion of long travel, and of course, the strong suffering of what we call Holy Week – Jesus was no stranger to suffering. Yet, when he tells his disciples of some of what he is soon to face, Peter reprimands him, telling him such bad things could never happen, that God would protect him.

Jesus’ response is stronger than anything we’ve heard him say before: “Get away from me, Adversary! You are seeing things from a human point of view, not from God’s.” Jesus then calls the whole crowd together with the disciples to hear his next words. This is sure sign that what he’s about to say is meaningful, and will need to be remembered.

Jesus then says, “If any of you wants to be my follower, you must give up your own way, take up your cross, and follow me. If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake and for the sake of the Good News, you will save it.”

As powerful and straightforward as this is, it caused confusion with the crowds then, and confusion within us today, too. Part of the trouble, then and now, is the lack of context. Before Jesus suffering, death, and resurrection on the cross, the expression “take up your cross” probably sounded incredibly odd. And even today, we still are lacking the context of life after resurrection – what will it be like to see the world from God’s viewpoint instead of our own?

Let’s unpack this statement a bit, starting with the first line. “Deny yourself” is better translated as in the version of scripture we read this morning, “give up your own way.” Stop following yourself, and only yourself – like a puppy chasing its tail, and wearing itself out in one place.

Perhaps you’ve been on a car journey with a number of others – whether your family, a school trip, or something like that. When we’re excited, the volume can naturally rise, as each conversation group tries to speak louder than the last, until absolutely no one can hear themselves think over the din. Then, the roar from the driver cuts through – “Quiet down! I will turn this car around, if I have to!” Usually, that’s enough. Conversations settle down, but inevitably, they’ll bubble up again and again. No one person in any of the conversations has control over the full volume – it’s only collectively that the volume can be changed. And to do that, it takes everyone being on the same page about it – that the volume levels in the car are important, and matter, despite the individual excitement.

This presents a choice, then, that is echoed in many places in our lives – the choice between following our own desires, heedless of the ramifications for others – and the choice to put our own needs behind someone else’s – even many someone elses’ at once. When we “give up our own way,” we can look at the impact of our choices, noticing that little Thomas has been covering his ears for the last ten minutes, because the noise is just too loud. Then, we choose to keep our voice lower – to benefit everyone, and especially those who were suffering previously.

When we sit in the round like this, it becomes easier to pay attention to each other. To see someone shiver in the AC – and be able to offer them a blanket. Our own focus shifts from ourselves to the cross at the center of the circle – and to the people gathered together. In his letter to the Romans, Paul puts it this way, “The attitude that comes from selfishness is hostile to God… But you aren’t self-centered. Instead, you are in the Spirit… If Christ is in you, the Spirit is your life because of God’s righteousness.”

So, we are called to give up our own way – and then “take up our cross.” I wonder what this means. Does it mean that we must seek out suffering? Or even death? Or is suffering and death only Jesus’ cross, and our cross is different? I wonder what the crowds around Jesus would have understood this to mean. In Greek, the word that means cross is much older than the torture device used by the Romans. It means “stake” or “pole” – and was also used for fence posts, for tentpoles, and for wide beams that support roofs. From there, you can get a sense of how it might also be used for what we call a cross. Given that, it’s not clear to me what the crowds might have understood. Take up our fenceposts? Pick up your tent? Or, perhaps, bear your part of the weight of the house. I wonder, too, if there’s a bit of both-and in this. Take up your fences – we are not to be separated. Pick up your tent – this is a trip, and it seems to be one-way. When you take your cross, you lighten the load for everyone else.

Once again, the cross in the center of the circle reminds us that Jesus has born our burdens, and we can help share each others burdens, too. Every one of us who takes up our cross finds that it is, indeed, our part of the one Cross of Christ. The fear we’ve had, of taking up this burden, is eased when we find that it is shared not just with each other, but with the one who created the universe. Surely, together, we can proceed as Jesus leads us.

As Paul puts it, “All who are led by God’s Spirit are God’s children… You received a Spirit that shows you are adopted as God’s children… But if we are children, we are also heirs. We are God’s heirs, and fellow heirs with Christ – as we suffer with him, we will be glorified with him.”

So, we have eschewed our own way, taken up our part of the burden of the cross, and found our leadership in following Jesus. In focusing on the cross at the center of our circle, we naturally look to each other, too. We encourage each other to grow closer together – for as we get closer to the cross, we also get closer to each other. In the same way, as we get closer to each other, we also get closer to the cross – so long as we are not following our own way, away from the center.

My friends, during this Lenten season, let us support each other, recognizing that by sharing in each other’s burdens, we reduce the suffering for all of us. When we turn to follow Jesus, we turn to help each other. Our lives will all contain parts that are difficult, and parts that are easy, just as Jesus did. Together, we can follow Jesus, helping to distribute the weight of our difficulties and the joys of our differing perspectives around the circle.

May you hear the good news of resurrection when Christ calls you to follow. May the Spirit fill you with God’s grace and love, that you would have the strength to reach out to others when you are in need. May God’s presence with you always give you the will to help lift up the burdens of those around you. Amen.

Heavenly Starlight

 

January 7, 2023 @ Trinity Bixby
Rev. Lucus Levy Keppel
Isaiah 60:1-6, Matthew 2:1-12

Over a decade ago, I was living in Nome, Alaska, working for a Catholic radio station while I began the process of finding my first call – the first church I would serve as a pastor. I remember, early one morning, I heard back from a church that wanted to interview me – and how special it felt that things were moving forward. We scheduled a time to talk, and I got to thinking about how God’s call to ministry takes some odd twists and turns. After all, there I was on the Bering Sea, a half-continent away both from my home state of Michigan and from the church that wanted to interview me, in New Mexico. That evening, my four roommates and I got another exciting call – one we had been hoping for since we moved in! The Aurora Borealis, the northern lights – they were shining in the skies above the tundra! We all rushed to get our warm clothing on, hopped in the one car that we shared, and drove out of town to a remote hillside, where we plopped down on the tundra, and watched the skies above.

If you’ve seen pictures of the Aurora, you know that it’s usually shimmering with a green light. That’s how this began, too – a soft green ribbon, shimmering across the sky. Bands of color, waving in the celestial wind. But then – something unexpected. Some of the bands changed color, fading from green, and back into a bright pink! It was hard to look away, despite the cold and frozen ground, but it seemed like the whole world around us was lit up with green and pink light, each casting shadows in different directions. And every now and then, a white streak would light up the sky, more brightly than the northern lights, even if just for a few moments – these shooting stars were a coincident meteor swarm! Awestruck at the beauty of the heavens above, my roommates and I stayed put for over an hour and a half, mostly in silence. When the Aurora had dimmed a bit, and we were solidly cold, we stood up, and marveled again – for, while the cold of the permafrost had seeped into our bodies, we had transferred heat back into the ground below us. Without even trying, we had made “permafrost angels” shaped to our bodies – a melted spot that continued to look upwards even as we warmed up at home with cocoa and conversation.

I’ve often remembered those lights above – the beauty and majesty, even glory, of a sky illuminated not just by stars but by curtains of light and streaks of meteors. In the world before electric lighting, such an amazing display would have been more frequently seen – especially by peoples around the world who tried to interpret meaning from everything that takes place in the skies above.

The sky was considered God’s home by the ancient Hebrew people – God is referred to in several places in the Bible as El elyon – God-from-on-high. The lights of the stars and the moon and the sun are all referred to as reflections of God’s glory – and the prophets play with this concept frequently, referencing the light of God shining from people, just as it shines from the heavens. As Isaiah says, “Arise, shine, your light has come; the Lord’s glory has shone upon you. Though darkness covers the earth and gloom the nations, the Lord will shine upon you; God’s glory will appear over you…. Lift up your eyes, and look all around…. Then you will see and be radiant; your heart will tremble and open wide.”

Perhaps, then, it’s no wonder that Magi, who were ancient astronomers and advisors to kings in Persia, Parthia, and beyond, would take note of special signs in the skies. While there were no cameras at the manger, and we’ll never have a complete picture of the star of Bethlehem that the Magi followed westward, I can only begin to picture its beauty by remembering the aurora. Yet, most of our imaginings of the star of Bethlehem, that famous Christmas star, do so as a linked set of crosses, a horizontal one in the form of St. Andrew’s cross, and a vertical one with a very long tail, pointing downward. It’s rare to see any movement depicted in the star – yet, clearly the Magi followed something. I like to imagine it as akin to the aurora, pulsing and waving through the atmosphere above in pinks and greens and whites, beckoning all who see it to stop and look up at the marvel of God’s creation – and then down, seeing the Word made flesh, God choosing to become fully human. Perhaps this is only visible in hindsight, but the radiance of God shone from the heavens, and from Jesus, and from all who followed the Way that Jesus taught.

That light from God is not any less beautiful when we can’t see it. Indeed, we continue to shine with its invisible lovelight, that occasionally flares into the visible world. As my great-grandfather put it in a prayer-poem:

Stars that shine above, tell of God’s love.

For even when clouds hide, still they are there.

So we, dear Father, though shadows hide Thee,

Know Thou art keeping watch with tenderest care.

Beauty and love, visible and invisible – God is our constant companion, now and always. Along with the Hebrew people, along with the Magi, along with the early church, and along with our neighbors, we follow God’s light in our lives. The Magi found wisdom in their journey, and returned with word of the divine in the world. Yet, amid their search, shadows emerged – Herod’s deceit veiled by the guise of reverence, threatening the purity of the newborn’s light. This paradox, where shadows seem to cloak divine radiance, echoes our own reality – an imperfect world where darkness and light contend with each other. But pure light would blind us as surely as pure darkness – perhaps this is why God’s presence, though constant, is only occasionally visible.

Our souls resonate with the celestial dance of stars, the heavenly starlight, bearing witness to God’s unwavering presence in all places – the heavens above, on earth below, and within our hearts. The cosmic ballet reminds us that God’s light persists, guiding, comforting, and revealing. Even its shifting colors remind us that life is always in motion – reforming and reorganizing according to the will of God.

Our lives are woven with moments of unexpected beauty, unexpected turns, and unseen connections. It’s in these intricacies that God’s guiding hand manifests – a vibrant reminder that amidst life’s twists and turns, God’s light persists, illuminating our paths and inviting us to reflect the light in our daily encounters. In the busyness of our lives, it’s easy to overlook the divine choreography unfolding around us – a dance of grace, love, and unexpected joy.

As we navigate our early pilgrimage, let us remain attentive to the hues of God’s presence. The lights above are not limited to those who look up, as we reflect God’s light in our lives. So, let us heed the divine invitation – becoming bearers of God’s radiant revelation. Let us marvel in the majesty above, and leave “angels” of our presence behind us, from the warmth we share with the world. Let our lives echo the Magi, who sought wisdom, and were willing to listen when God sent them warnings – and also were able to marvel at God’s presence in the world.

May you follow the light of God wherever it leads you. May you be filled with the light of the Holy Spirit to shine from you on every path you take, whether it’s the one you expected, or not. May the light of Jesus shine from the face of all you encounter, that you can know that we are all children of the Light. Amen.