Another Sermon

I preached another sermon and thought it was worth putting up here. The video of the sermon itself isn't that exciting, but the video before the sermon is somewhat important - so video first, then sermon audio. Enjoy!

The Church of Starbucks

A friend from church sent this to me, and let me say, I think I've seen pretty much everything in this done in real life. Ah, Christian Culture, how you frustrate me!

The Parable of the Soils

A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.

So as you all know, I've not been at a steady job of late because, well, I can't seem to find one. I'm sure that some of the blame goes to the economy for the lack of new jobs, but I'm starting to wonder if in our season of need, God's been closing doors for a reason. But God is good, and He takes care fo us even when we can't; we've got a wonderful family, and to that end, my grandparents have "hired" us to garden for them. As they've gotten older, they've had a harder time taking care of my Grossmami's addiction to all things green and flowering - she's literally surrounded the house with one big garden, which, over time, has become somewhat an extension of the yard. So our job has been to turn it back into a viable garden again. And wouldn't you know it, as we've had time to talk, I've been learning a lot, things my seminary career never taught me. As Morgan Freeman says in Bruce Almighty, "people underestimate the value of manual labor." I am no exception.

What came to mind has been this parable in Matthew 13, where Jesus describes a gardener (ok, farmer) that goes out to plant his crops and what happens in the garden after the farmer walks away. And let me tell you, when my grandparents walked away (so to speak), their garden started to look an awful lot like three of the four types of soil in this parable.

The garden is so wide that in one area, my grandparents had to put down a small path to get to their tomato plants and currant bushes. The path is made of several stone pads and some packed dirt. Wouldn't you know it though, nothing grew there, even in the packed dirt which, when we tilled it, was otherwise healthy and fertile. The idea of a "hardened heart" makes a bit more sense to me now. As the metaphor goes, the person's attitudes (their "heart") become very monotone, very set; you can't convince them of anything new! God can't plant the seeds of wisdom or knowledge or anything in a hardened heart ... but give it a good till (assuming it's not hard as stone) and suddenly all sorts of things can grow. Also, you now have to weed carefully.

I can't say that we've encountered any thorny soil yet (it is, after all, a garden), but the whole of the place might be a good example of why weeding the thorns out is a good idea to do sooner rather than later. The more weeds that grew in the garden, the more obvious it was that there was competition for nutrients; the garden plants weren't producing as many flowers or as many new bulbs as when they had freedom to expand. Lots of the newer seedlings of the garden plants were weak, small, and flimsy; they were easy to take out, but I hope they'll grow strong now that they have room to expand. The longer you go, the bigger and deeper the thorny plants get, and eventually take over completely. Ironically, all it takes is some weed killer to take them out, but the weed killer takes out both the weeds and the few good plants that are left. But still, we have to remember that good soil is REQUIRED for the thorny soil; remove the thorns (whose roots often go deep), give it some time, and the soil will be ready to plant good seed. Think of those people who have begun to recover from addictions; often, their lives are somewhat empty for a while as they remove the thorns and struggle not to let new thorns take over. But they are often the most fertile soil of all, and once the thorns are removed and the good seeds planted, they become extremely fruitful fields.

Today we spent two and a half hours weeding a small patch of ground. In the center was a large bush full of flowers, but around it, very rocky soil. The parable mentions rocky ground being a place where weeds spring up and then wither and die because their roots never get very deep. This is true - we discovered that the weeds came up really easily, but the shrub we couldn't budge (good thing) because its roots were very deep and very wide. The rocky soil is a problem, not only because seeds grow without depth and die, but because turning it into good soil is nearly impossible. As I said, two and a half hours spent on maybe three square feet of ground, and we barely made a dent in the number of pebbles mixed in the surface dirt. In order for this patch to become good soil for healthy, useful crops, it would require literally pulling away everything on the surface, a total transplant of the upper layers. I've heard of this happening before - remember Paul? But it's not an easy thing, nor is it terribly economical (God had to blind Paul in order to 'exchange the soil,' so to speak), but it IS possible, and often it can be worth it.

It's a parable about discipleship, and I understand why it was that Jesus cautions his audience about what they're up against. Matthew, for one, loved to tell the parables of Jesus that had missionary implications; a person could spend a LOT of time tilling ground and weeding and removing rocks or thorns before good soil might bear crops with fruit. Sometimes I worry that we use the parable as an excuse to just avoid those people who don't look like "fertile" fields to us. Something that Jesus never quite mentions in the parable is that any field ALWAYS starts out like one of those three soils; there's no such thing as a perfect field that's born ready for planting. It starts out with weeds and rocks and sometimes stone paths; it takes work and dedication and love to produce a fertile field on which to sow the good seed.

The question is, do we give everyone that chance?

The Parable of the House

Frank stepped off the ladder with a satisfied grunt. It had been a perfect day for painting; it was a balmy 72 degrees, the sun was up, and the occasional cloud made sure it didn't get too hot. Setting the paint can down on the ground and the paint brush atop, he folded his green-stained hands into his arms and admired his work. The house was beautiful, no doubt about it; he'd chosen a sober forest-green for the siding, while the window frames he'd painted a deep burgundy. It stood out from the many other houses along that street, many of which were an ordinary white or beige color. He shook his head and smirked.

"If only they'd invest and buy some paint for their houses," he thought, if only they'd put in a little elbow grease, then their houses could be as nice as mine!"

He sighed at the obvious absurdity of such thoughts. He often broached the subject with his neighbors (in fact, at every opportunity), but the opportunities seemed to be growing fewer as of late. Apparently, nobody had his superb taste in external décor, though a guy named Chin or Ching or something from a few streets over had come to him a few weeks ago asking for some advice. Frank had assured him that Navy blue was the latest style, trimmed with white. But times change, and Frank had realized that it wasn't blue, but forest green that was of better taste now. All his painting magazines said so. He'd mentioned this to his new acquaintance, whose eyes had gone wide at the thought of redoing his newly painted house. He said he'd think on it.

Moron. He just didn't have what it took to have the best house around.

Frank sighed and set about cleaning up. It was as he was putting away the ladder that he noticed the changing weather. Odd; the weather channel hadn't predicted rain today. Ah well, at least he could continue his painting indoors. He'd noticed that one room was getting out of sorts, and was time to paint again. He wasn't sure why he was painting so often lately, but to have a good house, one had to make sure it was kept in good shape. He even had a storage room full of paint cans just in case of a problem.

He went inside to the offending room, skirting around a spot in the floor he knew to make an irritable creaking sound, just as the first raindrops started to fall outside. Brush in one hand and paint can in the other, he walked into the dining room and took note of where he'd have to paint. Several long cracks had appeared in the wall, one which even ran from floor to ceiling.

"Must be those silly folks I bought this place from," he thought, "wallpaper, what were they thinking?!" The previous evening, when there was no more light left outside, he had spent several hours priming the wall bleach white. Now, he began generously applying the new paint, his brush making long strokes up and down the wall. Obviously the puce he'd originally used over top of the floral print wallpaper wasn't doing its job, so he had chosen instead to use a more dependable beige paint. But there was a knock on the door. He sighed, put down his paint, and wiped off his hands on his shirt, noting the moan from another floorboard. When he opened the door, it was none other than his friend from a few streets up.

"What a surprise!" he said, "do come in. It's Ching, right?"

"Kim, actually," said his friend, glancing suspiciously at Frank's work clothes. "Have you been painting?"

"Why yes," said Frank, "I was just starting on a room that needed some work. And before that, I painted the outside again – like I told you, Green is the new Blue!" Kim smiled, though Frank thought it seemed a bit forced. "Would you like to see?"

"Sure," said Kim, hesitantly.

"It's seen better days," said Frank, escorting him into the dining room. "I thought maybe a stronger color might do it some good." The surprised look on Kim's face told Frank more than he wanted to know. "You don't approve?"

"Well," said Kim, scratching his head as he stared at the cracks running through the wall, "it just seems to me that there's a bigger problem here than the color. Have you looked at the framing, or at least thought of replacing this drywall?" Frank was stunned. Kim had come to him numerous times for advice, why the sudden change of heart?

"Now Chan," said Frank, in a voice that hoped to impress upon him the vast experience he had with choosing paint, "I understand why you might think that, but this place really only needs a stronger color. It's always worked in the past."

Kim looked dubious. "Frank, I know you like to paint, but –"

"Like to paint?" interrupted Frank, "But I don't! I don't like to paint, but it simply must be done if I'm to have a good house!"

"But Frank, paint isn't going to fix those cracks!" Frank hesitated before replying.

"Jim ... what cracks? There are some black lines, certainly, but it's nothing a little paint can't fix."

Kim stared at him in amazement. Had he really not noticed the cracks spreading from floor to ceiling? A sudden thought hit him: did Frank do this with every household malady? Kim suddenly began looking around him at the walls and ceiling, then at the floor, half expecting his shifting weight to bring the whole place down on him at once.

"Are you sure ..." he began, then trailed off into silence again as Frank picked up his paintbrush and began painting the walls around the cracks.

"Ching, I appreciate your concern, but honestly, it's always worked before. Here, let me show you. Follow me." He put down his paint and headed for the front door. Kim followed nervously as Frank made his way around to the side of the house.

"Why, just this last week I repaired the siding with a good nice acrylic blue, and then again today with the green!" Kim looked to where he was pointing, and noticed a large ugly scar through the foundation of the house. "... sure it took some time," continued Frank, "but it was worth it in the end."

"How many coats of paint is that?" asked Kim, in shock.

"Oh, probably about fifteen or twenty, give or take a few."

It was worse than he'd thought. As Kim looked closer, he noticed that the green paint had begun wearing off in the cracks where the surface had dried, but the inside was still liquid. It gave the house the appearance it was bleeding. He brushed his wet hair out of his face before turning back to Frank.

"Frank ... can't you see that the cracks are still there?" Frank looked mortified.

"There are not, I already painted them!"

"Look, Frank, this is insane! How do you expect to make sure the house stays standing with only paint?!"

Frank glanced back and forth between Kim and the foundation. He could almost see what Kim was getting at, but then a new thought occurred to him; his eyes narrowed, and he turned on his heel and trudged back into the house. Kim followed him, worried.

"What did I say, Frank?" Frank whipped around in his face.

"You've been talking to somebody else, haven't you."

"What?"

"You have! I can see it written all over your face - you've been talking to somebody else about house maintenance! Don't lie to me – I detest lies."

Kim stared at him, speechless. He had talked to someone else when he’d noticed that Frank's paint strategy hadn't worked on the termites in his walls. He'd seen an ad for an exterminator in the yellow pages, whom he had hired for a very reasonable price. The termites hadn't yet returned. But how could he tell this to Frank without losing his friendship? His painting skills were legendary, and he was a genius with a color scheme.

"You know, Quan," said Frank, ignoring another creaking floorboard, "self-deception isn't healthy. I know you've talked to someone else, but they don't know what they're talking about. Paint is what solves house problems, pure and simple."

"But Frank, the exterminator I hired got rid of the termites! My house is still standing because of his help!"

"Ping, Ping, Ping. I too have had termites. They are a lovely shade of purple now, and it worked brilliantly. They even match the inside of the basement! Trust me – paint is the only way to go."

Kim had noticed the creaking floorboard as well, and it worried him, given this new information. It suddenly struck him that the number of creaks had been increasing since he'd arrived. He panicked.

"Frank, I think I'm going to get back home. We have some friends coming over for dinner tonight and the wife needs my help getting ready." Frank had stopped looking at him directly. "Maybe you should come with me," continued Kim, "why don't you grab some clean clothes and come over." Frank rolled his eyes. "We're having Lisa's stir fry, which …" Kim stopped as another creak, this time louder and perhaps even deeper, resonated through the house.

"Look, Song, I appreciate it, but I have painting to do. I don't know if I could eat dinner with people who don't think about paint the way I do, it would just seem wrong somehow. Besides, I don't have any clean clothes; they all have paint on them."

"That's ok Frank," said Kim, thinking about his new sofa, "just come over as you are, we don't mind!" He began backing towards the door. Frank had picked up his paintbrush again and was reaching for the can of paint when some dust from the ceiling began flaking into the paint.

"Oh, will you look at that, it's ruined! Now I have to paint the ceiling again too! I tell you, Quan, the work never stops. I'll follow you out as far as the shed so I can get another can." Kim didn't care, as long as he got him out of the house.

"Sure, Frank."

Kim had just gotten down the steps to the driveway when a sound, unlike any he'd heard before, resonated from the house and echoed across the hillside. He grabbed Frank, who had begun to turn around with a puzzled look on his face, and ran, the mud splashing his jeans as the rain fell harder than ever. As they reached the shed, the house collapsed in a cloud of drywall dust and a splash of green paint.

"My house!" exclaimed Frank, as several neighbors appeared on their white front porches and stared at the spectacle before them. He collapsed on his knees in the soggy lawn, green paint mingled with rain and drywall filling in the cracks around his knees. Kim put his hand on Frank's shoulder.

"Frank,” said Kim, “I think you’re going to need a lot more paint.”

The Valley

I can't believe I'm actually publishing this, but I wrote it for the storytelling class I'm taking this week, and I have no idea if it's any good. In any event, I know it doesn't make any sense, at least, on the first read, but I'd love some feedback anyway.

* * *

Once upon a time, Everything ended.

This was a shock to Everything, as it had quite liked being. Ending was a new experience for Everything, and it wasn't sure that it liked it. But the good thing about endings is that they're also beginnings. Everything liked the sound of that, though where the thought had come from was a mystery. It had quite liked being before, but it had started to get old. Perhaps this is why it had ended in the first place.

It couldn't quite recall.

A cloudy sky, stretching off to the horizon, falling to meet the earth in the distance. The earth, in turn, rose somewhat grudgingly to meet it, half-heartedly butting upwards with a series of low hills. On a particularly phlegmatic hill stood a grim looking figure, surveying the devastation before him. His mottled hair shifted as he slowly turned his head, a few strands languishing in the light breeze. The armor he wore was scratched and dull, the sword clutched in his trembling hand stained a dark maroon. His face, however, wore a calm expression; stern, but calm. Bodies littered the plain below him, stray wisps of smoke drifting in the breeze as the few remaining fires slowly burned themselves into ashes.

Everything grew wary of its condition. What had happened? It knew only that something was missing, but couldn't place what that might be. It shifted its attention to the new beginning. Maybe by watching what was happening, it could perhaps determine what had been lost.

Silence. The corners of his mouth twitched, then drew into a grimace. He was not comfortable with silence, but then, he could not determine if it was the world that was silent or merely his own ears. The battle, after all, had been deafening, but then, silence. He struck his sword against his boot, the grimace drawing into a frown when a buckle popped. But it clinked, and he knew it was merely the silence of contrast. If he concentrated, he could hear, faintly, the stirrings of the breeze. He moved his foot forward. Then the other. Satisfied he could still move, he sheathed his sword and began walking down the hill.

Everything focused warily on this new development. Movement. It vaguely recalled that movement may have been involved in ending as well. That would make sense, it conceded, unless lack of movement was also involved. It pushed the question aside and concentrated, becoming aware of other movement it hadn't noticed before. Vapors, mostly, but none with the sort of intensity it was now observing. It watched more closely.

A light drizzle had begun to fall from the clouds onto the lifeless plain, settling into the dusty earth. Out of the clouds, a lone cardinal, its red feathers a brilliant contrast to the desolation around him, descended in the growing mist. His eyebrows furrowed. Where had the bird come from? It couldn't have come from anywhere close; so far as he knew, everything alive had died in the battle.

Except him, of course. The lone survivor.

Everything was shocked; a second movement had appeared seemingly from nowhere. Puzzled, it began to search. Perhaps it was not Everything, as it had once thought. There, beyond the clouds! A mix of emotions washed over Everything; surprise at first, then fear and then curiosity. Boundaries; Everything had boundaries, and on one lay a small crack. Perhaps whatever had caused the desolation had also cracked the boundary, letting in the other movement. But if there were boundaries, what lay beyond?

In a fit of sheer rage, he pulled the sword from its sheath and slammed it, blade first, into the softening earth. As the drizzle intensified to rain, water began to pool in the depressions, turning softened earth into mud and absorbing the bodies and carnage, the lifelessness becoming one with the desolation. The cardinal landed again on the hilt of the sword.

Everything turned its senses ... outward? Yes, outward. It hadn't realized that there was more beyond the desolation, but it felt a growing sense of urgency about it.

The cardinal looked at him sideways, cocking its head in a jerky, almost rhythmic fashion. What is this? He leaned farther forward, kneeling so that the bird was at eye level, and held out his hand. The bird looked at him steadily and, after a moment that stretched out into the awkward, dropped the package into his hand and with a satisfied chirp leapt into the air. It was a seed. It did not appear particularly out of the ordinary; black, thin, and remarkably small. He glanced up again as the cardinal returned, this time landing on the ground. He bent down as the bird poked its beak into the dirt and looked up. It chirped.

Everything? returned its attention to the two movements inside. The first seemed to have settled down, but the other kept moving around without rest, alighting here, then moving on. As Everything? pondered this, it felt a blinding jolt of light.

He pulled his hand back out of the dirt and dropped the seed down into the small depression he'd made. Standing up, he pushed the dirt back over the hole with his foot. A chirp overhead revealed the cardinal descending again to land on his sword, but there it did not remain. It chirped, louder this time, more urgent, and flew off. When he did not pursue, it circled, chirped again, and flew again toward the hills. Leaving his sword, he followed.

The earth began to rumble. He began to run.

Everything? could not avoid panic as the two movements raced faster and faster toward the hills. Everything? began to tremble as the light grew brighter.

Only when he regained the hills did the bird change direction, slowing down and circling to land on his shoulder. It chirped, gently this time, and he slowed to a stop on the crest of a hill. He turned to face the valley, his eyes widening. From a widening crevice in the ground, a tree was expanding to fill the valley. Roots snaked out of the soil and plunged back into new depressions, sucking up the pools of water before submerging into the earth. His jaw dropped as the cardinal began chirping excitedly. He arched his back to watch the tree as it grew without bounds, filling the sky.

The clouds parted. Sunlight streamed into the land. Color exploded as life burst in to fill the desolation.

Memory flooded back, the battle won. He awoke smiling. Content. Filled. Alive.

I've Been Filming

I have been so incredibly busy lately, it's ceased to be funny. I've been busy with schoolwork, naturally, and with regular work, and sometimes I eat and see my family, but mostly I've been consumed with reading and working on a video project for Doctrine. It's a fantastic project with a fantastic group of people, but it's kept me away from writing. I'll post it here when we're done, but until then, I won't be posting much. For your enjoyment though, the last project I had for doctrine is as follows.

* * *

Anna waved me over, making space in front of her in the line for the grilled cheese and hamburgers. I glanced around the cafeteria, wondering why it was that there were so many people here; the food was horrible, laden with grease. Then I repented, realizing that I too was here and shouldn’t judge people for their poor taste in culinary experience if I too was to partake. Then again, I’d been invited; they came on their own. Ah, college. After a wry grin from the chef, he slapped our meals on mostly clean plates, and we paid for our meal and sat down at a slightly grungy table, wiping the crumbs off with a napkin. We chatted in between bites. Periodically, however, Anna would glance towards my neck and frown.

“Have I got something on my neck?” I asked, wondering if the tomato soup had splattered up unknowingly.

"No. Well your head, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Actually, that necklace of yours keeps catching my eye.” Bugger. I knew it was going to come up sometime; I was wearing a cross on a chain around my neck, and ever since that class we’d taken on Ancient Roman Empire, I was wondering when Anna – an agnostic – would start asking about Jesus on a cross.

“So what’s the deal?”

“Well, it’s a symbol.”

“I can see that, you’re not hanging from it. But wasn’t that an instrument of murder? What if he’d have died today, would you wear a noose instead of a necklace?”

“You know, it’s funny,” I said, taking the necklace off, “but I never thought of it that way. Funny how this stuff gets commercialized and we don’t think about it like that anymore.” I paused, wondering what to say next. “But like I said, it’s a symbol of … well, gratitude.”

“Unpack that statement.”

“See, think of it like this. You get this credit card in the mail, and you’re pre-approved. You start using the card, only you suddenly realize that you have no means of paying it off. You’re a college student, after all.” She smirked. I continued. “So the cops come and haul you off to jail, and you come to court one day and your lawyer shows up, and he’s your dad, and he’s pissed that you didn’t follow the stuff he taught you about good finances, but in front of the judge and jury, he finds a loophole in the system and decides to pay your fine and your bail and the money back to the credit card company.” She stared at me, chewing thoughtfully.

“So this lawyer, he’s your dad but, you didn’t ask him to do that, right?” I nodded. “But … why? If he’s pissed, shouldn’t he make you pay it himself?”

“Well, he’s still your dad, he loves you.”

“And the cross, it’s sort of like the credit card statement he gets later.”

“Precisely.” I was surprised the metaphor had actually worked. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” She looked anxious. “‘Sort of’ doesn’t cut it, dude.”

“Well, what metaphor ever works perfectly? Besides, not everybody wears a cross. Lots of people like the symbol of the icthus fish to symbolize Jesus’ life, and the Celts made this special knot to symbolize the Trinitarian God. They’re all parts of the same story.” I put the necklace back on. “But I wear the cross as a symbol of my gratitude for the bill being paid. God could take something horrible and turn it into something good.”

She shrugged, but looked modestly moved. “I guess that’s what would make Him God.”

"There’s hope for you yet,” I replied. She winked and dug into her tater tots.